Lent Week 1 2026: Year A - Nothing to Prove - Matthew 4:1-11

(The following was first preached at the 8th Street Church, Oklahoma City, USA)

Matthew 4:1-11

There’s a question that won’t leave me alone when I read this story.

It’s not a small question. It’s not a tidy Sunday School question.

It’s this:

Why in the world would the Spirit lead Jesus into the wilderness to face the devil?

Matthew doesn’t soften it. He doesn’t say Jesus wandered off. He doesn’t say he got lost. He says, plainly:

“Then Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.”

Led.
By the Spirit.
To be tempted.

That just… bugs me.

I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer a Spirit who leads toward green pastures and still waters—not toward hunger, testing, and forty days of silence.

But let’s put a pin in that big theological question—why would God do this?—and ask a different one.

A discipleship question.

What did Jesus actually do in the wilderness?

Because that’s the question that matters for us. And you can’t answer the first question without answering the second.

The Sunday School answer is easy:

He resisted temptation.

The devil says, “Turn these stones into bread.”
Jesus says, “No.”

“Throw yourself off the temple.”
“No.”

“Bow down, and I’ll give you the kingdoms of the world.”
“No.”

But if we’re honest, those temptations can sound a little… strange.

Turn stones into bread?
Where exactly is that commandment—“Thou shalt not use your divine powers for carbohydrates”?

Jump off the temple?
I don’t even like climbing a ladder to hang Christmas lights. Why would anyone swan dive off the Temple?

Bow down to the devil?

Who would do that?

I’ll tell you who.

Jesus would.

And so would you.

Because the temptations are not about magic tricks or spectacle.

They’re about something much deeper.

Right before this moment, Jesus comes up out of the waters of the Jordan at his baptism. He’s standing there, shoulder to shoulder with sinners and nobodies. And heaven tears open.

And a voice says:

“This is my beloved Son.”

Beloved.

Not tolerated.
Not evaluated.
Not conditionally approved.

Beloved.

Loved all the way down to the gut. Loved with a love that aches. A love that does not run out. A love not contingent on performance, achievement, or obedience.

Nothing is changing that love.

No.
Matter.
What.

And in that moment, Jesus has one task:

Believe it.

Just believe it.

But then the Spirit leads him into the wilderness.

And every temptation circles the same question:

Is that voice really true?

“Turn these stones into bread.”

In other words:

Do something useful.
Prove you matter.
Prove you’re productive.

How many of us live under that same whisper?

“If I were just a little more productive…”
“If I could just get a little more done…”

Every time guilt creeps in because we didn’t perform at the level we expected, we’re bumping into the same temptation.

We’ve started to believe our worth is measured by usefulness.

Or take the second one.

“Throw yourself down from the temple.”

Do something sensational.
Be impressive.
Be visible.

We’ve been catechized into this from childhood.

Win the award.
Make the team.
Get the promotion.
Go viral.

Only if I’m exceptional am I valuable.
Only if I’m spectacular am I secure.

And the third:

“All this I will give you… if you bow down.”

That’s about power.
Access.
Control.

“If I can just get into the right room…”
“If I can just get enough leverage…”

We would never bow to the devil.

Unless it worked.
Unless it got us what we wanted.
Unless it proved we mattered.

Do you see it?

The temptations are not random.

They are all invitations to prove belovedness.

To earn it.
To secure it.
To display it.

But the voice at the Jordan already said:

You are my beloved.

Before a sermon.
Before a miracle.
Before a single act of ministry.

Beloved.

And the wilderness is where that truth gets tested.

Not because God wants Jesus to fail.

But because God wants that truth to go deep.

I read a lot of biographies. It’s remarkable how many wildly successful people are still running on empty—athletes, artists, CEOs, politicians.

I recently read about one of the most successful actors of the 20th century. No one had his influence or cultural impact. Men wanted to be him. Women wanted to be with him.

And yet, privately, he felt like a fraud.

His name was Marion Morrison.

You know him as John Wayne.

All he wanted was the approval of his parents.

He never got it.

And that seems to be a common story.

People spend their entire lives chasing a sentence they never heard:

“Son, I’m proud of you.”
“Daughter, you are enough.”

And because they didn’t hear it—or didn’t believe it—they keep pushing.

More useful.
More impressive.
More powerful.

And some of you know that story because it’s yours.

The devil doesn’t show up with horns and a pitchfork.

He shows up with a whisper:

“You’re not enough yet.”
“Just a little more.”
“Prove it.”

So the Spirit leads Jesus into the wilderness—not to destroy him, but to strip away the noise.

To get him alone with the truth.

To let the lies surface and be named.

To let the Father’s voice become stronger than every other voice.

And Jesus resists.

Not because he’s superhuman.

But because he holds onto the truth:

I am beloved.

Maybe—just maybe—the Spirit leads him there so that when the crowds gather, when power surges, when opposition rises…

Jesus is not operating out of insecurity.

He doesn’t need to prove anything.

He’s already secure in the Father’s love.

And if that’s true for him…

It’s true for us.

You do not have to prove your belovedness.

In fact, you are so beloved that God considers you worth dying for.

As Paul writes:

Nothing in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

And that’s the promise you carry into Lent.

You are enough.

Period.

Now, back to that first question:

Why would the Spirit lead Jesus into the wilderness?

Maybe because wilderness is not proof that you are unloved.

It may be the place where belovedness finally sinks in.

Some of you are there right now.

Life feels dry.
Answers are scarce.
Traction is hard to find.

But what if this season is not abandonment?

What if it’s formation?

So this Lent, here’s the invitation:

Fast, yes.

But not just from food.

Fast from the lie that you have to prove yourself.

Tell God what’s heavy.

And then practice remembering.

Remember your baptism.

There was a voice over you, too.

Maybe not audible.

But real.

“You are mine.”

When Jesus leaves the wilderness, the devil departs.

And angels attend him.

I don’t know exactly what that looked like.

But I do know this:

When you resist the lie that you must earn your worth…

Something in you rests.

And the burden becomes light.