The Temptation of an Illusory Happiness Gospel: Matthew 4:1-11
Fr Jijo Kandamkulathy CMF Claretian Missionaries
The passage of the temptations of Christ is a theological text. Using biblical language and imagery, the author conveys that the whole life of Jesus was a dramatic confrontation between him and the tempter.
The most dramatic of his temptations was on the cross when he cried out to the Father: “My God, my God, why have you deserted me?” (Mk 15:34). These words might sound blasphemous to those who do not understand that at that time, Jesus was praying. He was reciting Psalm 22. As he had done throughout his life, even during the agony he hearkened back to the Scriptures.
Jesus’ answers to the tempter refer to three events of the Exodus: the murmurings of the people for the lack of food and the gift of the manna (Ex 16), the protests for the lack of water (Ex 17), the idolatry represented by the golden calf (Ex 32). Jesus, therefore, relives the history of his people. He is subject to the same temptations and overcomes them. The first: “Order these stones to turn into bread” (vv. 1-4).
In the desert, the Lord said to Moses: “Now I am going to rain down bread from heaven for you…. ‘Each one gathers as much as he could eat. Let no one leave any of it till morning.’ But they did not listen and some of them left it till morning. It bred worms and became foul” (Ex 16:4, 19-20).
It is a typical case to teach his people to control greed. God wanted to rescue them from the frenzy of possession and the desire to accumulate food. He did not succeed: the seduction of the goods of this world is almost unstoppable. It is difficult to settle for the “daily bread” to allow everyone to have enough to live on.
Jesus was tempted to use his ability to produce “bread” for himself. He reacted by referring to Scripture: “One does not live on bread alone but also from everything that comes from the mouth of God” (Dt 8:3).
The only one who considers his life in the light of the word of God is capable of giving the right value to the reality of this world. The goods of this world are not to be despised, destroyed, rejected, but not considered idols. They are fleeting and transient creatures, not absolute reality.
The selfish use of accumulated wealth for oneself, living by the work of others, and squandering in luxury and superfluity, while others lack the necessary things, are behaviors dictated by the evil one.
The second temptation: “Throw yourself down from the pinnacle of the temple” (vv. 5-7). The diabolical proposal is even based on the Bible: “It is written …” says the tempter.
The evil presents itself with an attractive face, assuming a prayerful stance, making use of the same word of God—maybe crippled and so foolishly interpreted—to lead astray.
The ultimate goal of evil is not to cause some moral subsidence, fragility, weakness, but to undermine the relationship with God. This is achieved when in people’s mind doubt creeps in that the Lord does not keep his promises, misses on his word, does not ensure his protection but at crucial moments abandons those who trusted him.
The need “to demand proofs” arises from this doubt. In the desert, the people of Israel, exhausted by thirst, succumbed to this temptation, and exclaimed: “Is the Lord among us or not?” (Ex 17:7). It provoked God by saying: If he is on our side, if he really accompanies us with his love, let him manifest himself by giving us a sign, perform a miracle! Israel challenged God to see if he really loved her.
Even Jesus was subjected to this test but did not budge. Unlike Israel, even in the most dramatic moments of his life, he refused to ask the Father for proof of his love. We give in to this temptation every time we demand from God signs for our benefits.
The third temptation: “All this I will give you if you kneel down and worship me” (vv. 8-11). It is the temptation of power, of domination over others. The choice is between to master and to serve, to compete and to be supportive. One can also use one’s abilities and talents to humiliate those who are less gifted. Those who have power and are rich can serve the poorest and most disadvantaged but can also lord it over them. The greed for power is so overwhelming that even those who are poor are tempted to overpower those weaker than them. Authority is a charism and is God’s gift to the community so that everyone can be in one’s place and feel accomplished. Power instead is evil, even if it is exercised in the name of God. Where dominion is exercised over persons, where people struggle to prevail over others, where someone is forced to kneel or bow down in front of another, the logic of evil is at work there.
