“The Devil’s Hour”
By Rev. Dr. Jason Byassee
Sunday, February 9, 2025
Reading: Luke 4:1-13
In seminary we argued over this question: does God want us to display our nation’s flag in a church sanctuary?
Lots of my teachers are pacifists. Others are rigid about holy space. Still others are veterans of the Civil Rights movement with the scars to show it. If you were brave, there, you’d argue for the American flag. But in the local church, things are different. Take down the Stars and Stripes and, well, it’d go about as well as if we took that Union Jack down over there, or the names off these walls.
There have been times in here when we sing “God Save the King” or “O Canada,” when I wonder how did I get here? Then I think: this is awesome.
My title was meant to be “Jesus in the Colosseum,” thinking of tonight’s Super Bowl, the recent Gladiator sequel. Part of our “stuff in the middle series” my rabbi friend Yael Splansky recommended. When our ancient martyrs were thrown to beasts in Rome’s arenas, it was for public amusement and imperial aggrandizement. The martyrs present all over again Jesus’ confrontation with evil. All this apparent grandeur—emperors and military blandishments and celebrity performers—it’s all fake power. True power is in suffering like Jesus for others, not dominating others. When the saints suffer, they face down the devil like Jesus does. That was the plan for today. But then we had a little political dustup this week, and I changed my title, after comms went out, to “The Devil’s Hour.”
Seems more apropos, don’t you think?
When I teach preaching, I quote Karl Barth: we should preach with the Bible in one hand, and the newspaper in the other. Whatever ol’ Karl meant, we shouldn’t chase headlines. But I almost did. Last Saturday I woke up in my native USA in the middle of a trade war, apparently as an enemy combatant. By Tuesday, the world’s attention had switched continents. Someone wise said if you marry the spirit of the age, you end up a widow, very quickly.
But the main reason we shouldn’t chase headlines is that Jesus Christ is Lord, on Saturday and on Tuesday. And he is healing all things.
When the Nazis came to power in Germany, properly and democratically in 1933, Barth was teaching there. He said we should go on doing theology as if nothing had happened. Ignore the headlines. Hitler is a nothing. Don’t try and make him something. This is not to minimize the harm that evil can do. A black hole is a not-thing, a vacuum, swallowing whatever comes near. The best thinkers we have on race argue it’s a not-thing, a human invention, a fiction that has scarred creation. You know how the kids say, “that’s a thing” or “that’s not a thing?” Well, evil is not a thing, it’s the corruption of a thing. Only good is natural. Evil is an absurdity, an outrage. Only what is good, and true, and beautiful, will last in Jesus’ new creation. Everything else, well, it’s as if it never existed in the first place.
As a student in the 90s I got to visit Nuremberg, where the Nazis held their torchlit military orgies. What do you do with such a memory, such a place? You could ignore it, just cover it with condos. You could build a kind of anti-museum: finger wag that ‘Now, Nazis are bad, aren’t they, children?’ I like what post-war Germans did instead: they left the site to rot. The podium where the man harangued us, had graffiti in sharpie on it: “never again.” Part of what’s happening in the west politically is that living memory of the holocaust is almost gone. Nuremberg’s soccer stadium was near that field of the damned. There was a game on. And we heard crowds cheering.
The story you heard is about Jesus’ confrontation with the devil. We have it portrayed in stained glass up our southeast staircase. If you read that window’s inscription, it looks like a widower gave it in memory of his deceased wife. Honey, I miss you so much, here’s a prince of darkness window in your honour. But you actually have to read across both windows. Popes have confessors. Lawyers have lawyers. We all need a good editor.
The story of the temptation is usually read at the start of Lent, as the church prepares for Christ’s suffering. I’m not sure we really do Lent right. It’s a time to repent for holy week and Jesus’ cross. I can’t remember what I gave up last Lent, if I did anything. Can you remember what you did? No? Well, maybe we’re not repenting enough. Isn’t it interesting that our post-religious culture is saying hmm, we should invent a time when we all abstain—it’d be good for us. Dry January, for example, after over-indulging in December.
Of course, a temptation only counts if it’s actually tempting. If someone appears to you with horns like those, say no thanks. For real, “no” is a complete sentence, scary guy. Jesus is really tempted in the story. So, his tempter should look appealing and offer something good. Like bread. Power. Faith. Nothing inherently wrong with those things.
These temptations go right to the heart of things.
Just before our passage is one of those genealogies that we Christians get impatient with. Our Jewish forebears have more energy for them. Rabbi Steve Wernick at Beth Tzedek can trace his ancestry back some 16 generations to the 1400s. I know my Byassee ancestors’ names only back to my great-great-great grandfather, even with the best Mormon websites’ help. But that guy’s dad, we’re not sure about his first name. We can only manage five generations to the 1800s with a distinctive French surname along the Mississippi River. Luke traces Jesus’ ancestry back 77 generations to Adam, who he calls, “Son of God.” In the Bible, every child of Adam is also a child of God. “Son of God” is also a royal term—David becomes a son of God in this sense when he becomes king of Israel. For all Christians, Son of God refers to Jesus’ divinity.
The word “son” is stretchy. Like all the good words.
So, to call Jesus “Son of God” here in Luke means he’s as human as Adam is, as we all are. And fasting for 40 days means he’s as hungry as we would be. Command this stone to become bread: seems reasonable. Jesus makes miraculous bread elsewhere. What harm would there be? Isn’t 40 days enough?
Numbers matter. 40 days recalls Israel’s testing for 40 years in the wilderness. A time of hunger and anger—Israel hangry. Jesus is Israel all over again, humanity all over again, done right for once.
