First Reading Genesis 12:1–4a
1 Now the LORD said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. 2 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. 3 I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” 4 So Abram went, as the LORD had told him; and Lot went with him.
Psalm Psalm 121
1 I lift up my eyes to the hills; from where is my help to come? 2 My help comes from the LORD, the maker of heaven and earth. 3 The LORD will not let your foot be moved nor will the one who watches over you fall asleep. 4 Behold, the keeper of Israel will neither slumber nor sleep; 5 the LORD watches over you; the LORD is your shade at your right hand; 6 the sun will not strike you by day, nor the moon by night. 7 The LORD will preserve you from all evil and will keep your life. 8 The LORD will watch over your going out and your coming in, from this time forth forevermore.
Second Reading Romans 4:1–5, 13–17
1 What then are we to say was gained by Abraham, our ancestor according to the flesh? 2 For if Abraham was justified by works, he has something to boast about, but not before God. 3 For what does the scripture say? “Abraham believed God, and it was reckoned to him as righteousness.” 4 Now to one who works, wages are not reckoned as a gift but as something due. 5 But to one who without works trusts him who justifies the ungodly, such faith is reckoned as righteousness. 13 For the promise that he would inherit the world did not come to Abraham or to his descendants through the law but through the righteousness of faith. 14 If it is the adherents of the law who are to be the heirs, faith is null and the promise is void. 15 For the law brings wrath; but where there is no law, neither is there violation. 16 For this reason it depends on faith, in order that the promise may rest on grace and be guaranteed to all his descendants, not only to the adherents of the law but also to those who share the faith of Abraham (for he is the father of all of us, 17 as it is written, “I have made you the father of many nations”) — in the presence of the God in whom he believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist.
Gospel John 3:1–17
1 Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. 2 He came to Jesus by night and said to him, “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.” 3 Jesus answered him, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” 4 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?” 5 Jesus answered, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. 6 What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. 7 Do not be astonished that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above.’ 8 The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” 9 Nicodemus said to him, “How can these things be?” 10 Jesus answered him, “Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things? 11 Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. 12 If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? 13 No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. 14 And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, 15 that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. 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. 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.
NICODEMUS, A YOUNG OLD MAN
There are a good number of stories in the Bible that allow the imagination to pull you into the narrative. For example, Abram’s call at age 75, Adam and Eve in the garden, Joseph in Egypt, Daniel in the lion’s den just to name a few. And our gospel reading for this morning could easily be counted among those stories. It’s a storyline we know well and by allowing ourselves the opportunity to be immersed in the account, we can almost see the events as they unfold.
Jesus is well into His 3-year ministry and He has become well known for His teaching, miracles and command of evil spirits. He’s had more than one run in with the religious leaders and many of them are trying to find a way to be rid of this Rabbi. However, not all the religious leader feels the same way. At least one, Nicodemus, is unconvinced that Jesus is a threat. In fact, by examining the story, it appears that Nicodemus is troubled by this Prophet’s teaching and needs to know more. But, like so many others, he fears the wrath of his fellow teachers of the law. So he sets out to seek answers under the cloak of darkness.
It’s getting late in the evening and the last farmer from the most distant field has returned home to his family. The temple police are making their rounds along Jerusalem’s walls and the remaining member of the Sanhedrin has set aside the last legal brief and blew out the seven candles at the entrance of the Sanhedrin’s chambers. As a quiet settles over the city, Nicodemus leaves his quarters. He looks quickly left, then right, and walks out into the night. The first blast of wind hits him around a corner like icicles flying sideways. He jerked his cloak tight.
To anyone passing, this old man, robed with dignity, could be a physician out tending the sick or a scribe returning from a late session of teaching a convert’s family. Lucky for Nicodemus, the night can disguise identity and motive. It can even obscure a man’s hesitant gait. Nicodemus was one of 6,000 Pharisees, the separated ones, the religious elite. He’s also one of seventy who constituted the Sanhedrin that, with the consent of the Romans, shared in the rule of their country. He was a renowned teacher, deferred to for decisions requiring extra wisdom or breadth of experience, and was master of a great fortune; yet, he walked the street, covering his face in his robe, which served for more than merely struggling against the cold. He knew where Jesus was staying.
As Nicodemus nears the house where Jesus is staying, his chest seems like a cave full of crazed bats. What’s so disturbing about this young man, Nicodemus muses? Is it because, unlike the scribes, Jesus doesn’t lay down His main proposition, as a general sends his infantry into the field? Nor does Jesus surround that proposition with quotes from the esteemed rabbis, as a general rings his troops with wings of cavalry. No Jesus’ teaching is different, as one who teaches with authority.
