March 20, 2011

Lent is a season when we are encouraged to examine our faith with perhaps more seriousness than at other times of the year. It is an opportunity for us to reflect on where we stand with God, to seek ways of deepening our relationship with Christ. All of our lessons encourage us, in different ways, to do just that. We are given two very different stories, the familiar stories of Abraham and Nicodemus. They challenge us to reflect on how we approach God, and how we respond when God approaches us.

We make a rather abrupt change in the lectionary with today’s readings. We shifted from the gospel of Matthew, which we are reading for most of this year, to the gospel of John, which we will read for the remaining Sundays of Lent and during the season of Easter, as well. In the Hebrew Bible, we heard the story of Abraham’s call and the beginning of his journey from his homeland, to the place God promised would be his.

Before engaging today’s gospel directly, it’s important to make clear a couple of things about the gospel of John. First of all, John is organized very differently than the synoptic gospels, and secondly, the image of Jesus that emerges from John is significantly different from the Jesus that is portrayed in Matthew, Mark, and Luke. The synoptics share a very general framework in which Jesus is baptized, he teaches in Galilee, and then eventually begins a journey that will take him to Jerusalem and his final confrontation with the roman authorities. John’s gospel is different in that Jesus makes a number of trips to Jerusalem and his teaching and healing ministry occurs throughout the gospel. The second important point to note is that in John, it is clear that Jesus knows exactly who he is, why he has come to earth, and what his ultimate fate will be. Such knowledge, while it may be implied in the synoptic gospels, is never clearly stated.

It is probably the case that John was written after the other gospels, toward the end of the first century and was written in a rather different context. It seems to be that the gospel writer is projecting back on to the events of Jesus’ life, conflicts and debates that were taking place in his community and especially with the Jewish community from which it emerged. That explains some, though not all, of the virulent anti-Judaism that emerges in John, especially in the passion narrative. It also explains the way in which such incidents, like the one we have before us today, is deftly written to make a point, not only about Jesus, but about some of the ways in which people responded to Jesus’ message.

In the gospel we heard, Nicodemus comes to Jesus full of curiosity. He knows that Jesus is capable of great things, of miracles, or signs, as the gospel writer calls them. But he’s not sure what those signs mean. So he approaches Jesus to get more information. What emerges from that encounter are some of the most familiar, and most influential of Jesus’ sayings.

To get at the heart of this complex story, we must begin with Nicodemus himself. He is identified as a Pharisee, as a leader of the Jews. He comes to Jesus by night and makes an observation, perhaps even a confession. Addressing him as rabbi, teacher, Nicodemus observes that Jesus must come from God, because that is the only possible explanation for the signs that Jesus has performed. In other words, Nicodemus is seeking information, perhaps he even hopes to understand who Jesus is. Perhaps he is open to the possibility of coming to faith in Jesus. But note two things. He came by night, not by the light of day, and he didn’t ask Jesus a question; rather he made a statement.

Jesus’ response is something of a non sequitur. Nothing he says follows from what Nicodemus says. And what he says isn’t clear at all. Oh, we’ve all heard people quote Jesus’ words to us, “You must be born again.” But if you look at the gospel text we heard, you will see that it is translated, “You must be born from above.” The reason for the discrepancy is not that the people who translated our New Testament hated evangelicals. Rather, the Greek word is ambiguous. Indeed, it can either mean “anew” or “from above.” Nicodemus responds in a curious manner. He doesn’t ask for clarification; he doesn’t ask Jesus what he means. He assumes he knows what Jesus means and takes it for nonsense.

What’s going on here is something that is quite typical for John’s gospel. There is an encounter between Jesus and someone else. The encounter is used as a pretext for Jesus’ making some important, even grandiose statements about himself, and in the course of the encounter, Jesus’ dialogue partner either comes to faith, or goes away empty-handed. In this case, it’s not clear what happens, because suddenly Nicodemus vanishes from the scene. We will see him again only after the resurrection when he is identified as a secret disciple of Jesus and is involved in caring for Jesus’ body.

One of the key elements in this story is the way the encounter begins. Nicodemus approaches Jesus with his mind made up. He calls him rabbi, and he asserts that Jesus must come from God, because of the signs he is able to work. One way of putting it—Nicodemus wants to take Jesus on his own terms. But Jesus will have none of it. A logical reply to Nicodemus would be either, yes, you are absolutely right, or no, you are completely wrong. Instead, Jesus shifts the ground. He introduces some new ideas, and throws Nicodemus off balance.

Jesus’ words to Nicodemus are a warning, and a challenge, to us, especially when we are seeking certainty. “The wind blows where it chooses and you hear the sound of it, but you do not where it comes from or where it goes.” Jesus is saying two things here. First, he is making the point that life in Christ, life in the Spirit is completely different from ordinary life—that’s what comes out most clearly if we interpret his first reply to Nicodemus as “you must be born from above.” His use of the images of water and spirit stress the same idea. But there is something else here, as well. Nicodemus wants to accept Jesus on his own terms, as a rabbi and teacher, as a worker of miracles, but Jesus is telling him that what matters about him is something different, new and different life, a different way of being in the world.

Now, that’s a place few of us want to be. We want the ground under our feet, we want to be certain of where we stand. We want to have everything figured out. But life, and our Christian faith, is nothing like that. It’s constantly shifting, and changing, unsettling us in so many ways. To be truly open to a life in Christ means allowing Christ to change us in some rather exciting ways.

That’s one of the central elements in the story of Abraham. We heard today the story of his call. The very simplicity and starkness of the narrative in Genesis is un-nerving. The Lord, Yahweh, speaks to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.” The story continues, “So Abram went, as the Lord had told him.” That’s it. God calls, Abram responds.

If you want, we might contrast Abraham with Nicodemus. Jesus says something to Nicodemus that he can’t understand, and instead of accepting it, Nicodemus challenges it. Abraham, on the other hand, says nothing back to God. He simply goes in response to God’s word to him. Now, that is not to say that Abraham has blind faith. Indeed not. If you read the rest of the story, you will learn just how much Abraham talks back to God, indeed, laughs at God. When he’s 100 years old, and God tells him he will have a son, Abraham laughs. When God tells him, he is going to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham bargains with God—Will you spare the city if there are fifty righteous men? Ten? Abraham asks.

Whatever Abraham’s motives to follow God’s call into a new land, it was not blind faith. He struggled with God. His faith was forged through years of uncertainty, testing, and adversity. He has become a model of faith for us, indeed for all three great religions that look to him as a parent—Islam, Judaism, and Christianity. But we should view him, not only as a model of faith, but also as someone, who like us, struggled to believe and wrestled with doubt.

The psalmist asked, “I lift up my eyes to the hills. Where is my help coming from?” To take that question seriously, we should pause twenty or thirty seconds, perhaps several minutes, before reciting the next verse, “my help comes from the Lord.” In that silence resides the life of faith.