NB. A recent discussion in one of my homiletics classes prompts me to repost this 2006 effort. . .
Fr. Philip N. Powell, OP
Church of the Incarnation, University of Dallas
I
find him sitting with his back against a rock, staring at the heat
waving above the dry-cracked river bed. He smells of hot cedar smoke,
burnt bees’ wax, and drying sweat. When my shadow touches his bare feet,
he moves them away and turns as if to look at me, then stops and stares
again at the blistering sand. I wave my hand to greet him, my shadow
again touching his feet and legs. This time he doesn’t move. It’s always
the same with him. He knows I’m here. Right here with him. But he
stubbornly ignores me or moves away at my dark touch. I take a deep
breath, gather my silk robes around my legs to sit, and as I fall into
place in front of him, he sighs and begins to pray aloud. Scratchy,
mumbling nonsense. Groveling little bits of spontaneous poetry and
half-remembered words and phrases stolen from thin, crumbling scrolls. I
just listen and wait. Most days we sit together in silence like this,
waiting on one another.
When the sun touches the tallest
mountain, he stops muttering. The dry burn of the desert wind eases a
bit. There’s a promise of wet air, of moisture from somewhere out of the
north. I clear my throat. I see a small smile on his lips. Just as I
open my mouth to argue again, wild beasts begin to gather near us. This
happens every night about this time. And I am surprised again, always
surprised, by the fierce brilliance of the crown of angels that seems to
float miles away behind his head. Tensed to fight, they just hold there
radiating His glory—a sky crowded with angelic mirrors flashing His
beauty. How very servile of them to pose so. How very grand it all is. A
perfect waste of power.
I catch him watching me watch his
ministers. You see, he knows that I know that he won’t call them. He
could. No doubt. But he won’t. It’s a matter to pride with him. That’s
my secret weapon: his pride. He’s the favored Son. I’m the fallen
Daystar. He’s the Anointed One. I’m the Marked One. He is Righteousness
and I am Rebellion. And I’m here, again, to show him the error of his
Way, to offer him something far better than a life wasted on dumb
humility, unrequited love, and pointless sacrifice. I am here to tempt
him away from his self-destructive path, away from the terrible, bloody
death that those dirty little apes he loves so much will give him. I
will show him riches, power, and his own pride. I will tempt him to
resist me on his own, without those shiny angels coming to his rescue!
I
gather myself for the show, for the theatre of the absurd that will
surely wake him up to his desperate folly. But before I can collect
myself fully, he starts to chuckle. Just a small laugh at first. Then he
burst out with a deep guffaw! A belly laugh from the Son of God. I just
stare at him. Surely the heat has driven him mad. He stops. And he
opens his eyes, looking at me, through me, right to the center of the
goodness that is my very existence. I fumble for an excuse, some reason
to protest the invasion of my privacy, but I can only stare back at the
fullness of beauty, goodness, and truth that He Is.
Without
moving he says, “Perdition, you are here again to lie to me, to put
between me and our Father a temptation. Do it then.” I swallow hard and
plead, “My Lord, can’t you see that the course laid out for you is
disastrous? Can’t you see the possibilities for us, the potential of our
rule if you would turn to me for help? Can’t you see your ignominious
end? The scandal of it!” He chuckles again, “You are worried about
scandal? Try another one, Deceiver. Put yourself behind me so that I may
go forward. You are dust and wind.” He gently waves his hand toward the
cooling desert. I grow angry at his dismissal, “Wow! You really are
stupidity itself, aren’t you. Wasted power, wasted opportunities.”
I
sputter for a while longer, hoping that my indignity at his rudeness
will move him to talk to me again. Nothing. I conjure images of
wealth—jewels, fine horses, palaces. Nothing. I conjure images of
power—a throne for the worlds, slaves, armies. Nothing. Finally, I
conjure images of personal dignity—his freedom from the trails ahead,
the esteem of his rabbinical colleagues, the love of the crowds cheering
him. Nothing. Again, nothing.
I gird my silk robes, bracing
myself for one final assault on this mulish Nazarene. I shout at him:
“You’re proud! It’s pride that makes you think you are better than my
gifts, too good to pick up what I give you. Pride!” He shifts his feet
under him, rises to stand before me. He looks over my head as if reading
a text behind me, “You are nothing, brother. Shapes, shadows, quick
glimpses, and shallow sighs.” My indignity is unmatchable! “I am
Lucifer, Morning Light! I am First Chosen of the Angels! I know who I
am!” His eyes move to focus on mine. He squints against a finally
setting sun, “I will teach you who you are. Fallen creature. Sinner.
Liar. Killer of Hope. Tempter. I know your true names: Perdition. Chaos.
Betrayal. You cannot win with me because I am driven here by the Spirit
of our Father to fast and pray and to prepare myself for what I am
about.”
Panicked, I reach for what I have, anything at all, and
say, “They won’t love you for your sacrifice, you know? They will not
come to you after you are betrayed and convicted, and sent into the dead
ground. They will deny you. They will run and hide and waste time
pointing fingers and accusing one another. I will make sure that they
forget you.” If anything he looked calmer, “Yes, I suppose you will. But
they like me will have their forty days in the desert, their time and
place apart to burn away the excess, to trim the burdensome and
ridiculous, to pray and serve, and to remember that they are dust—dust
given life by our Father’s breath and made holy in His love for them.”
What
arrogance! The man is insane. I have to ask, “You came into this dead
waste to pray and serve and to remember that you are dust? You? The
favored Son? The Messiah? You fled to this place? Why? Why would you do
such a stupid thing?” Again, he smiles slightly at me, at my vehemence,
and says, “I will teach you again, Satan. I am in this desert for forty
days to remember the journey of Moses and his people out of slavery. I
am in this desert for forty days to teach those to come how to live with
our Father. I am here to survive with Him alone, to live stripped of
pretense, theatre, guile, and luxurious want. I am here so that those
whom you will tempt tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow will know that
they need only to call upon the Father’s mercy, to repent, believe the
gospel, and then know that they are free of you forever.” His eyes blaze
for a moment, then calm again.
I give up! My time with him is up
anyway. My time with him is wasted breath. You, you however, well,
you’re just beginning, aren’t you? What, day five or six, now, of the
forty? Come, let me show you to my favorite rock and the riches I can
offer you. Let me show you my toys, my little inventions, and help you
choose a Way more to my…I mean…your liking.
So tell me, little ones, what tempts you?
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