There’s something about the season of Lent that feels like stepping into a quieter room. The lights dim a little. The noise settles. The pace slows. And suddenly, we can hear things we usually drown out.
We can feel things we usually outrun. We can notice things we usually ignore. Lent is not a season of punishment. It’s not a season where God scowls at us and says, “Look at what you’ve done.”
Lent is a season of returning…a season where God gently places a hand on our shoulder and says, “Come back. Come closer. Come home.”
And that’s why our series is called Come to Me. Because that’s the heartbeat of God throughout Scripture. Not “Try harder.” Not “Be better.” Not “Fix yourself.” But simply, “Come to Me.”
Today, on this first Sunday in Lent, we begin in the wilderness … the place where Jesus was tempted, the place where Israel wandered, the place where our own hearts often feel pulled in a dozen directions.
And we pair that wilderness story with the words of Isaiah, who speaks to people who have wandered far from God and yet are met with mercy, not condemnation.
Before we go any further, let’s hear the story that sets the tone for this season.
(READ MATTHEW 4:1–11 HERE)
Then Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted[a] by the devil. After fasting forty days and forty nights, he was hungry. The tempter came to him and said, “If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become bread.”
Jesus answered, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.’”
Then the devil took him to the holy city and had him stand on the highest point of the temple. “If you are the Son of God,” he said, “throw yourself down. For it is written:
“‘He will command his angels concerning you,
and they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.’”
Jesus answered him, “It is also written: ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’”
Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor. “All this I will give you,” he said, “if you will bow down and worship me.”
Jesus said to him, “Away from me, Satan! For it is written: ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve him only.’”
Then the devil left him, and angels came and attended him.
When we hear that story, it’s easy to imagine the wilderness as some far-off, dramatic place … a desert, a lonely landscape, a spiritual battleground. But the truth is, the wilderness is often much closer than we think.
The wilderness is the place where our real desires surface.
It’s the place where the noise quiets down enough for us to hear the whispers we usually ignore.
It’s the place where the temptations we carry every day finally show themselves.
Matthew tells us that Jesus is led by the Spirit into the wilderness. Not pushed. Not tricked. Not abandoned. Led. The wilderness is not a place God avoids … it’s a place God uses.
And in that wilderness, Jesus faces three temptations. But they’re not the cartoonish temptations we sometimes imagine … a devil with horns offering obviously evil things.
These temptations are subtle. They’re familiar. They’re the kinds of temptations we face every day.
The first temptation is about control. “Turn these stones to bread.” Jesus is hungry. He’s vulnerable. He’s alone.
And the temptation is simple: “Take matters into your own hands. Fix it yourself. You don’t need to wait on God.”
How many times have we felt that pull? “I can handle this.” “I don’t need help.” “I’ll take control.”
The second temptation is about security. “Throw yourself down… God will catch you.” It’s the temptation to force God’s hand. To demand proof. To say, “If you really love me, then show me.”
It’s the temptation to make faith into a transaction instead of a relationship.
And the third temptation is about power. “All these kingdoms I will give you.” It’s the temptation to take shortcuts. To grasp for influence. To choose the easy path instead of the faithful one.
Control. Security. Power. These are not temptations for “bad people.” These are temptations for human people.
They are the everyday pulls that tug at our hearts … the subtle ways we drift from trust into self-reliance, from surrender into striving, from God’s way into our own way.
And before we move on, it’s worth remembering that Matthew … the one who gives us this wilderness story … knew something about seasons of wandering and returning.
Before he ever followed Jesus, Matthew lived in a season defined by compromise. As a tax collector, he was caught between worlds: part of his own community, yet rejected by it; working for Rome, yet never fully belonging there either.
It was a season of identity confusion, a season of moral tension, a season where he had to decide who he would trust and who he would become. And when Jesus walked by and said, “Follow me,” Matthew stepped out of that old season and into a new one.
He knew what it meant to be pulled away … and he knew what it meant to return.
So when Matthew tells us about Jesus in the wilderness, he’s not writing as a distant observer. He’s writing as someone who has lived through his own wilderness and found grace on the other side.
And Jesus faces these temptations not as a superhero, but as a human being. Hungry. Tired. Vulnerable. Just like us.
But here’s the difference: Jesus doesn’t respond with willpower. He responds with trust. He doesn’t say, “I’m strong enough.” He says, “God is enough.”
“I don’t live by bread alone.” “I don’t need to test God.”
“I worship God alone.” Jesus chooses trust over control. Dependence over self-reliance. Faithfulness over shortcuts. And that’s the invitation of Lent — not to be stronger, but to trust deeper.
But the wilderness story is only half of the conversation. If Matthew 4 shows us the pull of temptation, Isaiah 55 shows us the pull of grace. And I want you to hear that invitation in Isaiah’s own words.
(READ ISAIAH 55:6–9 HERE)
Seek the Lord while he may be found;
call on him while he is near.
