"Deeply Moved" (John 11:1-44)

Disturbed by a Distant-Seeming Jesus

1   Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. 2 Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. 3 So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” 4 But when Jesus heard it, he said, “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” 5 Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, 6 after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was. …

I’ll confess, this picture of Jesus disturbs me. Having heard that his beloved friend Lazarus is on death’s doorstep, Jesus seems to coolly, distantly weigh his options: go to be with Lazarus and his sisters, or to let his friend die in order to demonstrate God’s power.

This picture of Jesus does not match up with the Jesus I know. This is not the Jesus who is moved to compassion by the sick and the hungry.  Nor is it the Jesus who refuses Satan’s temptation to prove his power.  This is a calculating Jesus who sanctions a suffering friend’s death, and the grief of many other friends besides, all so that he might demonstrate God’s power and strong-arm folks into belief (cf. 11:4, 42, 45).

Now, I’m nearly certain that my own discomfort, my own cognitive dissonance, is missing the point. From the beginning, readers have called John the “spiritual” gospel, recognizing that John seems to take occasional storytelling liberties in order to get to the spirit of who Jesus is. Most commentators also agree that the gospel of John is the last gospel to be written, that much of its material is drawn less from word-for-word memories of Jesus’ short, punchy sayings—“The kingdom of God is near” and “love your enemies” and “do not judge”—and more from the very real but very personal impression that Christ made on John. You could say the gospel of John is more impressionist painting than photograph.

All of this to say, I’m going to let go of my discomfort with this distant, calculating picture of Jesus. I’m going to allow that, like any good storyteller worth his salt, John may be dramatizing events—raising suspense, inviting expectation—in order to highlight what really matters: the glory of God revealed when Jesus encounters Lazarus (John 11:4).

From a Wedding to a Funeral

17   When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days. 18 Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, 19 and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother.

Jesus arrives in Bethany in the middle of what we might call a funeral. It is the fourth day of a seven-day mourning period, known as shiva in the Jewish tradition, where the family remain at home to grieve and are supported by people in the community who come to visit.

What will soon follow will be Jesus’ final sign (or wonder) amid the seven signs that John sprinkles throughout his gospel. I cannot help but wonder if it is more than coincidence that Jesus’ first sign—turning water to wine—happens at a wedding while his last sign happens at a funeral. There is a certain full-circle symmetry in these first and final signs, the first sign taking place at the beginning of a new life, the final sign taking place at the end of a life.

As John is a poetic storyteller, making regular use of symbols and images, I would like to think he’s signaling here that Jesus’ signs span all of life, from the beginning to the end. There is no moment in our life that Jesus’ grace cannot redeem, no moment beyond the transforming power of God’s love. Because as we will see, that is the common denominator of these signs. As with the first sign at the wedding, so with the last that we see here at a funeral: love leads to new life.

The Resurrection: Now or Later?

20 When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. 21 Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. 22 But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” 23 Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” 24 Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.”

In other words, Martha—like many other faithful Judeans—believes in the resurrection. It’s just a matter of timing: the resurrection is not now but at the end of time. When the Judeans talked about resurrection, they were not talking about isolated instances of resuscitation but about a universal event that would take place at the end of history.

What Martha wants is an exception. She wants her brother back now, in the middle of time.

25 Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life.”

Which is sort of like saying, “I am the end of the world.” Or, “history has been completed or fulfilled, in me. Resurrection is here, now, in me.” To be sure, it’s not the literal resurrection that we might envision, where graves are opened and the dead walk out.

Jesus proceeds to explain: “Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, 26 and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” Just what Jesus means here is a mystery for those who read without faith. For us who trust in Jesus, however, the baseline meaning is this: In Christ, life—including the life of those who have died—life goes on. Death is real, but life is more real. Or as Paul puts it vividly in 2 Corinthians 5:4, death is “swallowed up” by life. In Christ, death does not have the final word.

“Do you believe this?” 27 She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

In the other gospels, it is Peter, an eventual church leader, who confesses Jesus as messiah, God’s anointed savior. In the gospel of John, however, we hear this profound confession from the lips of one of his women disciples.

A Spectacle of Grief and Love

28   When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary, and told her privately, “The Teacher is here and is calling for you.” 29 And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. 30 Now Jesus had not yet come to the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. 31 The Jews who were with her in the house, consoling her, saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. 32 When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” 33 When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. 34 He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” 35 Jesus began to weep. 36 So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” …

This Jesus—this Jesus with tears in his eyes, visibly moved by the grief of Mary and others—this Jesus is different from the disturbing picture of Jesus that I perceived at the beginning of today’s scripture, the picture of Jesus coolly calculating what configuration of events would most convincingly demonstrate his power, no matter the suffering of his beloved friend or the grief of many others. This Jesus is wracked by grief. This Jesus cares for the grieving.