Two men approached at a distance. Nicodemus dashes into an alley and walks even faster. The wind curled under his cloak and he clung more tightly. Is it because of Jesus’ freedom with the law, challenging all, yet not like one of those men-haters who claim a prophetic calling in order to shout cruel things to others? Or is it His eyes — looking at evil and making it wither, looking at obedience and inspiring greater devotion? Or is it the eyes of those Jesus cured, eyes that moments before revealed long vacant halls of rejection and suffering, now lit like two lamps burning in the holy temple?
These are the thoughts that have been keeping Nicodemus awake and tossing every night for a week. He heard the young rabbi teach and saw Him heal people. And old Nicodemus had ducked behind a pillar when the Galilean chased money-changers from the temple, scattering their bowls of coins and sending merchants scampering down the temple steps, chasing their animals. There Jesus stood when they’d all escaped ahead of Him, outlined like a statue, square at the temple’s southern entrance, in His hand the whip of cords dangling limp to the floor. What gave Him such authority? Why did even the temple police withdraw as a pack of wolves that discovered its quarry stronger than expected? Before he knew it, this leader among the people has arrived at his intended destination.
Nicodemus, hesitating, shakes off the last shiver of reluctance and raps at the door. The soft steps inside became louder, and the one who’d chased people from the temple now fills this doorway. But His eyes, that before had invited strangers seemed merciful still and Nicodemus steps out of the dark and into the Light.
Seated comfortably in the house, the Galilean builder waited, His silence being an unspoken question to the white-haired man whose breathing from the long walk was returning to normal. “Rabbi,” he said to Jesus, “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” (v. 2). Nicodemus begins his query the safe way — with God. Make a statement about theology and if Jesus can enlighten you, then it’s almost worth coming; but, if He can’t detect the deeper intent, the question behind the statement, the fear behind the face, then depart quickly to arrive home before the wind blows more bitterly. If Jesus can’t sense the searing heart problem, Nicodemus will dismiss his suspicions about the man’s powers. He’ll return, almost relieved, to his sad, old world, yielding to his original faith as threadbare as it is, assuming that faith can’t do much more for anyone. Jesus answered him, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above” (v. 5).
If Nicodemus was confused in coming, if his perception of Galilee’s prophet was like a balance teetering between fascination and doubt, now his balance didn’t seem able to weigh anything of what Jesus said. The first piece on his mind’s chessboard was taken by the young man as easily as Nicodemus had swept a real chessboard when he taught his son the game. Nicodemus was now in this game to the end.
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?” (v. 4). Nicodemus was old, not just physically old, he’d grown spiritually old. He didn’t catch Jesus’ play on the word that meant both “from above” and “again.” With the continued Roman occupation, his hope for a free Israel had waned. Serving on the Sanhedrin and hearing endless disputes over possessions and power, he lost his broad love for people. As his fortune grew, his compassion for the unfortunate died. Then Tamar died.
Married since she was fifteen and he was seventeen, he always said, “We grew up together.” Now, the wife of his youth, the mother of his children, lay in the family tomb ready for Nicodemus a year after her death to gather her bones into a stone box. Everything seemed old within him — tired, used up. The joints of his very spirit complained in pain. Yet he responded to Jesus. Something burned dimly within him. Something puffed upon that ember of faith inside him and maybe a flame would yet leap up.
Whatever stirred within was akin to his feelings a year and a half ago when John the Baptist moved among the people as a fox through the chickens, chasing everyone off their religious nests, challenging even the best people to humility and repentance. But Herod Antipas had been out to get John and Nicodemus knew he would. Jesus answered, “Very truly, I tell you, 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’ ” (vv. 5-6). Jesus paused. Such a direct and uncompromising challenge hit Nicodemus like a rock from a catapult.
If forced to say so, he’d admit that his faith was crippled, his hope blunted, his love as empty as a pond in a drought. His spirit was numb, his mind paralyzed, and now this young Nazarene simply reached into Nicodemus’s life. More than merely pointing to the aching spot, Jesus laid His hand exactly on the raw and bleeding slice of Nicodemus’s soul and made it burn all the more. A gust of wind rattled the door and Jesus continued, “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit” (v. 9).
