Nicodemus by night
A sermon by Jamie Howison on John 1:1-17
We’ve just heard a passage from the Gospel according to John that holds two pieces that have had an enormous impact on the church—and perhaps most significantly the church of the past hundred and fifty years. The first is the moment when Jesus says to Nicodemus that in order to see the Kingdom of God he must be “born again”, “born anew” or “born from above,” while the second comes in those famous words from John 3:16: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”
The original Greek for that phrase “born again” is interesting, and is picked up on by the translators of the New Revised Standard Version from which we read this evening. They have opted for “born from above,” which is a legitimate translation to be sure, but perhaps the most direct translation from the Greek is “born anew.” Regardless, there is a very strong sense here that Jesus is challenging Nicodemus to let himself be utterly regenerated by God. Not that he would cease to be Nicodemus, but he would become a new Nicodemus, much as Saul the Pharisee becomes the new Paul in the Book of Acts. He isn’t meant to forget all that he had learned before, but instead to let that knowledge be transformed and renewed in God’s light.
And then there is John 3:16, which has been held up on placards at major sporting events in the United States, as if it is a completely self-evident truth. But that one verse cries out to be followed by John 3:17—“Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him”—and to be heard in the context of the whole passage, because John is telling a story here, and stories can’t be chopped into discreet bits.
So I propose to tell you a story tonight, that is based on what the writer Reynolds Price has called “a serious way of wondering.” For the next few minutes I will imaginatively take up the voice of Nicodemus, on the night that he and Joseph of Arimathea buried the broken body of Jesus, as described in John 19:38-40.
* * * * *
Well, that’s that. I had thought Rabbi Jesus was the one who would help us to transcend all of the divisions in Judea, moving us beyond the petty calls for uprising by the zealots and past the divisions between Pharisee and Sadducee. But that body of his was so broken by the Roman crucifixion when Joseph and I placed it in that burial cave, that it left our hearts in our mouths. It is hard to see someone you thought you could trust—someone you thought you could truly believe—come to such an end. Blame the Romans if you will, but our own temple leaders bear a good deal of responsibility. And so does my own Pharisaic movement.
I had been so very committed to that movement, even as it began to strain in the turmoil with the other Judaean groups. We were, I believed, on the right path in our reading of the torah and our readiness to live lives both devout and open. We were committed to this faith, convinced that the LORD God was blessing us, even in the midst of the Roman rule. We studied, searched for truth through our debates and conversations, embraced ritual purity, tithing, and Sabbath observance. When a leader like Herod claimed for himself a Jewish lineage yet committed appalling transgressions of torah, we knew we could not recognize him as anything but a puppet of Rome. Yes, some of us held a level of political power, but for the most part even they were measured, careful, and prudent.
Or at least they had been. The opposition they held to Rabbi Jesus was striking. I’d heard word of his teachings, his healing of the most desperate of people, even rumours of what can only be called miracles. I could dismiss the miracles, suspend judgement on the rumours of his being a healer, yet what trickled down about his teaching was too striking to be ignored. A Galilean Jew—a peasant at that—with such wisdom seemed beyond remarkable.
So I went to visit him. Late at night, when no one was out on the streets, I went. Just to see and verify that he was indeed a teacher of wisdom. I swear, it was meant to be no more than that.
The place where they were staying was simple, even a bit crude. One of his followers met me at the door, and he looked as he would just bar my entry, but I heard Rabbi Jesus tell him to let me enter. He was resting against the wall, looking as unlike a teacher as I might ever have imagined. Yet one doesn’t know, does one? Remember how wild John the Baptizer looked, yet his words were compelling, moving, and filled with challenge. So I stepped toward him, and as I did I greeted him with honour: “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” Of course I wasn’t so sure that the signs and miracles attributed to him were anything more than rumour, but a polite and generous greeting just seemed… well, it seemed right.
Rabbi Jesus was having none of it, coming right back at me with a statement that has haunted me since: “Very truly, I tell you,” he said, “no one can see the kingdom of God without being born anew.” And having launched our conversation with such a statement, I knew I needed to come back at him in full debate mode. “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” I hoped he could see the delight of debate sparkling in my eyes, but I’ve wondered since if this wasn’t something much more urgent than a simple rabbinical argument.
“Very truly,” he replied, “no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above.’”
He talked about the wind, and how we know not where it comes from, suggesting that someone born of the Spirit was somehow like the wind. Or at least I thought that’s what he meant, but all I could do was blurt out, “How can these things be?” No light dancing in my eyes at that point, I’m sure. Was he mad? Or was I?”
He looked at me with an astonishing clarity, and said simply, “Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?” I was speechless, unable to muster the courage or strength or conviction to even reply.
“You do not receive our testimony,” he said, and then his words seemed to blur one into another for a few moments, the room all but spinning around me. There were just two more sentences that I heard—really and truly heard—and they all but burn in my memory. The room seemed to steady, but all I could focus my attention on were his eyes. Clear eyes, boring right into the depths of my soul.
‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.
And then,
‘Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.
Son of God? Is that what he thinks he is? He must be mad. I stumbled from that room, back into the darkness of the night, pacing the streets until dawn, trying to reconcile what I’d heard with what I’d seen and felt. All of the careful study of my Pharisaic training, all of the diligence of our torah observance, all of the strife we’d experienced with the Sadducees, Zealots, and those apocalyptic Essenes seemed suddenly like so much smoke, so much dust. And what Rabbi Jesus said and did—and yes, there really were healings and even miracles—seemed… well, to hold something of the truth of the LORD God.
Like Joseph of Arimathea, I chose to honour his teaching and all that he seemed to stand for. And like Joseph, tonight I can only weep, afraid it has all been lost in his death
