Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.”
But he answered, “It is written,
‘One does not live by bread alone,
but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.’ ”             [Matthew’s Gospel 4.1-4]

“For you are dust, and to dust you shall return” are the words spoken to each person marked with the ashes, on forehead or hand, as the journey of Lent commences. We carry the mark to be reminded of our place and our value.

We are indeed the very stuff of stars; our bodies, the bones of this ancient continent on which we stand, all creation and the dust which marks our shoes as we walk along. The ash from the burning of last year’s palm branches is a smudge of our history, ancient beyond measuring, which we bear forward as a sign of God’s intention – and our own.

The cantos of temptation endured by Jesus are a profound attempt to draw him from his calling, his earthedness, his humanity. We hear serpentine whispers echoing, “You can be like God!”, with offers of bread and spectacle and power.

Notwithstanding his exhaustion, Jesus refuses and rebukes the tempter, which is left again to eat the dust of its failure.

Our earliest temptation is to copy and paste this story for our own experiences; the times we felt tested or questioned our sense of call. We are at risk of mislaying the gospel altogether.

This is profoundly an understanding of identity, Jesus’ identity.

In the beginning, the woman and the man are placed at the heart of God’s creation and proclaimed as very good. The tempter questions both God’s intent and their identity; in a heartbeat, they forsake who – and whose – they are. How easily they appear to abandon their human value for the possibility of something they imagine as more significant.

A similar offer is placed before Jesus, and he asserts his humanness with each breath. An insightful colleague said that Jesus appears to embrace his humanity with more hope and enthusiasm than any of us. His voice scratchy, he endures his tiredness, his smallness in the midst of all the wilderness, and defies the opportunity to walk away.

Jesus knows who he is, and to whom he belongs. His identity resides in the one who shaped all of us from dust and whose breath gives life. Our humanness is not a humiliation; it is a wonder. Failing to understand this, or denying its import, leads us to a fixation on eternity which ignores the value of human worth in this life.

Far worse, we are led to minimise the lives and humanity of others. We tolerate suffering and injustice, believing that our humanity is a temporary hindrance on the way to eternity.

In Jesus, God has fully affirmed our humanness, our flesh, the stuff of which we are made. Enduring – and refusing – the temptations, Jesus asserts the worth of each human being, and proclaims his identity as such. He reclaims the ground forfeited when our human worth was first put to the test.

Jesus incarnation locates us at the manger, in the wilderness and at the cross. The fully human Jesus has asserted once more that each and every human being is fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God.

… Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white.Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him.Then Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear.But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.” And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone. [from Matthew’s Gospel 17.1-9]

All those things which demand our time and our attention. These compelling events before us, which elicit the response of our action, or at least profound concern. Recent happenings leave us dumbfounded, unsure of which step to take, which words to say, what to feel.

As followers of Jesus, we watch his interactions with many diverse people; storytelling, feeding, chastising, blessing, inspiring, forgiving, healing. These consistently human moments can distract – even mislead – us into engaging with Jesus solely as the astonishing person that we see and hear.

Jesus exhibits the joy and grief and anger and compassion of every fully human being. We are in his company, and his hands and feet and voice are like our own. We will achieve great things together.  

We see the need and rally to the cause. The needs are many, the wounds are deep.

Those politicians and others who want us to discard God and despise our neighbours rely on our exhaustion and eventual despair. Worse, they want to curdle our passion into hatred – someone, something, any one or thing – enlisting us in their crippled cadre.

Which is why at the hinge of Jesus’ journey through Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus ascends a mountain with three friends. Which is why a moment described (and entirely beyond description) happens before their eyes.

God interrupts the plans and purposes of each of us, to remind us that Jesus is not only utterly human, but the beloved Son of God. We are frantic to contain the moment, posting it to Instagram, or its miserly equivalents. Before we are able to focus our cameras and our lives, we are in the presence of Jesus, alone.

It is simply Jesus, Son of God.

