We Must Risk Delight

Each year we stumble into the story of the temptation of Jesus in the wilderness.  Wrestling with the text to hear God's voice in the familiar, and tripping into beauty of being dependent on the Holy Spirit...

In Deuteronomy 8 (where Jesus is quoting from in Matthew 4:1-11), we read about the purpose of another test designed by God, as Israel wanders in the desert: "to find out what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commandments."

When reading of Jesus' own temptation in the New Testament, how often do we focus on the "means" of the testing in the story?  It's easy to get wrapped up in focusing on Satan's role and not what God is up to.  How often do we do that in our own every day lives?  Instead of depending on God's Word, focusing our eyes on the cross, or the victory found in the empty tomb - we succumb to being dragged down into the muck and the mire.

Perhaps the poet Jack Gilbert says it best in his poem "A Brief for the Defense"  -

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies

are not starving someplace, they are starving

somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.

But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.

Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not

be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not

be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women

at the fountain are laughing together between

the suffering they have known and the awfulness

in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody

in the village is very sick. There is laughter

every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,

and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.

If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,

we lessen the importance of their deprivation.

We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,

but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have

the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless

furnace of this world. To make injustice the only

measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.

If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,

we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.

We must admit there will be music despite everything.

We stand at the prow again of a small ship

anchored late at night in the tiny port

looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront

is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.

To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat

comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth

all the years of sorrow that are to come.