The second temptation:
The devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. 6 And the devil said to him, “To you I will give all this authority and their glory, for it has been given over to me, and I will give it to anyone I please. 7 If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.”
The devil owns all the kingdoms and can give them to whomever he wants. Having all the authority in the world sounds nice. I’d use it to make the world the one I want. Wouldn’t you? With no one to stop you?
At one point in Tolkien’s great story, Samwise Gamgee is tempted to take the ring of power. He would only do good with it. Sam loves gardens, so he’d make more, all the gardens. But then Sam realizes he would be tempted to choke the earth with gardens. He’s not wise or good enough for that sort of unchecked power. Neither are any of the rest of us.
I love this image. The temptations are testy. Jesus: take power, fix things for us! We ecumenical Protestants tend to think every problem can be solved by better government. Our evangelical brethren prefer to focus on the conversion of individuals. But Jesus shows not every problem can be solved. Not yet. Not until he comes again to make all things new.
But our own efforts are tragic or hopeless. We all have some power, even when we feel like we don’t. A sociologist named Michael Lindsay wrote a book called Faith in the Halls of Power. He interviewed CEO’s, politicians, and celebrities. They mostly complained about how little power they had. The board wouldn’t let me do anything. Congress stalled everything. We didn’t have the money. The most powerful people alive think they don’t have enough agency. When you’re that ambitious, how can there ever be enough? John D Rockefeller was once asked how much money is enough and said, “just a little bit more.”
Did you feel the churn of power this week? A snap election campaign in this province. Another race for power in Ottawa. Canada picked on by our closest friend and neighbour. Some of my fellow Americans don’t seem to realize that we Canadians don’t like to be bullied. Nobody likes to be bullied. Ever seen a hockey fight? When you’re scared you reach for power. Come and save us strong man! Who wants a weak saviour?!
The last temptation is for Jesus to throw himself off the top of the temple. The devil even quotes scripture to convince him. The temptation isn’t just to do a magic trick that impresses people. It’s to show he is greater than the temple. To jump for religious celebrity and leap higher than his own Judaism. The temple is where God lives, it’s where the relationship between God and humanity is healed. To leap off and glide to a safe landing would mean instant religious fame and power. No need to suffer. Just soar.
Here’s what’s striking: Jesus is being offered things that are already his. All the bread there is. All the power there is. More fame than you could ever want. The real temptation is to get what we want the wrong way. These are good things the devil offers: food for all, wise government, good religion. And Jesus can have them by some way other than the cross. The devil says make bread from stone, run the world correctly, take over the temple—without being betrayed, denied, and murdered.
That sounds pretty tempting.
Think about what you want most. I mean really want. Go ahead, I’ll give you a minute. I’ve had days to think about it. I’m not telling you mine, you shouldn’t tell me yours, only God needs to know. Okay. Now, what if you could have that for free, right now, for nothing but a minimal religious gesture? I’d take that deal, wouldn’t you? To be skinny and young and rich forever, a famous professor at a world-renowned university, bestselling author and the best preacher alive? For a quick bow of the knee? Yeah, I’d do that. Whoops, I told you mine. Now, imagine being told okay, to get what you and we all want, you must first be stripped of all your dignity, reduced to nothing but pain, be abandoned by everyone you love including God, and be left dead in a tomb. Uh, no. In fact, if I’m abandoned in a tomb, how am I supposed to be rich and young and famous and beautiful forever?
The political temptation of many in power, not just in the USA, is to separate means from ends. To say with Machiavelli that the ends justify the means. They don’t. Henry IV, perhaps France’s greatest king, was raised Protestant, the hope of John Calvin’s fellow Reformed French. When offered the throne in exchange for becoming Catholic, he reportedly said, “Paris is worth a mass.” I mean, would you disagree? Just a quickie church service for rule of your heart’s favourite city?
Eugene Peterson was my Gandalf, my buddy Trygve here’s Gandalf, translated The Message, befriended Bono, modelled wise and gentle faith worldwide. Eugene shows that Paris is not worth a cheap and cheerful church service. Eugene quotes a verse much loved by his and my fellow evangelicals: Jesus says, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father except by me.” Protestants of all kinds fixate on the Truth bit, for or against. How dare he say he’s all the truth there is? Or how dare we not agree with Jesus? Peterson says we tend to miss that Jesus is also the Way. The Way. The only way is Jesus’ non-violent, self-abandoning, suffering way. Few of us want to be that sort of Christian—strung up to die on a cross. Lynched. We stone that Way to death. Crucify that way. We want all the glory and none of the sorrow. At least I do, don’t let me speak for you.
A superficial illustration: a great coach said ‘everyone wants to win. Not everyone wants to do what’s necessary to prepare to win.’ That is, train harder than the others, be tougher—because luck tends to follow hard work around. Jesus wants to save the whole world. Here the devil offers him the chance to do that without price, without suffering. But Jesus turns away toward his cross—to save creation he must go this hard way and none other.
We turn now to the Lord’s Supper. A friend of mine, when she walks up for communion, says she’s tempted to stay and ask for more, and then more, and then still more, until she’s eaten all the bread there is. She needs all the grace she can get. But there are others in line who need it too. In just one bite, one sip, is all the saving power of God. This table is where we learn what true power is: bread shared, blood poured out, none held back for oneself or one’s own. And this is what true faith is: brokenness, giving ourselves away for others, not bigging ourselves up to rule over others. The way to life is actually through death. That’s what this table shows. Will you be brave and meet me there?