A moment of miracle and wonder, which healed no wounds and brought no justice, and which calls us to remember that Jesus is the story of God in the world. Peter has already felt Jesus’ reprimand, as he earlier sought to prescribe Jesus as warrior or monarch. We are reminded that on this journey we are following the One who suffers at our hands and whose life is given for the life of the broken world.

This is where our faith finds its bearings. We cannot defeat the systems which fashion evil and injustice, although we must speak and act for all those who cannot speak and act for themselves, or believe themselves alone. We require the guidance of God’s Spirit to navigate these paths and discern where stumblings and missteps are prevalent.

It is difficult not to be afraid.

We do not walk an untravelled road; Jesus is before us, and beside us. The saving of creation is utterly in the hands of God. It is for us to bear witness with our lives. Our hope is found in Jesus Christ, alone.  

There’s no bread.
The bakers have gone into hiding.
The seats at the table are empty.
The Twelve are marching with the thousands.
The streets are filled with a new song.
Only Judas sits at Target Plaza, counting his silver,
while Pontius Pilate issues a carefully-worded statement.
Meanwhile the centurions have quotas to fill.
But out on the streets there’s a Communion.
Jesus takes the city in his hands and says,
“This is my body, broken for you.”

Rob Hardy
2nd February, 2026

“Why do we fast, but you do not see?
Why humble ourselves, but you do not notice?”
Look, you serve your own interest on your fast day,
and oppress all your workers …
… Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them,
and not to hide yourself from your own kin?
[Isaiah 58.1-12]

At the heart of every Christian community resides the act of worship.

Worship may be our simple act of prayer, which draws us to God and to each other, or a full liturgical movement of scripture, song and silence, prayer, proclamation and our opportunity to respond to the invitation of God. Worship turns our attention – and our hearts – toward God, In hope and appreciation.

One of our church’s ancestors, John Wesley, saw holy communion as a “converting ordinance”, where people’s hearts are changed by the articulate presence of Christ in bread and wine.

Our more recent forebears, when crafting the Basis of Union, spoke almost entirely of worship as wedded to witness and service. The clear intent is to assert that each element is affected by, and affects, each other.

Our God of the Hebrew Scriptures speaks through Isaiah to challenge the worshipping community, time and again. Isaiah’s song is drawing towards its conclusion. This wonderful piece of poetry and prophecy speaks to the heart of his community, and to each which has heard these words since.

There is a profound resonance with faith communities even now. as we enquire of God as to why our community hasn’t flourished; alternatively, we wonder how our discipleship appears to remain unchanged, even as our attendance grows.

Isaiah’s community remonstrates with God. God replies that their worship and their fasting, even the questions they are asking, arise solely from self-interest. “Our worship, our fasting, our humility” are all styles with which we are accustomed, in our contemporary world where self-interest is lauded and preyed upon – for marketing, for elections, for “salvation”.    

When Jesus is asked about the greatest commandment, his answer defines our lives and, thus, our worship. True worship is when we turn to God, and are attuned to our neighbours.  

We can fast all we like, but if our neighbour remains hungry, what does it mean? We can confess, hear forgiveness and pass the peace, but what if we still refuse to forgive? If our employees remain unfairly paid, if our neighbours are persecuted for their faith, or their race, or their sexuality, what does it matter if we raise our hands in worship and kneel for bread and wine?

We know that worship, witness and service are bound together. When they are separated, they risk becoming the empty actions of self-congratulation.

When we worship, we turn our lives to Jesus Christ, and the world for which Christ died. As such, we serve that world, with bread and justice and hope. We bear our witness in our bodies and our words, a witness articulated in the bread we offer to all who hunger.

In turn, our worship is transformed by the stories and the lives which return to us from our witness and our service. Wesley’s converting ordinance is not constrained by liturgy, or church walls; it is discerned when we share our bread with those who are hungry, when we welcome the homeless and when we clothe those in need with garments and dignity.

Salt for the earth. Light for the world. Flavoured and illumined by the risen, crucified Christ.