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The Gospel according to Matthew 4:1-11 

Okay, I’m going to begin by making my confession; I’m going to tell you a story I wrote three years ago and told you then. But there are lots of folks here who haven’t heard it, and if you heard it the first time, I hope you won’t mind, and I hope you will discover something new by hearing it again. It’s called:

The Tempter’s Tale

They gathered around, pulling stuffed leather chairs into a circle, grateful for the opportunity to hear their oldest and most famous member tell the story. The richly paneled room with its dark, oiled walls and beautifully painted ceiling, and the fire crackling in the huge stone hearth, created the perfect atmosphere for him to tell the story. And they all knew that these lavish surroundings, indeed the success they took for granted and assumed would last forever, all began with him.

He was a legend, a hero. They had all read about him; studied his life and strategies, but most of them had never heard him speak. And no one before had the nerve, the impudence, to ask him to tell it. He was, after all, the original, the most important, the exalted one, the only one ever to be given the ultimate title of honor: Eternal Tempter.

Before he started, he scanned the circle of faces. The firelight danced on them, and they were all, every one, eager. Suddenly a flash of his youthful passion returned in the form of a wry smile. The faces glanced at one another, having sensed something, and were suddenly uncomfortable.

He was still good at what he did, and he knew their eagerness was a weakness. Like an old man watching a high school football game in his letter jacket, he thought, "If I were younger, I’d exploit that eagerness and take them all down, just for the fun of it. I ought to do it right now, just to show ‘em that I’ve still got it." But he was tired, and the moment passed. Besides, there would be enough glory in the telling of the story.

"It was not hard," he began, scanning the faces which seemed to sense that the moment of danger had passed. "I get too much credit." He knew that to begin with such a modest statement would only enhance his stature in their eyes, and he had long ago repressed the painful memory of how easy it actually was.

"You just had to know where the weakness was, and use it." He stared into the fire. "People give me credit for having brought evil into the world. It’s not true. It was already there. It was already in them, or I never would have been able to put it there. You just had to know how to bring it out. And I was young, like you, and brash, like you, and I went for it."

He looked up from the fire as he began the story. "The so called ‘Good One,’" (He said it with disdain, as if it were an ironic title. He had taught them that they were the real good ones, the just ones, that the ends justified the means, and that the so-called "Good One’s" weakness merely prolonged the agony.) He continuted, "The so called Good One had created this garden for them. It was astoundingly beautiful and lush and fruitful and green and abundant. And the Good one had given them work, to make their lives meaningful." (He said it as if it were a term of derision.) "They were to till and keep this (really, I must admit) quite gorgeous place. Frankly, I didn’t think I had a prayer. But I didn’t know them then. I didn’t know that in their character was the answer to my prayer.

"The Good One had told them they could have anything they wanted there. Anything except two trees. He told the man not to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Life or the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.

"So I watched them and studied them, and I became a student of their character, and that’s when my brilliant inspiration hit me. That’s when I knew that I wouldn’t have to fight or raise armies or force them to bow before an iron rod; that’s when I realized (in quite a flash of genius I must say) how I could use their own nature against themselves. It was a delicious plan, and once hatched, surprisingly easy to carry out.

"The man had told the woman about not eating the forbidden fruit."

Then an old pet peeve gripped him. He shouted, "I know you’ve all heard that it was an apple, but it wasn’t!" He said it with such anger that no one dared ask what it was.

"Anyway," he continued, "The man told the woman not to eat it. But he did an odd thing — he went beyond that. He told her that they had been forbidden from even touching it. Now, I thought that was curious. He wasn’t told not to touch it; just not to eat it. I didn’t know what to make of that for a while, then my flash of brilliance came to me: he told her not to touch it because it was tempting. He was trying to be extra careful because he knew that she, like he, would want what she couldn’t have. ‘That’s it!,’ I thought. ‘They want what they can’t have. They are tempted by anything they can’t have, and the Good One has told them that the things they can’t have are knowledge of good and evil and eternal life. What they couldn’t have is to be gods. That,’ I realized, ‘is what will tempt them most, to be gods in their own right.’

"But I had to figure out a way to do it. You have to be subtle in these things. Remember that." The faces in the firelight all nodded. "But I was a serpent in those days, and quite clever, and I saw my opening. It was just a crack, but that was all I needed. I knew they would do the rest."

The faces were leaning in now. This was the part they had waited for.

"I realized," he continued, "That my chance came in the man’s instructions to the woman that she was not even to touch the fruit. It simply wasn’t true, and anything that isn’t true is an opportunity. Remember that." The faces in the firelight nodded. "Anyway, I came to her (she had no reason to fear me then) and asked her what she’d been told. She said she couldn’t eat or touch the fruit. Well, sir," he said triumphantly, "I picked that fruit and held it up to her."

