“When you are juggling too many balls in the air the trick is to know which are rubber and which are glass,” they said.

“But what if they’re all glass?” I asked, because I’m me and I’m just difficult that way.

No. Really I asked because so much of my work is with people…people who are already fragile….people who are all important…people I would never want to lose a hold of or drop or, God forbid, break in any way, shape, or form.

“What if they’re all glass?” I asked.

“Then you are in extremis,” I was told. “You are over activated. You are in fight or flight mode.

If all the balls feel like glass then you need to stop…stop juggling altogether. When everything feels like glass then you need to put it all down and allow your nervous system to reset. Only then, when you are calm enough to think straight, should you attempt to pick any of the balls back up at all.”

It’s good advice. And I have to tell you, I’ve been thinking about that analogy a lot these days because for many of us, life - even on a good day - already feels like a lot to manage.

We’re out here juggling work and family on top of our own mental health and physical wellbeing. We’re trying to stay on top of bills and save for retirement while also working on our souls and trying to save the world.

I mean just basic adulting, even when you feel like the people around you and above you are doing their best to build a society where we can all work on these things together, involves keeping a lot of balls in the air.

And that’s before you add on any of the extra but to be expected challenges that come with being human: like living with a disability or losing your job, navigating an illness or grieving a loved one. Just being human is hard.

But nowadays, forget juggling…I’m just trying to catch whatever I can before it all comes crashing down.  I don’t need to tell you that everything feels fragile right now - from our democracy to our planet to our future.

It’s all too much.

And I really want you to hear me when I say that - It’s all too much - because I know you folks and I don’t want you to blame yourself for feeling like you can’t handle all of this. I don’t want you to think it feels like too much because you’re weak or too emotional, lazy or disorganized, misinformed or somehow doing this wrong.

No. That is not what’s going on here. We are being intentionally inundated with more than anyone can handle in the hopes that we will shut down.

Cruel and chaotic announcements, actions, and attempts at policy are raining down from on high at a dizzying pace, and it is taking a toll on us.

Your nervous system is not lying to you. That’s the bad news.

The good news - and the reason I am so thankful for our faith, our church, and this time with you - is that Lent is a perfect time for us to stop, lay it all down, and allow our nervous systems to re-set before we decide how to proceed.

It is a perfect time, because Lent is all about prayer and introspection, silence and solitude, quieting all the chatter so you can hear yourself think again, quieting all the outside voices so you can hear the still small voice of God again.

Lent invites us to slow down and say no to what isn’t serving us so we can say yes to what is meant for us.

Slow down so we can take a good hard look at how we are living our one wild and precious life and ask if this is it, if this is right, if this is who we are called to be, how we are supposed to feel, what we are meant to do…

or…

if there is maybe something more… something else… another way to live, move, and have our being in this world.

This is why Lent always begins with Ash Wednesday and with this story of Jesus enduring…maybe even enjoying (where my introverts at?) … 40 days of silence and solitude in the wilderness. 40 days of quiet before Satan shows up at the very end to tempt him away from his true calling.

If you missed the ashes, don’t stress. I’m going to catch you up because I think the ritual of Ash Wednesday actually holds the key to understanding what is really at stake, not just in today’s story, but in today’s world.

For anyone who needs a re-cap, this past Wednesday we gathered up at St. Johns and humbly smeared ashes on our foreheads to remind ourselves that we are dust: fragile and fallible, mortal and sinful.

“Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

But as each minister spoke those words, we used the ashes to form a cross on each person’s forehead to remind us that we are not just dust and matter, but dust of great matter to God.

In the words of Cameron Trimble, on Ash Wednesday, “No one gets to pretend they are more than human, and no one gets to declare another less…” than…human.

“The mark is strange,” she writes, “because it refuses both despair and arrogance. It does not flatter us, but it also does not degrade us. (Instead) it tells the truth about us: we are temporary and sacred at the same time.”

I love leaning into that paradox on Ash Wednesday and meditating on the fact that in the end - you and I - we’re really nothing but dirt. But in the present this dirt you see before you looks and sounds, lives and loves the way it does because just like you, I was molded by the hands of a loving Creator.

You are animated by the very breath of the Divine. We are all imprinted with the very image of God such that you and I and everyone we will ever meet… is holy.

“To deny someone’s dignity is not just (an act of) political harm, then,” says Cameron Trimble, “but a theological error. It is a lie about what a human being is.”

And that my friends is the key I want you to carry into this morning’s story and the truth that can make our Lent not just holy but powerful.

Turning to the scripture, let me just say that typically, when we read this story, we focus most of our attention on the temptations themselves. And there is nothing wrong with that.

Each is important in its own way and I could absolutely preach a sermon about any one of these temptations or all three because frankly they are all staring us in the face as live possibilities right now.

We could talk about the temptation to turn stone into bread and consider how easy it would be to stop, lay it all down, tune out all the bad news that is overwhelming us right now and use our energy to focus solely on our own needs. We could turn these stones - all the hard thing we are experiencing - into bread for no one but ourselves.

But I don’t think any of you are going to do that.

We could consider the temptation to test God and I could use this time to warn us against recklessly throwing ourselves into the fray right now, high on our own supply of self-righteous fury, with the assumption that just because we’re in the right God will protect us.

Definitely don’t do that.

Or we could dig into the final temptation which is all about the lure of power and the assumption that if we just had more of it - or at least more than “they” do - that then we could fix everything and force those we disagree with to do what is right. But you and I both know that power will not save us.

Spoiler alert: only love can do that. (But I’m getting ahead of myself and the story.)

Honestly, we could talk about any of these temptations at length, but something jumped out at me during Bible Study this week and I’ve come to see it as the biggest temptation of all, in part because it appears three times in this short text.

Look back at the scripture. What does Satan say to Jesus? What phrase does he repeat over and over and over again?

“If you are the son of God…”

“If you are the son of God… turn these stone into bread.”

“If you are the son of God… throw yourself down from here.”

“If you are the son of God… bow down before me and I’ll give you the power to do whatever you want.”

“If you are the son of God…”

I think those seven words might well be the most dangerous words he utters - the temptation to end all temptations - because Jesus’ identity as a child of God should never have been in question. It should never have been up for debate. Nor should mine or yours or anyones.

There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Jesus was God’s beloved child and so am I and so are you and so is everyone we will ever meet regardless of what they do for work or where they were born or who they voted for or what they believe.

Every last one of of us is a child of God.

“Remembering that will not solve every conflict,” says Cameron Trimble, “but forgetting it has created most of them.”

Every last one of of us is a child of God.

Lent is the perfect time to stop, reset, and remember our belovedness.

Lent is the perfect time to stop, reset, and remember each other’s belovedness.

So my friends, if you haven’t yet thought about what you might do differently over these 40 days, might I suggest that you stop, lay it all down, and then simply consider what makes you feel loved and what helps you love others.

Use this time to notice where the “ifs” creep in.

Double down on any practice that affirms your belovedness, your neighbors, your enemies and let go of anything that compromises your ability to see the image of God in yourself or others.

Because at the end of the day, no one is rubber.

We’re all fragile….we’re all important…we’re all beloved children of God who deserve to be held with care.

Amen.