West Elementary School, Worthington, Minnesota.
When I was a grade-schooler, I took a standardized test of some kind. I can’t remember the name. I do remember that I did poorly, because my mother was upset by the result, and approached my teacher. She suggested that I take the test again, but this time in a study carrel, free of the distractions that (my mother assumed) had brought down my original test score.
She was right. I got a good score, and peace was restored in my achievement-oriented family of origin. I was the first child in the family to present problems like this. It’s not that I wasn’t capable. It’s that I was distracted.
If I had been born in Generation Z, I would likely have been diagnosed with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, Code 314.00, Predominantly Inattentive Presentation. As a 1970s kid, I never took the ADHD test. The tests I did take reassured my parents that I was a smart kid, but mostly they mystified me, because I did not know how to integrate their encouraging results with my own lived experience.
Meanwhile, others around me were failing tests, and some of those tests were administered by me. Back in that grade-school classroom, I remember approaching my teacher during study time and asking her what a word meant. “Why don’t you just look it up?!” she snapped. I sensed immediately that she was tired of me, my questions, my oddness. I couldn’t have imagined then what else might have been upsetting her. Had she just received a frightening diagnosis? Maybe one of her parents had received one. Maybe she fought with her husband that morning. Maybe she forgot to get coffee at the exact right time of the day – a crisis I did not experience personally until many years later.
But – she failed a test in that moment. The test was this: a child comes to you with a question, and because they’re a child, they are dependent on you to respond positively and safely. It may be good pedagogy to encourage the child to find answers on their own. Sometimes you must creatively test a child. But you should not be testy with a child. Today, like that teacher, I am an adult with a vocation that demands kindness and patience from me with children and adults alike. I deeply empathize with her momentary impatience. We all lose patience with others, usually because we’ve lost patience with ourselves. But – she did fail that little test, as I too fail such tests in the graduate course of daily life.
Most of us feel a visceral dislike of tests, of the very idea of a test. Worse, we have trauma memories tied to tests, papers, and exams. We certainly don’t want religion or church to be like a test. I have worked for several congregations who seem allergic to the basic idea that their members might be judged – tested – by God, by one another, by an ancient standard, by anything or anyone. We want to welcome people into the warm embrace of the Holy Three. We want kindness. We want the Eucharistic Table to be inviting: we believe every human person has a seat at this Table, with God’s unconditional love. (And we’re right about that!)
I want to greet everyone who comes in the door with unconditional acceptance. When a newcomer slips out the door before I have a chance to greet them, I reliably feel crestfallen. And I feel a nagging worry: did they think we were unfriendly, or judgy? Maybe they just thought we were weird. (If so, that’s a fair hit.) I try to reassure myself that the role of newcomer is by far the hardest role in parish life, and their need to find the exit is probably more about natural shyness or understandable fatigue than anything else. In all of this, I never want to test anyone, let alone hold anyone in ultimate judgment.
And yet, tests are being administered here, and they’re not just conducted by authority figures like me. For all of our fears about being warm and welcoming, the newcomers test the longtimers. If you’re new here, you’re running tests all the time, as well you should. Is this the right place for you? Did we greet you, but also give you space to breathe? Did we help you find your place in our complicated leaflets and books? Did we say or do anything useful or encouraging in this anxious, dystopian age? Did we catch and correct all the masculine pronouns for God? (Of course, if we did, another newcomer in your pew might give us a failing grade.) Did we clean the restroom? Are we really an authentic church, with a real mission? Do we make a difference? Newcomers test us. They get to tell us, in some ways more than any other subgroup, how well we are really doing.