Jesus did not lack the talent to emerge, to climb all the steps of the religious and political power. He was intelligent, lucid, courageous, and charmed the crowds. He certainly would have been successful… but on one condition, that he “worshiped Satan”—to comply with the principles of this world, to compete, to resort to the use of force and oppression, to ally with the powerful, and to use their methods. He made the opposite choice: he made himself a servant.
The people of Israel in the desert got tired of their God and worshiped a golden calf: the material idol, the work of human hands. Jesus never bowed down before any idol. He was not seduced by political power, money, the use of weapons, friendship with the great of this world, and proposals of success and glory. He always listened only to the word of the Father. The voice that excites in us the thirst for power that invites to promote the cult of personality is insistent and insidious.
The latter part of the Gospel is an invitation to reconsider our lives and make us aware that privileges are not offered by God but by the tempter. To his children, the Father of Jesus presents only… services humbly rendered to the sisters and brothers.
Indebted to Fr. Armellini SCJ for textual analysis
The Paradox of the Hidden Life: A Meditation on Ash Wednesday Gospel: Matthew 6:1-6, 16-18
Jijo Kandamkulathy CMF Claretian Missionaries
Today, the Church smudges our foreheads with ashes. We walk into the world marked, a public sign of our intent to pray, fast, and give alms. It seems, on the surface, to be a direct contradiction of the Gospel we just heard. Jesus tells us to go into our inner room, to wash our faces, to hide our good deeds. And then the Church says, “Go public with your repentance!”
This is the beautiful, challenging paradox at the heart of our faith and of this holy season. It is a paradox that a shallow faith cannot hold. But for those who are willing to dive deep, it reveals the very heart of God.
The problem Jesus is addressing is not the action itself, but the address of the heart. To whom is your piety directed? Think of it like a letter. If you write a beautiful, heartfelt letter but put the wrong address on the envelope, it will never reach its intended recipient. It may be read by others, it may even be admired, but it will never arrive at its destination. Jesus warns us against misaddressing our lives. The hypocrites, He says, perform their righteousness so that people may see them. They address their prayer, their fasting, their generosity to the gallery of human opinion. And they get exactly what they asked for: the admiration of the crowd. The transaction is complete. They have their reward in full. The envelope, so to speak, is delivered to the wrong house and the contents are spent. There is nothing left for the Father.
This is the great danger of Ash Wednesday. We can wear our ashes like a badge of honor, a spiritual status symbol. We can walk a little slower, sigh a little louder, hoping someone will notice our sacrifice. We can turn this holy season into a performance. And if we do, we have already received our reward: the fleeting satisfaction of being seen as holy. So why the ashes? Why the public ritual?
The ashes are not for others. They are a confession to ourselves and to God. The ashes are our admission that we are not the star of the show. “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” This is the ultimate reality check. It is the one truth that levels every human pretension. When we are dust, we cannot stand on street corners demanding praise. We can only kneel.
The ashes are a public declaration of a hidden truth. They are the visible sign of an invisible commitment. They are like a wedding ring. The ring is a public symbol, but its true meaning is found in the private, faithful love between two people. The ring without the love is just a piece of metal. The ashes without a hidden, contrite heart are just smudged dirt.
Jesus calls us to a threefold discipline that reorients our lives.
Almsgiving is the discipline of the hand. It reminds us that everything we have is a gift, not a possession to be hoarded. When we give in secret, we are practicing the truth that God is the source of all, and we are merely channels of his blessing. We detach our hand from the need for a “thank you” and learn to trust the Father who sees.
Prayer is the discipline of the heart. It is the quiet, stubborn acknowledgment that we cannot save ourselves. Going into your inner room is not just about a physical space; it is about entering the quiet chamber of your soul where only God dwells. It is there, in the silence, away from the noise of the world’s approval, that we are truly known and truly loved. It is there that our hearts are slowly, gently reshaped.
Fasting is the discipline of the body. It is a tangible “no” to our appetites, a small death, so that we can say a louder “yes” to God. When we wash our face and anoint our head, we are declaring that our satisfaction comes not from the food we deny ourselves, but from the God who sustains us. The emptiness in our stomachs becomes a space for God to fill.