The circle of faces looked confused. "Don’t act so stupid," he spat out at them, "this was before serpents lost their limbs," he said with a venom that came from a painful memory.

"Anyway," he said, getting himself back under control, "It worked like a charm. I knew it would. You have to keep in mind that she didn’t know what a lie or deception or any of our tools even were. So she was really confused that I didn’t ‘die.’ The poor, wretched little dear had such a concrete understanding of what it meant to ‘die.’ She thought that if your heart was beating, you were alive, and that if it was not, you were dead." The circle of faces smiled smugly and shared a moment of satisfaction. That understanding of life and death had been responsible for so, so much of their success over the centuries.

"When I didn’t ‘die’, at least as she understood death," he went on, "She had reason to doubt everything she had been told. ‘You see,’ I purred, ‘I didn’t die. Go ahead. Touch it. You’ll see. I didn’t die. You’ll be fine. It has all been a lie.’

"And so she touched it, and, of course, was fine. ‘Eat,’ I said. ‘You’ll be fine. It has all been a lie. They’re just trying to keep you from reaching your potential, from being happy. You have a right to be happy, my dear.’

"And then, of course, you all know what happened. But I want to tell you, you should have been there. It was delicious! She ate. And then she took it to him, and he ate. And then it all happened so fast. The first thing that happened to them was that sweetest of sensations – shame. They were ashamed of their bodies. Ah, shame. It was the first thing to emerge. It is one of our most powerful tools. Remember that." The circle of faces nodded in the firelight.

"Anyway, what happened after that was quite satisfying, and humorous. I roared with laughter. First, they tried to hide from the Good One." He stared at the fire and said nostalgically, as if to himself: "That’s been fertile ground over the years." He looked again at the faces. "Well, of course the Good One knew something was wrong. And when he questioned them, they lied. Oh, I could hardly contain myself. It had gone so much better than even I had imagined it would. Then the man gave the woman a name, like he had authority over her, like she was one of the animals he had named." Like a coach taking credit for the design of a play, he looked at them and said, "We have used that, haven’t we?" Enthusiastic nods all around.

"But the best," he continued, "Was when the man was trying to explain his actions. After he had been the one who had been given the instructions, and after he had been the one who had expanded the instructions so as to give me my opening, and after he had eaten just because the woman told him she had eaten, then he tried to blame it all on her! ‘The woman made me do it,’ he was whining. I was utterly delighted; I was roaring with laughter. Blaming your mistakes on others — have we used that lads, or not?" Like the student body at a pep rally they all shouted, "Yes!"

"Ah," he said, "It was a rich time, a wonderful time, a great victory, and one which has borne fruit ever since." He stared into the fire, basking in the warmth of the memory.

For a while, they too stared into the fire, smiling at the great story told by the great one. Then the silence became too long. None of them were comfortable with silence. So one of them, the youngest, emboldened by the moment they had shared with the Tempter and hungry for the truth about another story that he had heard only in whispers, asked, "Will you tell us about the other encounter, the one in the desert?"

Shock and consternation went around the circle as the Tempter’s gaze shot from the fire to the impudent young face that had made this cheeky request. "No," he said firmly, "We do not speak of that." But this one was too young to know how dangerously rude he was being, and he pressed on. "But why not?" he asked. "It was only one man. We have failed at various times with many people. You yourself have taught us to have patience, always to know that for every failure there will be many successes. And you yourself have taught us to learn from our failures. Besides, it was only one man."

Again he stared into the fire, but now his face was rock hard. "It was not just a man," he finally said. "And it was not a failure like any of our other failures. I offered all of it, our best things: abundance, safety, fame, unlimited power." Then, bitterly, he half said and half spit: "He refused to even negotiate."

The young one was finally getting a clue as to how taboo and dangerous this subject was. He tried to minimize it. "Well, no harm done. So we lost one? You got them to eat the forbidden meal, and, as you say, we have been enjoying the fruits ever since."

The Tempter stared into the fire for a long time. The silence was excruciating for the faces in the circle. Finally, as if he were telling them something he wasn’t supposed to, some state secret they were not supposed to know but which they needed to know if their kingdom were to survive, he said slowly: "But now they eat a different meal. And," he paused, "they take . . . strength from it. It . . . changes them. It changes . . . their hearts. They become more . . . like . . . him."

And he looked up at the circle of faces in the dancing firelight. And they saw in his eyes what they thought they would never see.

Fear.