3
“An Opportune Time”
There is a phrase in this morning’s Gospel we often overlook. It concludes our story of Jesus’ triumph over the devil. It is this: “[the devil] departed from [Jesus] until an opportune time.”
Led by the Spirit in the wilderness, Jesus is tempted by the devil for forty days. The devil first exploits Jesus’ hunger. Then he challenges Jesus’ sense of mission. Finally he dares Jesus to confirm God’s favor. He places him on the pinnacle of the Temple, saying, "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written,
He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you, and
On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.
Each test the devil offers is double-edged. It is both worldly and theological. Commentators observe that the tests Jesus passes reflect those that the Hebrew people failed as they wandered in the desert after the Exodus—the hunger for food, political authority, and divine favor. But in a more immediate sense, the devil knows—or at least appears to be learning—that Jesus is human, with human hunger, human uncertainty, human doubt. And the devil knows also—or at least suspects—that Jesus is divine, with divine fortitude, divine authority, and divine power. And so he meets Jesus head on by attempting to appeal to him both as human and as divine.
And the devil fails. He subjects Jesus to “every test,” as the Gospel says, and when Jesus has passed every test, the devil leaves. But there is that nagging phrase that follows: “he departed from him until an opportune time.”
We hear this story at the beginning of Lent, not at the end, just as our forty days are under way. For Jesus, similarly, the story of his confrontation with the devil is not concluded. Luke is offering us what a fan of movies would call foreshadowing. The next time we hear of the devil in Luke, he will be prompting Judas to betray Jesus. On that occasion, he will be successful—or so it will seem.
So we have in this story a kind of primer on the devil. We learn that the devil is a determined seducer, a gifted debater, a shrewd opponent. We learn also that the devil is patient, that he can wait for “an opportune time.” We might recall the admonition from I Peter quoted in our order for Compline: “Be sober, be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Resist him, firm in your faith.”
Of course, there are few better ways to put an Episcopal congregation to sleep than by talking about the devil. We long ago set aside the image of the fellow with the red suit, the pitchfork, and the cloven hoof. But we need not accept naïve Satanic images in order to understand that our Gospel story gives us an example, provides us with a warning, and offers us assurance. In short, we may learn to become more wary of the “opportune times” in our own lives, to resolve to overcome them, and to understand that we cannot do so without assistance.
Here are three perspectives on this notion of “the opportune time” from sources about as far removed from one another as possible.
The first is from gold medal figure skater Dick Button, who was a long-time commentator on NBC. Interviewed on NPR a few years ago, he observed that the most dangerous part of a competitive skater’s routine is not the most challenging moves, the quadruple axel, for instance, but the relatively simple moves that follow. To quote Button, “They get through the tough stuff and then blow it on something easier.” Just when you believe that you have passed the most demanding test, you let down your guard.
The second perspective is that of Richard Nixon, that thoughtful, dishonest, tormented president. Before his election to the presidency in 1968, he wrote a book, Six Crises, in which he says the following: “The easiest period in a crisis situation is actually the battle itself. . . . And the most dangerous period is the aftermath. It is then, with all his resources spent and his guard down, that an individual must watch out for dulled reactions and faulty judgment.”
The third is from Martin Luther’s great hymn:
For still our ancient foe doth seek to work us woe;
His craft and power are great, and, armed with cruel hate,
On earth is not his equal.
What these three commentators have in common is the sense that even the most masterful and successful will encounter periods of vulnerability and that such periods may test us more severely than the serious challenges we have met and overcome.
I am not suggesting that Jesus let down his guard. Quite to the contrary. Jesus reminds us that there are some decisions we make that are so profound, so powerful, so much a part of who we are that they establish a precedent we follow all our lives.
But we may not always remain strong. We may let down our guard. “Opportune moments” may undo us. “Our ancient foe,” to use Luther’s language, knows this about us and awaits his advantage. Following a triumph of self-restraint, we may feel inclined to reward ourselves with some indulgence we should avoid. Seven-step programs offer particular advice concerning anniversaries; there are too many accounts of people celebrating a long period of abstinence or restraint by falling off the wagon. Or we give of ourselves generously to those who need our attention—in the workplace, among our friends, even at church—and then, enjoying at last the comfort of home, we neglect those who are closest to us. Or we force ourselves to remain cordial and diplomatic in a highly charged business meeting, only to express our anger at the world when we are behind the steering wheel. Most of us probably could offer from our own lives some illustrations of this principle. I know I could. But this is not a call to improved rigor or determined perseverance. I am not taking the role of the bookstore clerk who was asked where to find the self-help books. She responded, “If I told you, wouldn’t that be beside the point?”
Instead we continue with Luther’s hymn:
Did we in our own strength confide, Our striving would be losing;
Were not the right Man on our side, The Man of God's own choosing.
Dost ask who that may be? Christ Jesus, it is He;
Lord Sabaoth is His name, From age to age the same,
And He must win the battle.
And tho' this world, with devils filled, Should threaten to undo us;
We will not fear, for God hath willed His truth to triumph through us.
Lent is in part about our becoming honest with ourselves—with our strengths and our limitations, with the principles we stand for and the compromises we are willing to make, with the faith we profess and the doubts we feel, and with the temptations we are able to resist and with those that resist our resistance, that lure us despite our determination.
That is one justification for the tradition of fasting and self-denial. These are practices that enable us to show ourselves who’s boss, that provide us with the reassurance that we really can gain control, that let us know that we are not enslaved by our appetites, our longings, and our fears.
But Lent is far more about becoming honest about God and about our dependence on God’s support. And Lent is about our becoming honest with God, through prayer in which we can acknowledge our limitations and accept the help we need. If we will live the season of Lent as a period in which we must face our own challenges, we should also live it as one in which we become ever more aware that God stands ready to help us.
At those “opportune” times when we might otherwise fall away from God and from one another, the “right Man” is on our side, “the Man of God’s own choosing.” “And He must win the battle.”