Nic at Night, John 3:1-17

March 20, 2011
Highlands UMC
John 3:1-17

The Gospel of John sometimes reads like
the United Methodist Book of Discipline
crossed with Shakespeare –
like a committee whose membership changed over the years
and continually revisited what had been written down before,
was charged with explaining who Jesus was and is,
and then every other chapter
they got the really wordy member of the group
to write down some long, drawn-out soliloquy
with philosophical and mystical implications.
I mean, who knows,
it’s possible that’s how it happened.

Today’s text is like that:
I must have read it a hundred times this week,
just to try to get a handle on what it’s about,
and I still feel like it’s about 6 different things.
Maybe more.

And then, in the midst of a monologue,
Jesus speaks the words that millions have seized on
as the essence of the gospel,
the good news that “God so loved the world,”
and that eternal life is available
by believing in the only-begotten one.

Some of you, I know,
find that verse meaningful and comforting.
Others, perhaps many others,
get kind of squirmy or irritable
when you hear or see references to John 3:16,
maybe because of what it says,
but probably more so because of how it’s been used.

I hope you brought your theological waders,
because it might get a little deep in here today,
and more than a little messy.

So last week we kicked off Lent (as usual)
with Jesus going into the desert to face his temptations. 
This year, the bulk of Lent – weeks 2, 3, 4, 5 –
brings us stories from the Fourth Gospel
about people who encounter Jesus in different settings,
and the various ways they respond to him:
from Nicodemus in the dead of night
to the outcast Samaritan woman
at the well in the middle of the day;
on to the Pharisees wanting answers
about the man born blind
and finally Mary and Martha in their grief
over their brother Lazarus’s death.
Each of these stories –
and the following conversations and monologues by Jesus –
can be seen as answering the question,
What does it mean to meet Jesus,
to know him truly,
to embrace the way he reveals God’s work in the world,
into our lives? 
Of the characters in these stories,
Nicodemus is neither the most villainous
nor the most saintly.

He is unusual in that he comes to Jesus by night.
Not much else happens by night in the gospels,
until we get to the garden of Gethsemane,
where the crowd, led by Judas,
comes to arrest Jesus while he’s praying…

One of the preachers whose comments I read
in preparing to preach this week
describes the scene as Gospel noir –
Just like in those old movies,
it’s a dark & stormy night,
and Jesus is just getting home from a long day
teaching and performing signs and wonders.
Nicodemus is waiting in an alley doorway,
fedora lowered and trenchcoat collar raised.
As Jesus reaches the door of the house where he’s staying,
Nic steps out of the shadows to offer a seemingly casual
but coded
observation:
“You seem to be a stand-up guy,
a teacher who has come from God;
maybe you’re the kind of man
who should be part of the organization I represent.” 

“You don’t know the half of it,” replies Jesus. 
“The organization I’m part of
requires a whole other set of qualifications than yours.
First of all, that you start from scratch.
Not just as an apprentice scholar or teacher’s assistant,
but as an infant, being born all over again.” 

“What are you talking about?
You think grown men like us get second chances?
You trying to say we get to crawl
back inside our mother’s bodies
and come out brand-spankin’-new?
Not likely.”

Okay, I’m throwing some interpretation onto the dialogue here,
because to read it straight makes it sound like
Jesus answers a question Nicodemus didn’t ask,
and then doesn’t answer the questions he does ask.
Which, now that I think about it,
actually does kind of sound like Jesus.

And we can’t tell from the text
exactly why Nicodemus has waited until darkness
to approach Jesus;
perhaps he’s afraid of what other members of the Sanhedrin,
the council of leaders, would think
if they saw him associating with the upstart from Nazareth;
perhaps he doesn’t want anyone to know
that he doesn’t have everything all figured out,
and is still asking questions;
perhaps he is trying to gather dirt on Jesus
to trip him up later in public,
or maybe he just can’t get these questions out of his head
and goes to see the famous Rabbi
when his racing thoughts won’t let him sleep.
The timing doesn’t reflect very well on him;
in this Gospel, including the 4 verses
right after the end of today’s reading,
Jesus uses light and darkness as symbols
of those whose lives are in tune with God’s intention,
on the one hand,
and those who are at cross-purposes with God.
Nicodemus does show up twice more in this Gospel,
both times more or less as an ally of Jesus,
but not quite as a wholehearted disciple,
or someone who “gets” who Jesus is.
He seems to be a man stuck on the fence,
hesitant, uncertain, weighing the possibilities,
full of questions, trying to figure things out
without saying anything too definitive
or controversial.
Maybe he’s a little like you and me.

And although the words themselves don’t seem to connect,
I have to believe that Jesus is not pulling off
a total non-sequitur
when he responds to Nicodemus’s compliment
with an obscure statement on what it takes
to see the kingdom of God.

The language Jesus uses,
about being born from above, or born again –
both are legitimate meanings of the Greek word
anothen –
is confusing to Nicodemus,
and perhaps all too familiar to us 2000 years later.
It is a phrase that doesn’t make much sense
the first time you hear it, out of context;
but today it is a catchphrase
for a certain branch of Christianity,
the criterion, according to some,
to know who’s in
and who’s out.
Those who call themselves “born-again Christians,”
or at least those who claim to speak for them,
are often the same ones who lift up verses 16 and following
to explain why everyone needs Jesus
to avoid eternal damnation.
Some claim the name “evangelical,” others “fundamentalist,”
while others might not care for the labels,
but know they are included
and others are excluded.

