bread, thrones, names

So, the thing is, he was pretty hungry.

He sat among stones in the same way he always would in the years to come: with his left leg swung underneath, his other knee aimed at the sky, his right elbow resting upon this, and his left hand planted in the dirt. His free hand would hang, ebbing and flowing with the rhythm of his words, and it would come to be recognized as the gesturing expression of his intentions. His disciples would learn to watch closely, to measure their emotions and expectations in response to that steady metronome. Like the fingers of a conductor, his too would direct the music of the moment. He communicated whimsy with an irregular beat, a shuffling wave of sorts; he guided his listeners toward conviction as he jabbed and slashed at the air. 

Like the fingers of a magician, his too would work a subtle spell.

And now, as he sat among stones, he let his hand pulse with silent, unmoved anticipation. His disciples would later recognize this gesture as the most telling of all: a storm was brewing.

He could see it from a long way off; he could watch this invisible force approaching as attentively as he watched the tangible pebbles and clouds merge on the horizon. Again, with the magic stuff, I suppose. A sixth sense. So, when the devil materialized with the sound of a grenade and a bloodied lamb in its arms, Jesus didn’t flinch.

“I thought I had you for sure,” said the apparition, and it tore a bite from the dead lamb’s upper shoulders and began chewing. “Dinner.”

“It’s three in the afternoon,” said Jesus.

The devil looked at him, chin dripping, and sneered. “Fine.”

Throwing the lamb aside with a violent heave, the devil suddenly gagged, coughed, spat, and fell, in a single (painfully awkward) motion, into a heap not six inches from Jesus’ face. It uncoiled itself and hissed.

“But aren’t you even a little bit hungry?”

“I am,” Jesus admitted. “Not big on sloppy seconds though.”

Another cough. A belch. “‘xcuse me. You were saying?”

Jesus adjusted his position and sat cross-legged facing the intruder. He lifted his hands in invitation. “Be my guest. Share what you’ve come to say.”

The devil squirmed.

The two sat facing each other in the wilderness, each the epitome of the other’s opposite, a paradox in repose. Meandering winds swept dust in a silent dance around their bodies.

And the devil shrugged in resignation. “Well, this is awkward. But, hey, let’s let the future figure out the drama. I’ll make this quick: You’re hungry, right? Lickity split you hit the stones with some of that Jesus juice (problem solved) then we take a quick walk, you test out a throne or two, badabing badaboom, all of a sudden we’re flying, okay?! I mean FLYing! and you’re like, ‘No way!’ and I’m like, ‘Gimme some love!’ and we’re, like, BFF’s, buddies, bros, no more bad blood. We’re good! Nobody gets hurt – I mean, c’mon, a cross, really? – and we all go home. Your name in lights! Jesus: Son of Man, Assistant to the Big Guy Downstairs. Whaddya say?”

For a moment, Jesus didn’t say anything, and when he stretched out his hand, the devil seriously thought he was going to give in. But Jesus’ fingers weren’t lifted toward the stones. 

In horror, the devil watched the body of the lamb begin to shine. Wool unfurled in white flames, and the charred ruins fell like scales. A humming vibration multiplied from within the creature once dead, now rising to its feet, legs twisting back into form, muscles shimmering. The ground beneath them rippled, a wave of life rumbling outward. And when the lamb opened its eyes, Jesus winked.

“No deal,” he said.


Luke 4:1-13 • Matthew 4:1-11