This Lent, would encourage us to embrace the paradox. Let the ashes on your forehead be a question mark, not an exclamation point. Let them be a reminder to everyone who sees you—and most importantly, to yourself—that your true work, your true life, is hidden with Christ in God.
Your left hand does not need to know what your right hand is doing because the only audience that matters is the one who sees in secret. The only reward worth seeking is the one that cannot be given by the world: the reward of being fully known and fully loved by the Father, who sees in the darkness of your inner room, who sees in the silence of your fast, who sees in the secrecy of your gift.
And in that secret place, where no one else can see, He is already there, waiting to repay you with the only currency that matters: His own presence, His own life.
There is something profoundly unsettling about today’s Gospel. Not because Jesus overturns the Law—he explicitly denies doing that—but because he deepens it. He takes commandments we thought we understood, commandments we perhaps even prided ourselves on keeping, and shows us their bottomless depths.
“I have not come to annul but to fulfil.”
What does this fulfilment look like? Not a tightening of regulations. Not a more elaborate system of rewards and punishments. No—Jesus fulfils the Law by tracing each commandment back to its origin in the human heart, and then tracing that heart back to its origin in God.
Consider the sixth commandment. We who have never committed adultery breathe easily—until Jesus shows us that adultery begins not in the act but in the look, the fantasy nurtured, the person reduced to an object of consumption. Suddenly, the commandment is no longer a fence around behaviour but a mirror held up to our interior life. And who among us can claim purity here?
This is not moral cruelty. Jesus is not burdening us with impossible standards so that we might despair. Rather, he is revealing the direction of the spiritual life: from the external to the internal, from the letter to the spirit, from the minimum required to the fullness of love.
Notice how each example moves inward. “You have heard… do not kill. But I say… whoever is angry.” “You have heard… do not commit adultery. But I say… whoever looks with lust.” “You have heard… do not break your oath. But I say… let your yes be yes.”
Jesus is not discarding the external commandments. He is showing us where they actually live. The Law was never meant to be merely a code of conduct; it was meant to form a people whose hearts beat in rhythm with God’s own heart. Anger, contempt, lust, deception—these are not violations of separate rules. They are cracks in the very vessel of love that we are called to become.
And here is the most liberating truth: because Jesus traces sin back to its roots in the heart, he also traces holiness back to its roots there. Holiness is not achieved through strenuous acts of self-mutilation—cutting off hands, plucking out eyes. Holiness is received through a transformed heart. And a transformed heart is not our project; it is God’s gift. This is why Jesus can speak so radically about divorce, about oaths, about reconciliation. He is not legislating for a society of sinners; he is describing the life of the Kingdom breaking into our world. In that Kingdom, marriage reflects the faithful covenant of God. Speech needs no reinforcement because trust is complete. Worship flows from hearts already at peace with every brother and sister.
But we live between the times. We are citizens of this Kingdom and yet still residents of a world marked by hardness of heart. The same Jesus who declares God’s original intention for marriage also meets the Samaritan woman at the well, offers living water to one who has had five husbands, and refuses to condemn the woman caught in adultery. The same Jesus who demands truth without oath also receives Peter’s denial with a look of love.
This is the genius of Christian morality. It holds together, without compromise, both the radical demand of the Gospel and the radical mercy of God. The demand reveals our need; the mercy meets us there.
Perhaps this is what it means for Jesus to “fulfil” the Law. He does not merely interpret it correctly; he embodies it. In his own person, he is both the perfect obedience the Law requires and the perfect mercy the Law could never produce. He is the faithful Israelite who never breaks a single commandment, and he is the Good Shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine to find the one who has shattered them all.
And so we approach these difficult words of Jesus not as burdens to carry but as invitations. The invitation to examine our hearts without fear, knowing that the One who searches us is the One who saves us. The invitation to confess that our anger has indeed killed, our looks have indeed objectified, our words have indeed deceived. And the invitation to receive, again and again, the forgiveness that makes possible the new heart we cannot manufacture for ourselves. “Do not think that I have come to annul the Law and the Prophets.”
全属于祢 
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