If I mention Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, does that mean anything to anyone? Maslow's theory is in my opinion a wonder: if it's represented visually, it's a pyramid, where the most important needs for survival are at the bottom – food, water, shelter, safety, good health and as you traverse up the pyramid, you pick up belonging, love in the form of friendship and family, and at the very top, if all the needs below have been achieved, that's when we as humans can best love ourselves, respect ourselves, and engage with the world around us. It's a psychological theory that like all others has flaws, but I used to use Maslow's hierarchy often with children and young people who struggle to self regulate and I cannot tell you, how many problems, arguments, upsets, can be seriously eased by a trip to the toilet and a biscuit. When our most basic needs aren't met, we are unregulated and off-kilter.
What has become annoying for me, is the fact that I banged on about the miracle of Maslows to a few people so much, that whenever I become upset, or anxious or mad, they have a really irritating, but correct tendency to ask 'do you need a snack?'. They're annoyingly accurate in their diagnosis.
Now, as we enter into lent, a time where traditionally we fast from food, and other excesses, this is perhaps not the best excuse to be providing us with. But I share it, because I am always in awe when I read our story from Luke about just how long Jesus went in the desert without food. Verse 2 of our New Testament reading carries what I believe to be one of the biggest understatements of scripture: 'he ate nothing during those 40 days, and at the end of them he was hungry'.
Jesus had deliberately become unregulated and off-kilter. He had been led by the Holy Spirit, by the divinity in him into the desert and through fasting he had been connected more deeply to his humanity.
And his humanity is where the devil meets him. The devil starts at Jesus' most basic need: his pressing hunger, that aching in his core. Take this stone, and feed yourself on bread. Jesus' reply is concise: one does not live by bread alone. Bread is not the only thing that sustains life. Jesus welcomes his humanity, so that he may serve our humanity later on.
A high place is found, and gazing out over the kingdoms of the world, the devil says you can have all their glory and all the authority over them, if you worship me. Jesus was to be rejected by this world, and the devil knew he was handing him an opportunity to be loved, and to belong, to hold power and status. Jesus' rejection in our world meant pain, and death – and he denies an opportunity to get out of his humanity, so that he may serve our humanity.
If at once, you don't succeed, try try again, seems to be the devil's motto: they go to Jerusalem, and Jesus stands on the uttermost point of the temple. If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here. For it is written, he will command his angels concerning you to guard you carefully; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. He's saying: Jesus do you really know who you are? What if you're just a human not divine, what if those who will doubt you are right? Is your identity what you think it is? What if you don't fit in? What if you don't matter? What if you're a fraud and they're going to find you out? Wouldn't it be good to know now whether you are the son of God?
They say that to err is to be human, but I think we could also add: to doubt is to be human. Jesus was fully man, and so will have experienced somehow the same questioning, the same confusion, the same search for the safety that absolute truth and knowledge provides. Jesus welcomes his humanity, acknowledges that human desire for safety and identity, but has faith over and above the doubts that the devil flings at him, so that he can serve our humanity later.
Lent can be a time of denial, a time where we deny ourselves, to be closer to God. We deny some of the things that make us human, in small ways, to focus more on God. However, what if we flipped the way we look at it? What if we welcome our humanity this lent instead of denying it? What if we welcome our doubts, and our struggles, and our faults and our whole beings? If you've committed to giving something up, or taking something up, fantastic, you don't need to stop bothering: see it as an opportunity to connect with your humanity, to connect with what makes you human, to grow in your being, in your life. If you haven't, you have the same opportunity – notice your humanity, notice who you are.
Ash Wednesday starts lent off, those of us who met this week had the opportunity to be marked with dust, to be reminded that we are dust, and we will return to dust. I put the same charge to you today:
Remember you are dust… but the dust of stars; stars lit by One who so delighted in that dust, that worlds were created from it; filled with life formed from it - including those blessed creatures, on whose dusty faces the image of Holiness was first traced and continues to be.*
Your humanity is not a bad thing. Your humanity is loved, adored, blessed and created by God. Jesus chose humanity not because we are disgusting beings that needed fixing, so that we don't get sent to the fiery pits of hell, but because we are worthy creations that needed to know love – that need to know that they are worthy of being loved in the most extravagant way possible.
This is the same God that the psalmist speaks of: whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This is a God that comes to meet us in dust.
Surely God will save you from the fowler's snare, and from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.
You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day,
nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday.
Under this promise the fowler's snare is still there, as is the deadly pestilence, the terror of night, the arrow and the plague. These things to do not disappear, but they also do not destroy nor terrorise, for we have a God that wraps us up in wings of comfort and feathers of warmth.
I know it's easier said than done, especially as wars, illnesses and terrors continue and take roles that seem to be larger than life. But we have a God who took on humanity, to serve our humanity. In these weeks where our prayers may well begin, 'Father God, it's awful' and then begin again 'Come Holy Spirit, it's still awful' and then begin again 'Lord Jesus, it's somehow worse', we can remember and cling on to our God who chose humanity, who welcomed humanity, who saw humanity as a good thing.
So this lent, remember that God comes close to each of us through our humanity. Jesus welcomed his humanity so that he might serve us. Now, don't get me wrong: we are not perfect, we will never get everything right, and it is good to remember that, it is good to mourn for what we could be and for what might have been, and repent of our misdeeds, but it is also good to remember that no amount of denying ourselves or perhaps punishing ourselves will make God love us more, or make God see us as more worthy.
Don't give something up, don't take something up, don't force yourself off-kilter or unregulated to prove something, or convince God you are worthwhile. Give something up, take something up, be off-kilter and slightly unregulated, let it make you more aware of your humanity, because God created you in love, and welcomes your humanity.
* I stole this paragraph from @RevDaniel on twitter.