Baptism candidates and confirmands also test us. This morning we are surrounding a half dozen or so people with prayer as they begin their Lenten journey toward Holy Baptism, Confirmation, or Reception into the Episcopal Church. I encourage everyone here to pray for each of these persons by name, throughout Lent and into Eastertide. You could even send them a card or a letter, encouraging them in their labor alongside you in this vineyard. If you don’t know them, I hope you will help us all pass this most basic, entry-level test: the test that determines whether a quorum of parishioners here care to get to know those who are stepping more deeply into our faith tradition. The frame of “tests” or “testing” can be narrow and negative, but at its best, testing helpfully deepens our spiritual awareness, sharpens our social skills, nurtures our relationships, and sends us more confidently in mission. Healthy tests keep us honest. And honesty helps us be a good community.
And of course we have the example of Jesus himself, who underwent severe testing at the beginning of his ministry, the kind of testing typical of the hero’s journey. The so-called “devil” approaches Jesus in the wilderness — the wilderness is a strict but effective study carrel for testing. The “devil” tempts Jesus with self-gratification, glorious power, and dazzling invincibility. Except the word “tempt” isn’t an accurate translation. The devil actually tests Jesus. The devil holds a yardstick up to Jesus, to take the measure of his fitness for mission and ministry.
And the word “devil” doesn’t quite work, either. ‘Devil’ is an English word descending from the Greek diabolos, like the other English word “diabolical.” But the devil isn’t a red-faced gremlin with horns and a triton. In Hebrew, the word satan means “accuser.” And in the Good News we hear today, the diabolos is more of a test proctor than a demon. We are even invited to imagine the diabolos lurking inside the mind of Jesus himself. He is that voice inside you who says, “Are you really this tough, this good, this clever, this humble?”
All that God creates is good. All created matter is inherently good. The wily serpent in the garden – she is good. The diabolos in the wilderness – he is good. Rough, confrontational, terrible! Prone to distortion and corruption, and something or someone that may have to be overcome! But good. The diabolos simply runs tests to prepare Jesus for his mission. The tests clarify and affirm his character. And this is good.
Think of it this way: the season of Lent is a study carrel where we take all kinds of tests. Lent is a small quiet space with smooth walls and soothing colors where we can concentrate, slow down, breathe, and then, well, take our tests. Some of us forgo dessert or red wine for six weeks every spring not to irritate our already-neurotic relationship with food and drink, but to carve out a solemn little study carrel in our lives so that we can take up the sober, serious, deeper concerns of our spiritual work. Others will add something to form a study carrel during these weeks – more silence, more reading, more SPiN walks, more prayer, or in my case, more intentional and careful attention to other people.
And then, when we take up these Lenten practices, we may discover that several other tests are being administered, whether we knew it or not. People we don’t like often test us. If we treat people differently based on whether we like or dislike them, we can fail both groups, just in different ways. We can fail to challenge the people we like in healthy ways; and we can fail to recognize the image of God in those we find hard to like. But ultimately we can fail to see how we’re projecting our own “stuff” onto both of them, and failing the basic human test of looking beyond our own small selves.
And of course people radically different from us test us. Sometimes they do this by their simple absence: how different and diverse is this community, really? When we look around, can we notice who is not here? We may need six weeks of altered attention and a simpler lifestyle just to gain the eyes to see that.
And finally, there is a test that God administers, the test that all of us pass or fail together. Life can often feel sad and lonely, but Lent is a group activity. We’re packed on Noah’s ark together (Noah’s ark: another study carrel!). We wander the wilderness together. And in this ark, in this school for the faithful, God takes the measure of our strengths and weaknesses. But here’s the Good News: We get a group score. And we are graded not on our performance, but on the performance of Christ himself, the Great Test Taker, the great Teacher, the great Student of truth and reconciliation who stands between us and any judgment that would close the door on our future.
This Lenten season, I hope you can see me waving at you quietly from my own little study carrel across the hall. And be of good cheer: no matter what happens (and much will happen out here in the wilderness), we are all dwelling safely under the shelter of — in the study carrel of — the Most High.
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Preached on the First Sunday in Lent (Year C), March 9, 2025, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.
Deuteronomy 26:1-11
Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16
Romans 10:8b-13
Luke 4:1-13