Tell someone that you believe the devil really exists, and they might look at you askance. A demystified world doesn’t have a lot of time or imagination for the supernatural. And even those who do have some time for the supernatural—especially when it makes them feel good—might dismiss Satan and his evil minions as antiquated superstition.
But it’s difficult to take seriously the account of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness if we don’t believe in some sense of palpable, existential evil in the world. The fact that this story occurs in three of the Gospels cautions us from dismissing it as mere fabrication. And how can we not heed the latest news from around the world and indeed in our very own neighborhoods without acknowledging that there are sinister forces that appear to be affecting us and which are clearly beyond our control. So, then, why is it so preposterous to believe in a Satan or a devil or a Prince of Darkness who is opposed to the Prince of Peace?
It is to our great peril that we deny the reality of evil. And yet this is a double-edged sword. Paying too much attention to the devil as the embodiment of such wickedness can paradoxically cause us to view him as little more than fabrication. Most of us have watched one too many movies like The Exorcism or its ilk, and this can numb us to the true reality of evil.
So, to get a real handle on this thorny topic, we often have to go far back in history to earlier Christian writers who didn’t inhabit a world as demystified as ours. Earlier Christians were convinced of the reality of the devil but also believed firmly in a power of light that was much, much greater.
I want to take us back to St. Ignatius Loyola, the sixteenth century founder of the Jesuit religious order. Ignatius recognized the all-too-human problem of wrestling with doubts, especially when determining whether something is sinful or not. And Ignatius knew that the devil often assails our sensitive consciences by making us over-scrupulous.
Say, for instance, you are considering doing a good work or a charitable deed. But suddenly you find yourself questioning whether you should do said deed because it might seem like you’re being overly pious. This, Ignatius would say, is the evil one trying to keep you from doing the right thing. And Ignatius’s advice was to observe the practice of moving contrario modo, or “in the opposite direction.” In our example, the person assailed by doubts should be somewhat less scrupulous and, in fact, do the good deed.
However, a person who rarely is disposed to follow God’s will or to any kind of scrupulosity is often beset by the opposite problem. The devil will seek to make that person even less scrupulous. That person, moving contrario modo, should be more scrupulous.
The logic seems inverted, but it is brilliant. This sounds very much like modern psychology, but it is deeply spiritual. Which of us doesn’t have many doubts? Don’t many of us have overactive consciences from time to time? And have you ever been tempted not to do a good work because of an accusing internal voice?
Ignatius understood something else that modernity has lost. The devil doesn’t usually manifest himself with contortions and spinning heads but rather with sly nuances that creep into our minds and hearts. And this brings us to St. Luke’s account of Jesus’s temptation in the wilderness.
The devil is not described in graphic detail by St. Luke. He is not carrying a pitchfork or even embodied as a terrifying presence. The devil is simply a constant, ominous presence with Jesus, tempting him for forty days and forty nights.
Not even the temptations themselves are what we might imagine. We are so used to thinking of temptations as attractions to do horrible things or towards horrible things. But the devil is not that simplistic. In the wilderness with Jesus, he knows that he is up against someone who is far more powerful than he is. So, he must be on his game to stand even a chance in this fight.
There doesn’t seem to be any if in Satan’s mind about whether Jesus is the Son of God, although the translation in Scripture doesn’t emphasize this. Satan knows that Jesus is the Son of God. That’s why Satan shows up. And it’s why he shows up in the wilderness, a lonely place, where Jesus is famished from his fasting.
The real temptation for Jesus is whether he will remain loyal to God the Father. The devil knows that he can’t tempt Jesus to one of the more obvious sins, so he takes a subtler path and tries to get Jesus to use his authority for the wrong reason, to summon stones into bread to feed himself and perhaps those who might be hungry. If Jesus were only to worship Satan, even the corrupt kingdoms of the world could be transferred from worldly leadership to Jesus’s reign. Perhaps even Jesus’ willingness to summon God to save him from hurtling down the side of a mountain could prove God’s words from Scripture to be true and provide some defense of God.
But Satan is no match for Jesus. Vulnerable though he may be after such a long period of fasting and loneliness, Jesus understands the real temptation at hand. It’s not some wild act of wrongdoing to which he is tempted, one that would cause others to reel in horror were they to witness it. The real temptation is not about whether Jesus is the Son of God. It’s about whether there is something conditional about God. This underlies everything that the devil lobs at Jesus.
The clue to the devil’s weakness lies in the second of the devil’s temptations. The devil promises the glory and authority of all the kingdoms of the world if only Jesus will worship him. This is the devil’s dirty little secret. The devil’s so-called power is only conditional and hinges on whether Jesus will worship him or not. And up against this sobering reality, the devil’s only ploy is to try to cause Jesus to question the reliability of God’s authority and also the unconditionality of God’s love.
It’s the same temptation for us, too, isn’t it? The real temptations that accost most of us are usually not to murder or heinous crimes. They are not usually to worship Satan rather than God. The temptations that assault us in insidious ways are those that stir up doubts within us. Will God love me if I’m not successful and recognized in my professional life? Will God forgive me yet again since I’ve made a mess of things one too many times? Will I make it to heaven if I’m not constantly busy doing good deeds, even if I have no time for prayer? Is God still active in the world, or is it all up to us, the Church, to effect the change that is needed?
Is it any wonder that we have been lured into questioning the unconditional nature of God’s love, mercy, and compassion towards us? We are conditioned by a world in which we calculate every risk. If we intervene in a war, will we provoke an aggressive power into worse actions? If I am honest with that person about their involvement in an injustice, will I lose that person’s friendship or love? If I don’t worship the god of work or academia, will I ever be able to put food on the table or make ends meet?
It’s a slippery slope from good intentions towards giving into the sly temptations that come our way. But if we return to the words of St. Ignatius of Loyola, perhaps there is something we can learn. For those of us who have come to this Altar to be close to holiness, our vulnerability lies in our own sensitivity to such holiness. For those of us who wish to do good, our potential weak spot lies in that very effort. And before long, we are doubting whether goodness is a fabrication of the mind and whether our well-intentioned acts will ever make any difference in the world.
But I think Ignatius would tell us this. When you feel those sly assaults, turn. Turn in the opposite direction. Remember the principle of contrario modo. For the sake of the good, do the opposite of your haunting thoughts, trusting that God is leading you back towards him.
And in our weakest moments, the greatest temptation of all might be to believe, even just for a minute, that somehow, we are worshipping and devoting our lives to a God who only loves us if we do things on command or if we ask for things in the correct way. It’s a terrifying thought to imagine losing the love and favor of a God who patrols our every movement and attaches conditions to our actions.
So, resist this temptation will all your strength. Remember: contrario modo. Turn the other way. Turn away from the falsity of cunning doubts and accusing thoughts. Turn towards the Light. And walk with confidence into the arms of the One who will never let you go, whose love is never conditional, and who always welcomes you back home.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The First Sunday in Lent
March 6, 2022