"Imagining Nicodemus"

Lent 2, Year A / John 3:1-17

The Rev. Arianne R. Weeks

Church of the Good Shepherd

Jesus said, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above."  Nicodemus said to him, "How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother's womb and be born?" John 3:3-4 

Once there was a boy; he was a first-born doted upon and loved.  His family was very devout, more so than most and he slid effortlessly into the rhythms of such a faithful household.  Prayers, regular worship, singing together - all of it was in the fabric of his life from the moment he was born.

When he was in what we’d call elementary school he began his studies of the Torah.  The children didn’t read scripture of course, but would commit to memory what their teachers read aloud.  This boy had a knack for memorization.  It wasn’t that he had special tricks for doing so it was just that the words resonated with something deep within him and memorizing came easy.  The prose and the poetry struck a chord and poured forth effortlessly as if already written on his heart.

So it was clear to him and everyone else that he was destined for the religious life.  Should he become an Essene – someone who lived the life of a monastic out in the desert adhering to strict laws and purity codes?   No, that did not fit this gregarious child.  Maybe a Sadducee?  No, they were too elitist and kept their distance from the common folk.  But this boy was the common folk, and he loved being with people – he loved praying and singing together.  He loved the festivals and the solemn assemblies.

And inside, although he never shared this with anyone, he loved the feeling that washed over him when said his prayers, completed religious tasks, and recited those scripture stories.  For he did these things out of pure love and desire to bask in the presence of God and feel his loving hand.

So a Pharisee he did become.  Continuing the rich oral tradition of teaching the law of Moses that pointed towards the coming of a Messiah.  His congregation was well-known for their songs, and prayers and right ways of worship.  And as the numbers grew he was sure his approval rating in righteousness did as well.   

Now, don’t get me wrong, this priest was sincere and authentic.  But in adulthood, the simplicity and eagerness with which he engaged his religion changed.  He noticed himself critiquing those around him who made mistakes.  Who stumbled over their words in proclamation or forgot the proper postures for prayer.  His patience grew short and his temper more quickly flared.  It was hard to sit still with one person and simply listen when there was so much busyness to tend to.

Sometimes he sat in worship, his body going through the motions – but his head somewhere else entirely.  Running down the long list of appointments he had to keep.  Worrying about the new congregation down the street – they had just called a much younger rabbi (who was rumored to be a great preacher).  Or rehearsing the chastising awaiting his children who spent far too much time playing and not nearly enough memorizing sacred texts.  Didn’t they understand who their father was?

And inside, although he didn’t share this with anyone, he was finding that the seasonal observances of faith – the specific prayers on the specific days – the solemn assemblies and days of fasting – were all beginning to feel like a matter of course – year in and year out, giving up this and taking on that – what was the point?  The fervor he had as a child was gone.  The practices felt as religiously exciting as other daily duties – like brushing his teeth. 

You see, what had once been a pure desire to simply bask in the holy light and loving hand of God had gotten confused with a faith that was supposed to earn its righteousness, through accomplishments and achievements, far too often based on needless comparisons with those around him.  He had grown blind to the words of blessing that were still written on his heart.  His vision now clouded by the benchmarks of the world.

One afternoon the rabbi went to visit with a widow.  She had three sons and so was well-provided for.  In fact the weekend past, she had accompanied one son and his family to a wedding.  It had been quite the party she shared with the rabbi (he probably would have disapproved – far too much cavorting).  And the strangest thing had happened.  One of the reasons the party was such fun was that the wine was really flowing – but – the host had underestimated the tolerance of his guests – and they ran out.

At the widow’s table, she said, there was a rabbi.  And when the servants mentioned to him that there was only water left in the jugs – he told them to go back and take a second look.  And apparently, they had been wrong the first time.  For all the jugs were filled with wine – and not just any wine – but the good stuff.  The kind you’re supposed to serve at the beginning before everyone is drunk.  The rabbi at her table didn’t explain anything about it – but the men who were sitting around him wouldn’t stop talking about it and said this was a sign - of glory to come.

Our rabbi told his parishioner that this seemed to him a rather silly story; but, inside, something struck a chord.

And in the coming days the stories of this other rabbi kept popping up. In pastoral visits, when with his colleagues, even his wife mentioned something.   So finally, the rabbi decided he needed to meet this guy for himself.  What could it hurt?

Well, it might hurt he thought, if someone saw the rabbi of the largest congregation meeting with an itinerant teacher with just a few followers.  So, he went out at night, on the sly – hoping the darkness might keep his actions from even God’s eyes.

He met with the teacher and just talked.  And for our rabbi, the conversation was strange.  He tried at first to compliment the teacher, hoping to get his approval, but that didn’t seem to work.  So he asked what he thought was a straightforward question, but failed to get a straightforward – let alone what he thought was the right answer.

Now maybe it was because it was late and he was tired.  Or maybe it was because he was so tired of what his faith had become – our rabbi decided he would be open to the words of this teacher.  The strange phrases and metaphors didn’t make sense but he wasn’t going to dismiss them outright.  

For in between there were words he did understand.  God loves.  God gives.  God saves.  And as he walked home mulling over sacred conversation, repeating those words over and over – God loves.  God gives.  God saves – his sight began to clear.  And forgotten words of belovededness poured into and out of his heart.

From that night on, the rabbi changed his strict observances.  He decided to fast from worrying about the perfection of his practices; and feast on spending more time with his children.  He fasted from words of criticism and critique and feasted on speaking words of gratitude.  He fasted from always comparing himself to others and feasted on thanking God for the gifts he had been given to share. 

The rabbi took a lifelong fast from worrying about what each day would bring and feasted on starting each day anew – wondering how God through him might share holy blessings. 

Indeed, having regained the vision he had as a child our rabbi felt born again.  Once more seeing the world as if it was already God’s kingdom – filled with the divine light and touched and held in the hand of the Almighty.  Amen.