Truth Tested in the Wilderness
Excerpt of “Truth Tested in the Wilderness” preached on February 22, 2026
Romans 5:12-19 | Matthew 4:1-11
“As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.’” We studied this passage about a month ago and heard the refrain again this past Sunday with the transfiguration. As we begin this morning, it’s important to know the backdrop of the text. Before Jesus took Peter, James, and John up on the mountain, before he preached from the side of the mount to the crowds below, before he ever called any of the disciples, he was led into the wilderness. And he was led into the wilderness by the same Spirit who descended on him at his baptism. Right after we hear the voice of God saying, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased,” he’s led into the wilderness to be tempted.
I’m not sure about you, but this causes me to have a lot of questions that just stir within me: Why would God send Jesus into that? Why would Jesus have to go through that at all? And why right after something so good, so holy, is he put in this position? So many questions! And the truth is, no matter how we examine the gospel text this morning, there is mystery here that resists easy answers. Because there’s something so profound that is happening in that wilderness that we can only catch a glimpse of.
Jesus’ time in the wilderness was an intense time where his identity is tested and embodied after it was declared at his baptism. He shows his power and strength while also showing how powerful his restraint truly is. After forty days, of course he’s hungry. After forty days, of course he’d like to be rescued and comforted. After forty days, of course he feels like he deserves just a little more than what he had before. Somehow, he doesn’t fall for the deceit Satan brings him.
Jesus — the one who turned water to wine — had the power to turn rocks into bread. I have no doubt it wasn’t a matter of if Jesus could do it. The point was never about his capability, it was about whether he should. And to be clear, there is nothing wrong with bread. Jesus would be the first to tell you that — for he is the bread of life. Just as in the garden, there is nothing wrong with the fruit, the problem was the deceit that rotted the core of the substance. Just as the piece of fruit became a vehicle for distrust, the rock was no longer just a rock with Jesus. It represented a much deeper narrative at play.
The apostle Paul helps us, not because he gives us a complicated theological system to figure out, but because he helps us understand why this moment in the wilderness matters so much. In his letter to the Romans, Paul reminds us that sin entered the world through one man. He’s talking about Adam. In the garden, Adam was surrounded by abundance. He didn’t lack anything and I’d assume he was satisfied since he wasn’t even hungry. He wasn’t abandoned and had everything he could possibly want. And yet when doubt was introduced, when the question of trust was raised, Adam reached out and jumped at the opportunity. He took the one thing that had not been given. The issue was never simply the fruit itself; it was the distrust underneath it. Paul tells us that through that disobedience something fractured the relationship between humanity and God, and that fracture did not stay contained to one moment in the garden.
Paul goes on to say that through one man’s obedience many will be made righteous. In other words, if Adam’s choice had consequences beyond himself, then so does Jesus’ obedience. When this is read alongside Jesus in the wilderness, the contrast is stark. Adam stood in the garden full of food and still reached. Jesus stands in a wilderness with absolutely nothing, and when he is tempted to use his power for himself, he does not reach for what so many of us would think we wouldn’t just want, but need in such a desperate situation. He does not exploit what has been declared over him at his baptism. Instead, he trusts.
What we are witnessing in the wilderness is not simply a private spiritual victory; it is Jesus being faithful where humanity has not been faithful. It is Jesus responding to temptation not by taking control, but by remaining obedient to the Father. And according to Paul, that obedience is not just admirable, it’s life-giving. And that kind of obedience can be hard for us to picture, because we often associate strength with action and power with visible force. But sometimes the deepest strength is not in what is done — it is in what is deliberately withheld.
The wilderness exposes things. It exposes what we depend on. It exposes what we reach for when we feel tired or uncertain. It exposes how quickly we try to take control when something feels out of our hands. In Adam, exposure led to grasping. In Job, exposure led to wrestling. In Jesus, exposure revealed trust. And that is where this Lenten season meets us. Lent is not about pretending that we are less fragile than we are. It is not about managing appearances or tightening up or behavior for forty days. It is about allowing what is already there to come into the light. It is about living truthfully before God.
When we are exposed — when impatience surfaces, when fear drives our decisions, when we realize how often we use the power we have to secure what we want — we have a choice. Jesus does not scramble to prove himself. He does not manipulate the moment. He does not secure comfort at the expense of obedience. He lives from the voice that already named him beloved. And because he did, exposure is no longer something we have to fear. It becomes an invitation: An invitation to loosen our grip, an invitation to honestly name what is being revealed, and an invitation to trust that we do not have to seize what God has not given.
As we enter these forty days, perhaps the most honest question we can ask is not, “How strong am I?” But, “What is being exposed in me?” And when it is exposed, will I reach — or will I rest in the One who has already trusted perfectly on my behalf? That is where Lent begins. Not with performance, not with proving, but with truth. May we learn, day by day, to trust the voice that calls us beloved rather than grasp for what we think will secure us. And may the faithfulness of Christ steady us, so that even in our exposure, we find ourselves held by grace. Amen.