Let the wicked forsake their ways
and the unrighteous their thoughts.
Let them turn to the Lord, and he will have mercy on them,
and to our God, for he will freely pardon.
“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways,”
declares the Lord.
“As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts.
These words were spoken to people who had wandered far from God … people who had made choices they regretted, people who had trusted in their own strength, people who had chased after other gods and other kingdoms.
And yet, God’s message is not, “Look what you’ve done.” It’s, “Come home.”
God doesn’t say, “Return, and I might forgive you.” God says, “Return, for I will abundantly pardon.”
Not reluctantly pardon. Not minimally pardon. Abundantly.
God’s mercy is not stingy. God’s grace is not rationed. God’s welcome is not conditional. And then Isaiah says something we often misunderstand: “My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.”
We sometimes hear that as God saying, “I’m mysterious. I’m beyond you.”
But in context, God is saying something far more tender: “My mercy is bigger than you think. My forgiveness is deeper than you imagine. My welcome is wider than you expect.”
God’s ways are higher … not to shame us, but to lift us.
Some of us grew up thinking Lent was a season where we beat ourselves up. A season where we focus on how sinful we are. A season where God is disappointed and we’re supposed to feel bad about it.
But that’s not the heart of Lent. Lent is not about guilt. Lent is about alignment. It’s about noticing the places where our hearts have drifted … not so God can scold us, but so God can restore us.
It’s about naming the temptations that pull us away … not so we can feel ashamed, but so we can return to the One who welcomes us. It’s about stepping into the wilderness … not to be tested, but to be transformed.
When Jesus is in the wilderness, he is not alone. The Spirit leads him there. The angels minister to him. God is present even when God feels distant.
And that’s true for us too. Some of us are in wilderness seasons right now and I’ve been pointing these seasons out for a couple weeks now … seasons of uncertainty, seasons of grief, seasons of exhaustion, seasons where we feel pulled in a dozen directions and we’re not sure which way is home.
And Lent whispers to us: “You are not alone in the wilderness. God meets you there.” God meets us in the places where we feel empty.
God meets us in the places where we feel tempted. God meets us in the places where we feel lost. And God doesn’t meet us with condemnation.
God meets us with grace.
Isaiah says, “Seek the Lord.” “Call upon him.” “Return to the Lord.” These are ongoing verbs. They’re not one-and-done. They’re daily invitations.
Because the truth is, we drift daily. We get distracted daily. We chase control daily. We forget God daily.
And so God invites us to return daily. Not with shame. Not with fear. But with honesty.
“God, I’ve been trying to control things again.”
“God, I’ve been relying on my own strength again.”
“God, I’ve been chasing things that don’t satisfy.”
“God, I’m coming back.”
And every time we return, God meets us with mercy.
The first Sunday of Lent is not meant to overwhelm us. It’s meant to awaken us. It’s meant to help us see the subtle ways our hearts drift. It’s meant to help us name the temptations that tug at us.
It’s meant to help us hear the gentle voice of God saying, “Come to Me.” Because the God who calls us into the wilderness is the same God who leads us out.
The God who sees our wandering is the same God who welcomes us home. The God whose ways are higher is the same God whose mercy is deeper.
So what does returning look like for us?
Maybe for you, returning looks like letting go of control … trusting that God is working even when you can’t see it.
Maybe returning looks like slowing down … creating space for prayer, for Scripture, for silence.
Maybe returning looks like confession not to me or anyone here but to yourself and to God … naming the places where you’ve drifted and asking God to realign your heart.
Maybe returning looks like surrender … releasing the things you’ve been gripping too tightly.
Maybe returning looks like simply saying, “God, I’m here. I’m listening.”
Whatever it looks like, the invitation is the same: Come to Me.
Not “Come to Me once you’ve cleaned up your life.”
Not “Come to Me once you’ve figured everything out.”
Not “Come to Me once you’ve proven yourself.” Just… come.
Isaiah says God will “abundantly pardon.” Not reluctantly. Not sparingly. Abundantly. God’s mercy is not a trickle.
It’s a flood.
God’s grace is not a drop. It’s an ocean. God’s welcome is not a whisper. It’s a shout. And that’s the good news of Lent … not that we return perfectly, but that God receives us generously.
As we begin this season, hear the invitation of Jesus in the wilderness. Hear the invitation of Isaiah to a wandering people. Hear the invitation of God to your own heart. Come to Me.
Come when you’re tired. Come when you’re tempted. Come when you’re wandering. Come when you’re weary. Come when you’re ready to return.
Come to Me — not because you have it all together, but because I do.
Come to Me — not because you’re strong, but because I am.
Come to Me — not because you’re perfect, but because you’re loved.
This is the invitation of Lent. This is the invitation of grace. This is the invitation of God.
Come to Me.
Amen.