Nicodemus’ mind sifted through fragments of thoughts and feelings. I know something’s dead that should come to life within me, but how? How could God breathe into my life? The roads to the past are closed as surely as the gate to Eden’s garden. What wind from God can blow me toward joy again, toward hope and love again? Nicodemus sighed. Jesus had confirmed that Nicodemus was a half-stamped coin, a piece of pottery poorly thrown. But how in God’s world could this ever change?
All humanity experienced birth and growth, aging and death. Sometimes pestilence, famine, or war cut life off prematurely as a knife slicing short the burning rope of time. But, never had it been reversed. Fine to talk about God’s Spirit, but God’s Spirit had never — until then anyway — never turned a tottering, white-haired man to a nimble, black-haired youth. No elderly, shriveled muscles had learned again to play follow-the-leader or hide-and-seek, to leap ditches, to jump from walls, or to annoy merchants by playing tag all morning through the marketplace.
Nicodemus said to him, “How can these things be?” Jesus answered him, “Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?” (vv. 9-10). Nicodemus half-closed his eyes. How could he start over, he who studied the scriptures until his eyes ached? Had he missed something important, the center of Israel’s law, the middle of God’s revelation to the Hebrews? Jesus talked on, but Nicodemus caught only a few words.
In his memory he was unrolling the scroll of the law as a merchant unrolled his rug every morning under his awning. He had placed these texts in his heart years before. With the other students he’d gratefully leaned over the holy scrolls. Now, from the scriptures what is foremost? What is primary in them? What is central that all the rest lead to, as spokes to a hub?
God’s dealings with Israel passed before him: God’s loving offers, Israel’s mistakes, God’s gracious corrections, Israel’s new attempts at obedience that led to other failures. And what of the law he practiced? Was the Pharisees’ minute and careful observing of the law God’s goal for everyone? Was his life’s commitment truly on the trail to God’s kingdom, or was his whole life traveling into a box canyon? Then he caught Jesus’ phrase, “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” (John 3:16). Nicodemus was check-mated in three moves.
He sat like a cobra at the end of a charmer’s pipe. Nicodemus who everyone else considered the capable, the strong, the successful — this Nicodemus had lost, and how wonderful the defeat was. He felt the gentle miracle enfold him as the strong mystery of Jesus’ authority overwhelmed him. Of course he couldn’t force his ideas to fit with Jesus’ teaching. Jesus wasn’t going to change and His message wouldn’t change. Nicodemus sat knee to knee with God’s supreme gift. In a long line of gifts to a stumbling world that didn’t deserve them, now God fulfilled all promises in this Son.
Nicodemus was slow to walk, slow to change, but he left Jesus’ house that night feeling almost as young as he was speechless — as one feels who escapes alive from Herod’s throne room. He’d met a greatness that was disorienting and uncompromising — not uncompromising in anger but in the certainty of God’s love. With his frail, decrepit hope and tattered, routine faith, he left Jesus and walked into the night, but not as he came. The night didn’t seem as dark. He didn’t even think about anyone’s seeing him leave Jesus’ house. Dusk had hushed the land long before, but Nicodemus’s mind swirled with thoughts not about the sundown but of a new dawn.
He’d accept the birth from above. But he needed time, as a prince needs time to assess the damage a storm has caused a province. He’d be awake all night again, not sorting through his doubts, or reliving the lonely agony of Tamar’s death, but sifting through the evening’s conversation, trying to understand better what happened in talking with Jesus.
Ahead in the dim light of a moon no longer obscured, a gust of wind gathered a wave of dust. It set him back a step as it swept down the street. Jesus’ words returned, “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit” (v. 8). The Spirit held much in store for young-old Nicodemus. He’d find changes to make in every direction he turned. Later he would defend Jesus before the Sanhedrin, not well, but he made his start. Finally, he would help Joseph of Arimathea bury Jesus.
No one knows what he thought when Jesus died or if he buried Jesus with or without hope. But perhaps as he placed Jesus in the tomb he prayed that the mighty Spirit that changed an aged, tired, grieving heart to begin to love and hope would again do something wonderful, even with the death of God’s only Son.
Nicodemus’ story is our story. Our Lord Jesus invites everyone to His table, the doubting and the confident, the grieving and the joyful, and the young and the old. Jesus even invites the old young and the young old. Here, while sharing Jesus’ meal, the wind of God’s Spirit blows into our lives. Who knows where it came from? In the short run, who knows where it will take us? In the long run we trust that it will lead us all the way to God.
Amen.