Genesis 2.15-17, 3.1-7; Psalm 32; Romans 5.12-19; Matthew 4.1-11
OUT of the 66 books of the Bible, 27 are within the New Testament. I do know that now because, when it was a matter on the quiz programme, Only Connect, I —embarrassingly — couldn’t remember the reply.
In almost half of those 27 books, the name “Satan” is present. If there was a quiz query in regards to the writings that mention him most often, I’d expect Revelation to return top — and it does (seven references). Luke is in second place, with five. Matthew ties in third place with 2 Corinthians (each mention Satan thrice).
That is enough of a footprint to provide us pause. Satan isn’t a pantomime baddie, just like the Sheriff of Nottingham. Nor is he an emblem for temptation, as Cupid’s arrow is an emblem for love. In the Gospel story, he’s a real character. John Milton puts Satan front and centre in his epic poem Paradise Lost, wherein poetic artistry brings out the allure of evil: that “darkness visible” which will make Satan more comprehensible for readers than angelic or divine perfections that they can not imagine reaching.
When we encounter an unambiguously evil character, in life or literature, it is straightforward to sentence them. But there’s a category of baddie which is far more problematic: the anti-hero. Did Milton recognise the problematic allure of his Lucifer? That is a matter for literary criticism greater than biblical scholarship. My favourite operatic anti-hero is Mozart’s Don Giovanni, defiant to the last, unyielding each in his own sin and in his rejection of the piety of the self-righteous. But I ponder what that claims about me.
Of all of the anti-heroes I can consider, probably the most memorable is in a children’s story: John Silver, a ship’s cook (in Treasure Island). He is dishonest, greedy, immoral, and manipulative. But he can be fascinating. Through the eyes of a baby, Jim Hawkins, we regard him with each revulsion and admiration. But our understanding of humankind is enriched by having encountered him.
What is the emotional, or spiritual, mechanism by which we will find evil attractive? And why are we drawn to ambiguity greater than simplicity? The devil (so Matthew calls him), or “Satan” (as Jesus calls him), tempts Jesus with three things: one physically desirable (bread) and two emotionally desirable (vindication and power). Resisting bread should have been probably the most fundamental; for eating is an instinct, and hunger is an unignorable force. If it weren’t so, Christians wouldn’t have spent centuries wrestling with fasting and abstinence as forms of coaching for learning to administer temptations in life.
Vindication and power will not be drivers of behaviour in the identical way. They will not be rooted in a person instinct, but in social instincts: to succeed, to matter. What supplies those twin appetites is nothing so simple as bread: wanting to be affirmed (by testing God, and being saved) and wanting to exercise control (over the kingdoms of the world) are appetites that may devour us. Nothing is so vital within the lifelong business of becoming a disciple of Christ as being in control of what drives us, by managing our appetites.
The particular temptations that face us differ widely: from sex to food; from influence, to admiration, to celebrity. A life well-lived is one wherein we learn not to understand after an increasing number of of what we crave — like my beagle, who doesn’t know what it looks like to eat “enough”. One disturbing effect of this Lenten Gospel is that we see Jesus and Satan, and we all know who is correct and who’s flawed. But it’s Satan who seems to grasp our desire: to eat, to matter, to manage.
This is a great time, then — perhaps the perfect time — to grasp a truth that familiarity could also be blinding us to. If we start with the Gospel temptation of Jesus, or with the downfall of Satan in Milton, we’re distorting our view of the gospel and our own understanding of sin. The story doesn’t begin with Satan’s tempting of Jesus, or of us. It begins once we encounter Jesus and feel that purer hunger, to know him and browse of him in our Bible, and to walk through the church doorway to satisfy others who’re drawn like us, and learn from them. A real Lent starts initially: the attraction of goodness comes first.
