Lent 1A - 2026
Sermon for The First Sunday in Lent, Year A
St. Paul's Episcopal Church
The Rev. Andrew McLarty
In my youth, I was an avid Boy Scout, and I continued a love of backpacking and hiking before fatherhood made it harder to get away for a week by myself. Not only does getting out into nature recharge my soul, the process of planning and packing everything I'll need for my "home" on my back helps remind me of what is really important, both personally and culturally. Many times, I find that I have over planned and over prepared and need to shed weight and encumbrances. And there’s a sermon in that. With letting go of ego. With emptying.
Before all Jesus begins the popular public ministry we know so well (the healings, the miracles, the teaching), he goes into the wilderness. Paul would later describe this pattern, the kenosis, in Philippians: Christ “emptied himself,” This self-emptying wasn’t a loss, but the Divine making space for the redemption of the world. It’s the ultimate metaphor for a love that pours itself out for the sake of new life.
The wilderness is the first expression of that emptying. Jesus does not stride into public life fully formed. He lets go. He strips down to what is essential.
And while we are told he fasted forty days and was tempted by the devil, scripture doesn’t actually say he was alone the entire time.
Come with me on some speculative fiction… The wilderness was not entirely empty. There were hermits, ascetics, wanderers, people who had already chosen ascetic lives of prayer. So it’s worth asking, who might Jesus have meet out there? Did he pray entirely in solitude? Or did he sit for a time with others who had fled power and comfort, who knew hunger and silence intimately? Did they trade stories of why they had come, what they feared, what they hoped God might do with what remained of them?
We don’t know.
That kind of speculation might feel like a mouthful of vinegar to some. Because imagination beyond the familiar feels dangerous, or like loss of control with the narrative. We prefer a Jesus who fits neatly inside the margins of the text, who behaves exactly as expected, whose story leaves no unanswered questions.
But fear thrives in silence. And temptation works precisely by exploiting fear—fear of the unknown, fear of vulnerability, fear that what God offers will not be enough.
Notice how the devil tempts Jesus. Not with evil for evil’s sake, but with shortcuts and the "not enough." Food and comfort without acknowledging everything comes from God. National power without the difficult work of justice, support, and human dignity. Glory without work, effort, sacrifice, or suffering.
When we are afraid, we crave other options. We want escape hatches. We want certainty now, fullness now, control now. The wilderness strips those away. That is why it is frightening. And that is why it is necessary.
Lent is not about proving how disciplined or devout we can be. It is about learning how little we actually need in order to live faithfully. It is about practicing trust when the easy comforts are gone. The wilderness teaches Jesus (and us) that faithfulness is not grand gestures, but a thousand small acts of attention, restraint, and prayer.
Our own sanctification is not a single triumphant moment. It is lots of little things done well. Daily prayer. Honest repentance. Choosing patience when irritation would be easier. Choosing generosity when fear whispers scarcity. Choosing trust when the world offers shortcuts.
So Lent invites us to loosen our grip. To stop curating our spiritual lives for appearance’s sake. To admit we are not as in control as we pretend. To unburden our metaphorical backpacks, that is, to show up as we are, not as we wish to be seen.