Over the past month,
there has been a theological firestorm in cyberspace,
as a prominent evangelical leader,
one Rob Bell, pastor of Mars Hill Church,
announced the release of his new book,
called Love Wins: A Book About Heaven, Hell,
and the Fate of Every Person Who Ever Lived.
And the people who thought he was one of them,
people who call themselves evangelicals,
conservatives, Bible-believing, born-again Christians,
are calling him a heretic.
Because he implies that there might be some people in heaven
that Christians don’t expect to see there.
Because he suggests that God loves
not just the worthy, not just the baptized,
not just the linear, logical, literal, or law-abiding,
not just the church-attending, Bible-reading,
educated, successful, middle-class American Christians,
but the world
the whole entire world
and what’s more,
that it isn’t up to us to say who gets into heaven or not,
it’s up to God.

Well, we could have a whole other discussion on heaven,
on what happens after death,
but I think some of you have lunch plans!
But it’s very interesting to me
that the act of saying,
“We humans don’t know who’s in and who’s out,
so we should leave that whole question to God,
who by the way, loves everyone,”
has provoked such a reaction,
such a widespread response of,
“You’re wrong.
We do know who’s in and who’s out,
and by questioning the rules,
you are now out.”

So let’s come back to Nicodemus
and his midnight chat with Jesus.

Did you know that at night,
when there’s very little light,
the reason you can’t see much color
is that the “cone photoreceptors” in your eyes,
which are responsible for distinguishing
the different wavelengths of visible light
that create color perception,
don’t function very well,
and the monochromatic “rod” receptors take over.
So, in the darkness,
pretty much everything seems black and white.
Houses, people,
old TV shows,
theological questions—
you name it,
it’s harder to see the complexities that make up
the beauty of our world
when we come at something
without enough light.

It’s not clear what Nicodemus believes,
or what relationship he ends up having with Jesus,
if any,
but it seems to me
that asking questions is a good place to start.
If we don’t ask, we don’t learn as much.
And yes, we risk looking foolish,
or getting an answer (or non-answer)
we didn’t really want,
but it’s at least the start of a journey.
And when Jesus responds to the questions
by saying, “Are you a teacher, and yet you don’t understand?”
I have to admit,
I find myself shrugging and nodding sheepishly
along with Nicodemus.

But what I think I hear Jesus saying is,
“The Spirit blows where it chooses,
and you don’t know its origin or destination –
and nor can you control it.
Entering God’s kin’dom,
the reign of God’s love, the life abundant,
the heavenly realm just the other side of the veil,
doesn’t require being a teacher with all the answers.
You have to be born of the Spirit,
and guess what?
You don’t get to control that either.
God loves the world.
Not just Israel,
not just the ones who follow all the rules,
but this same world that seems hell-bent
on opposing God’s will for love and justice and mercy.”

In the same story that some have used
to say, “Answer this question
so we know whether you’re in or out,”
Jesus seems to be saying,
“It’s not about knowing who’s in and who’s out!”
Jesus’ mission isn’t about judgment and condemnation,
it’s about bringing more light
to the human race,
light enough to see the image of God
in our sisters and brothers,
light enough to distinguish more than black and white,
light enough to see all the colors of the rainbow,
all the nuances of story and parable and metaphor,
all the possibilities of relationship
with God and with our neighbor,
all the ways in which we are all included
in the circle of God’s love.

And what does it take for that to happen for each of us?
We have to be born again.
Born anew.
Born from above,
by water – the waters of physical birth,
the waters of baptism –
and the Spirit.
But I don’t think that’s a one-time deal,
like a lightning strike you have to sit around
waiting for it to happen to you,
and then you can check it off your list.
Although some of us experience flashes of insight,
moments of assurance,
perhaps even the feeling of having your heart
strangely warmed,
as John Wesley did,
I think even John Wesley would say
that the new birth is part of a continual, lifelong process.

Because it turns out that in this gospel,
the phrase “eternal life”
doesn’t mean “unending life after death”;
it doesn’t seem to be about
“where you go when you die,”
but it is about participating in God’s abundant life
here and now –
bringing God’s kin’dom to reality,
bringing heaven to earth.
That’s why we have to be born from above,
to begin our spiritual lives at the beginning—
to open ourselves to relationship with the Holy,
to say yes to God’s grace.
I love this definition of grace from Richard Heitzenrater,
a Wesley scholar from Duke Divinity School:
“'Grace is what God is doing
at the depths of your life
by the power of the Holy Spirit.'

Being born from above
is letting the Holy Spirit do
what God wants done
at the depths of our life."*
We don’t have to understand that logically
to say yes to the invitation.
We don’t have to know
whether others have already gotten there,
or threaten them with eternal torment
to invite them to join us in the grand adventure.
We only have to look to the one
who dedicated his life to proclaiming the love of God
who was lifted up in shame and punishment
only to reveal that the kingdom of God,
life eternal and abundant,
the power of God’s love at work in the world
is greater than all the powers of fear and death
that hold us captive.

If you have caught even a glimpse
of the kingdom of God,
you have already been born from above.
If you long to find a chance to start over,
if you have more questions than answers,
if you are seeking a connection
with the God who loves and seeks to save this world,
you have come to the right place.
God will meet you here –
and not only here,
but throughout your whole crazy,
beautiful life,
to work within you,
to bring about the new birth,
to draw you into the light of the kin’dom.
May it be so for you and for me.
Amen.