Jesus (16 page)

Jesus somehow came to realize that baptism was what God the Father desired for him—to fulfill “all righteousness.” Perhaps this meant publicly aligning himself with John's ministry. Perhaps before he began his own ministry, he wanted, in a sense, to pay tribute to that of his cousin, as a way of underlining his solidarity with the Baptist's message. Jesus may also have wanted to perform a public ritual to inaugurate his own ministry.

But there is another possibility, which is that Jesus decided to enter even more deeply into the human condition. Though sinless, Jesus participates in the ritual that others are performing as well. He participates in this movement of repentance and conversion not because he needs it, but because it aligns him with those around him, with those anticipating the reign of God, with the community of believers. It's an act of solidarity, a human act from the Son of God, who casts his lot with the people of the time. It has less to do with
his
original sin, which he does not carry, than identifying with those who carry that sin, as George and I experienced at the Jordan. The divine one is fully immersing himself, literally in this case, in our humanity.

It reminds me of a line from a biography of another radical, St. Francis of Assisi, the thirteenth-century saint whose own decisive act came when he walked away from the wealth of his father, a cloth merchant, and did so in a public way: by stripping naked in the public square in Assisi. The biographer Julien Green wrote that his dramatic gesture was a “juridical act,” according to medieval mentality. “From now on, Francis, with nothing to his name, was taking sides with the outcast and the disinherited.”
¹⁸

At the Baptism, Jesus was taking sides with
us.
God stood in line.

Theologians often speak of Jesus as “taking on” the sins of humanity.
¹⁹
In his book on baptism,
Everything Is Sacred
, Thomas J. Scirghi, a Jesuit theologian, compares Jesus's sense of sin to the shame that parents might feel if their child were guilty of criminal behavior. There is no sin on the parents' part, but they often feel the weight of the suffering that was caused by their child. As the Protestant theologian Karl Barth wrote, perhaps no one was in greater need of baptism than Jesus, because of this “bearing” of our sins.
²⁰

For those present, three elements would have invited them (and invite the reader) to imagine, in Harrington's beautiful phrase, “a new possibility of communication” between God and humanity. The first is the opening of the heavens; second, the dove-like descent of the Spirit; and third, the voice. Interestingly, the voice identifies Jesus in three ways that would have been familiar to the early church: “My Son” (reminding people of the Davidic king, who was thought of as God's son), “the Beloved” (as in the story of Abraham and Isaac, his “beloved son”), and the one with whom God is “well pleased” (echoing a line from Isaiah describing “God's servant”). As Harrington writes, “At the outset of Jesus's ministry, he is identified in terms of biblical figures that provide types for his own person and activity.”
²¹

A
FTER THE INCIDENT AT
the Jordan, Jesus is described by the Synoptic Gospels as being “led” into the desert. The Gospels differ slightly on the precise wording, but the overall sense is that Jesus is irresistibly moved by the Holy Spirit to do this. Mark's Gospel uses the strong word
ekballei
, the same word that will later be used for Jesus's “driving out” of demons. He is “driven,” “thrust forth,” or in one translation “hurled” into the desert.
²²

The Gospels also depict Jesus fasting for forty days and forty nights, which is probably not to be taken literally, but is instead an ancient way of expressing “a long time.” Ellis Winward and Michael Soule write in
The Limits of Mortality
that a human being could survive at most thirty days without food and water and be conscious for no more than twenty-five.
²³

Clearly Jesus was tested during his time in the desert, though interpretations of what happened vary. Traditional representations—in the fine arts, literature, and film—often depict Satan appearing physically. Others surmise that Jesus experienced these tests, or temptations, within himself.

Essentially, in the desert Jesus is tempted to assume a life of power, security, and status, in contrast to the humble and austere life of service he will choose. Mark's Gospel simply states he was tested: “He was in the wilderness for forty days, tempted by Satan.” In Matthew and Luke we read the familiar incidents of Satan tempting him in three ways: to turn stones into bread (to feed himself); to throw himself from the highest tower of the Temple (to prove God's love); and to worship Satan (in return for power and wealth).
²⁴

While understandings vary of what Jesus's time in the desert involved, it is not an episode we can dismiss as irrelevant. William Barclay suggests that Jesus told the story of this episode to his disciples (how else would they know of it?), so it should be taken seriously.
²⁵

Biblical narratives of this chapter in Jesus's life are complicated and obscured for the modern person by centuries of paintings that depict miniature demons and hellish animals tempting him. (In Martin Scorsese's film
The Last Temptation of Christ
, Jesus is tempted by, in order, a snake, a lion, and a flame.) So it may seem an exotic chapter in his life. Yet this incident may not be so difficult to understand; this aspect of Jesus's life is more accessible to us than we might initially imagine. Ready to begin his divine mission, Jesus was subject to some human temptations.

The first temptation, in which the devil says, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread,” is a physical one, but it is for more than food. It is a temptation saying, “Sacrifice everything for your physical needs, not just for food but for anything you crave—because you deserve it. Your body, your comfort, your physical well-being come before anything else.” Jesus does not denigrate or disparage his body, but he knows that it cannot always come first. As the Franciscan writer Richard Rohr often says in lectures, this temptation reminds us that our “false selves” usually press for the satisfaction of our immediate wants. Yet those wants are seldom what we really need.

It is also a temptation for Jesus to do a miracle for
himself
, which he never does in the New Testament.

The second temptation, to throw himself from a high perch of the Temple and let God save him, is saying, “Show everyone how great you are. Show people that God loves you the best. You're on top.” It is the opposite of what Jesus wants for himself—and for his followers. Not a community of superiors and subordinates, but a community of equals.

