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 in the New Testament. I know that now because, when it was a question on the quiz programme, Only Connect, I —embarrassingly — could not remember the answer.
In almost half of those 27 books, the name “Satan” is present. If there was a quiz question about the writings that mention him most frequently, I would expect Revelation to come top — and it does (seven references). Luke is in second place, with five. Matthew ties in third place with 2 Corinthians (both mention Satan three times).
That is enough of a footprint to give us pause. Satan is not a pantomime baddie, like the Sheriff of Nottingham. Nor is he a symbol for temptation, as Cupid’s arrow is a symbol for love. In the Gospel story, he is a genuine character. John Milton puts Satan front and centre in his epic poem Paradise Lost, in which poetic artistry brings out the allure of evil: that “darkness visible” that may make Satan more comprehensible for readers than angelic or divine perfections that they cannot imagine reaching.
When we encounter an unambiguously evil character, in life or literature, it is easy to condemn them. But there is a category of baddie which is much more problematic: the anti-hero. Did Milton recognise the problematic allure of his Lucifer? That is a question for literary criticism more than biblical scholarship. My favourite operatic anti-hero is Mozart’s Don Giovanni, defiant to the last, unyielding both in his own sin and in his rejection of the piety of the self-righteous. But I wonder what that says about me.
Of all the anti-heroes I can think of, 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 is also fascinating. Through the eyes of a child, Jim Hawkins, we regard him with both revulsion and admiration. But our understanding of humankind is enriched by having encountered him.
What is the emotional, or spiritual, mechanism by which we can find evil attractive? And why are we drawn to ambiguity more 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 must have been the most fundamental; for eating is an instinct, and hunger is an unignorable force. If it were not so, Christians would not have spent centuries wrestling with fasting and abstinence as forms of training for learning to manage temptations in life.
Vindication and power are not drivers of behaviour in the same way. They are not rooted in an individual instinct, but in social instincts: to succeed, to matter. What supplies those twin appetites is nothing as 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 can consume us. Nothing is so important in the lifelong business of becoming a disciple of Christ as being in command 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 in which we learn not to grasp after more and more of what we crave — like my beagle, who does not know what it feels like to eat “enough”. One disturbing effect of this Lenten Gospel is that we see Jesus and Satan, and we know who is right and who is wrong. But it is Satan who seems to understand our desire: to eat, to matter, to control.
This is a good time, then — perhaps the best time — to realise a truth that familiarity may be blinding us to. If we start with the Gospel temptation of Jesus, or with the downfall of Satan in Milton, we are distorting our view of the gospel and our own understanding of sin. The story does not begin with Satan’s tempting of Jesus, or of us. It begins when we encounter Jesus and feel that purer hunger, to know him and read of him in our Bible, and to walk through the church doorway to meet others who are drawn like us, and learn from them. A true Lent starts at the beginning: the attraction of goodness comes first.