Finally, the third temptation, the offer of what he could rule—“all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor”—if he would bow down to Satan, is a temptation for power at any cost. “Do anything to acquire and hold on to power—power at work, at home, over all others. Grab it and be willing to sacrifice compassion and charity to keep it.” But Jesus decisively rejects this temptation as well. His power will come in humility, his leadership in service.

In the desert Jesus is tempted to give in to selfish desires. These are the same types of temptations that we face regularly, even if the circumstances are not so dramatic.

Notice that in each of these three temptations there is an element of good. It's always harder to be tempted by pure evil, which is easier to spot and reject; the true temptation is the seemingly good one. For example, it is a good thing to feed oneself and care for one's body.

It's easy for us to listen to the voices that do not come from God; those voices can sound appealing. Likewise, sometimes it feels more natural to dwell in the darkness than to turn toward the light. We hear voices that tell us we are unworthy of God's love, that nothing will change, that all is hopeless. We hear the voice of, as one of my spiritual directors called it, the Hinderer. We tend to turn more toward our inner “demons,” who tell false stories about us and subvert our identities, rather than turning toward God, who knows our true story, our real identity.

Jesus realizes the need to turn away from those dark voices, and he does so with the help of his Father. Jesus is driven into the desert, much as we are driven to reflect on our lives in times of testing and struggle. But he is not alone, and neither are we. The same power that helped Jesus in his desert helps us in ours.

In the end, Jesus rejected these temptations and returned to Nazareth to commence his ministry. Though sinless, he was not free from temptations. Once again, Jesus fully participates in our humanity, aligns himself with us, and completely immerses himself in the human condition.

W
E BEGAN THIS CHAPTER
with a brief consideration of original sin, an idea that drives much of the theology behind the Christian practice of baptism. George and I bumped into our own sinfulness at the Jordan River. And at the same place (roughly) Jesus aligned himself with sinful humanity, decisively inaugurating his public ministry.

But though this act of baptism was a vivid demarcation in Jesus's life, it would be a mistake to separate the Jesus who was born in Bethlehem, raised in Nazareth, and worked as a
tektōn
in Galilee, from the man who preached and healed. It would be a mistake to separate the young (pre-baptism) Jesus from the adult (post-baptism) Jesus. The event at the Jordan River did not create a new person. If we hope to understand something about his “after,” it is essential to think about the “before.”

To know Jesus, then, we are invited to think of him not simply as the preacher and healer, but as the boy, the adolescent, and the young adult. Only then will we be able to appreciate him as fully human.

Denigrating the “before” is common in the spiritual life. After a conversion experience, one is tempted to set aside, downplay, or reject one's past. In Thomas Merton's biography
The Seven Storey Mountain
, the former dissolute student turned Trappist monk largely characterizes his former life as bad, and his life in the monastery as good. Of the “old” Thomas Merton, he said ruefully, “I can't get rid of him.”
²⁶
In time Merton would realize how misguided a quest that is: there is no post-conversion person and pre-conversion person. There is one person in a variety of times, the past informing and forming the present. God is at work at all times.

As Thomas Scirghi notes, the sacrament of baptism
reorients
us.
²⁷
For the disciples of John it marked their willingness to be converted, to experience
metanoia
, a Greek word meaning a change of perception, a change of heart. Water symbolized both life and death. So baptism was seen as a dying to an old life and being born into a new one. For the early Christians too, it would have marked a radical change and, more than we might be able to grasp today, a new way of life.

Yet the temptation for anyone who has changed, grown, or moved on from what seemed a less satisfying part of life, is to think of the old person as dead, as Merton did. It took me years to realize how limiting this approach can be, because it closes us off from seeing grace in our past. It is not that I believed that my childhood was a model of original sin, that I was a wicked teenager or an unredeemed young adult. Rather, after entering the Jesuit novitiate, I slowly began to believe that all that had gone before was not as valuable as what had come after. I had undergone, to use an overused word, a “conversion” and so had put on the “new man,” as St. Paul says. This was indeed true. But I felt no need for the past, and sought to find God only in the present and in the future. In doing so I was negating all the good that God had done for me in the past.

Sometimes we close the door to our past, thinking that since we have “progressed,” the past has little to offer. But we need to keep the door to our past open.

A few years ago, I received an e-mail that floored me. A friend from college had discovered a photo of our group of friends standing together on the steps of the run-down off-campus house in which we lived for two years. One of those friends, named Brad, had been killed in an automobile accident during our junior year. The photo shocked me. Seeing my friends, seeing Brad, and seeing myself smiling alongside him, opened a door that had been kept firmly shut. Until then, I had judged my past as less important than my present, seeing it as a place where God had not dwelt. But there was visible proof: surrounded by my good friends, I was smiling and happy. Had I forgotten these beautiful moments? Had I judged them of little value? Perhaps the Gospel writers thought the same: Why would anyone want to know about Jesus's early life?

And just a few days before writing this chapter, one of my best friends from childhood sent me three photos of myself in the fifth grade. This was even more startling, for they were photos I had never seen, from a time that I thought was lost, over forty years ago. It was as if God were offering me a clear window into my past. In the full-color photos, I was playing with friends during recess at our elementary school. Outside, in a spot near a green field that I recognized immediately, in whose tall grasses I used to hunt for grasshoppers, we were climbing over one another to build a human pyramid. The three photos showed a progression of six boys having fun: climbing atop one another, successfully completing the pyramid, and then tumbling over one another as our shaky pyramid collapsed. In each photo I had an immense smile on my face.

If you had asked me if I had a happy childhood, I would have said yes. Deep down, though, I might have said to myself, “But my life wasn't meaningful until I entered the Jesuit novitiate, until I fully accepted God.” The door to that part of my life I had closed, or kept only slightly ajar. Those smiles reminded me that God was with me all along, forming me. As God is doing in every moment of our lives.