When Jesus first hears the news about Lazarus’ illness, he comments, “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory” (John 11:4). I heard that comment as cool and calculating, the words of a man who is in control of everything. Now, however, I’m led to wonder if the gospel of John was not directing our attention (through the words he gave Jesus) toward this culminating moment in the story. In other words, the gospel of John was pointing toward this moment, highlighting that what happens here at the burial site of Lazarus is about God’s glory.

If the glory of God had been simply about God’s power, then Jesus could have walked up to the grieving crowd and said calmly and coolly, maybe even a little smugly, “Go to the grave and see what I’ve just done.” He could have made a spectacle of God’s power.

Instead he weeps. If anything, he makes a spectacle of his grief. He makes a spectacle of God’s love. “See how he loved him!” the crowd says with wonder (John 11:36).

The glory of God is not the brute force or control of the unmoved Mover who sits high above the fray and can do anything he like. The glory of God is a heart broken with love—a love that is stronger than death, as we will see.

The Power of Broken Hearts

38   Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. 39 Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” 40 Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” 41 So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. 42 I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” 43 When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” 44 The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

My experience with funerals has largely been that they are paradoxical. On the one hand, there is a certain anxiety and trepidation with which we sometimes approach them. A person might say about them, “This time tomorrow, it’ll all be over,” as though it’s something to get through. On the other hand, there nearly always seems to be a tender catharsis or release at the funeral itself. If one door has closed—and indeed, in a very real sense, it has—then another door has opened. I’ll often hear later from the family about how a meaningful exchange with someone or even just how a serendipitous encounter with the natural world (a bird, a butterfly, a cloud) imparted to them that their loved one was safe and perhaps even in some way still alive. Ralph Echols, who passed away a few weeks ago, told me that after the passing of his wife Molly, he would say a word or two to her every night along with his prayers to God.

I don’t want to detract from the most immediate meaning of today’s scripture, namely that a dead man emerged from his tomb alive. But Lazarus’ spectacular revival should not be mistaken with the resurrection itself, by which I mean, the resurrection should not be contracted or reduced to one isolated miraculous moment. Lazarus, remember, is human like the rest of us. He would die again; and the second time, his body would be committed to the elements for much longer, just like the rest of us.

No, I do not think Jesus’ sign is meant as a one-time demonstration of some strong-armed God. Rather, I think Jesus is signaling to us—that’s what a “sign” does, right; it “signals”—I think Jesus is signaling to us the power of broken hearts. In Psalm 51, the psalm of David that is regularly recited on Ash Wednesday at the start of Lent, we hear, “The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise” (Ps 51:17). Broken hearts bring us closer to God. In his sermon on the mount, Jesus proclaims, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matt 5:4), indicating that broken-heartedness is what opens us to the care and comfort of God and others. Lazarus’ revival and the joy and wonder that accompanies it, all signal the power of hearts that are broken open—hearts that are moved to tears, like Jesus’, like Martha’s, like Mary’s.

The heart that breaks is open to receive. Conversely, the heart that builds a wall, a defense, may be building its own tomb. It is another gospel paradox. When we avoid our loss—and that may be anything from the death of a loved one or departure of a friend to the end of a career or conclusion of a stage of life—when we avoid our loss, we lose out on the care and comfort that is part of Christ’s resurrection love. When we distract ourselves to avoid the pain, we prolong the pain, pushing it deep under the surface where it may metastasize. But when we accept our apparent losses, whatever they may be, when we allow our heart to break open, we receive the care and comfort of Christ’s resurrection love and discover the loss not to be an absence but a transformed presence. 

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Who is the resurrection and the life,
Inspire us by the spectacle of your grief
…
That we too
May allow our hearts to break open
To receive care and comfort
And to connect genuinely
With others
And with God.
Amen.

"Watch What You Worship" (John 10:10-15)

Of Sheep and Voices

Sheep are notoriously dense and easily distracted creatures. They can be stubborn, deeply set in their ways. I don’t think Jesus uses the metaphor of “sheep” as an insult but as a gentle reminder of our nature, namely that we too are creatures easily distracted and deeply set in our ways.

By referring to himself as “the good shepherd,” Jesus implies that there are other characters in our world—bad shepherds, for example, and others who might not have our best interests at heart. He says as much. There is, for example, the “hired hand” who runs away when the wolf approaches. There is the thief, who cares not for the sheep’s well-being but only for his own.

It’s easy to hear about these characters and immediately externalize them into real-life enemies. But as Paul reminds us, our enemy is not flesh-and-blood but spiritual in nature. Some of the earliest Christians read this scripture and interpreted the thief and the hired hand not to be actual people in their world but rather to be their own selfish impulses toward money or status or security or power (e.g., Origen). The good news according to Jesus is that sheep, for all their thickness, can distinguish between the voices they hear (between his voice and others). This implies that we can be attentive to the voices or impulses within. We can discern which voices are selfish, goading us into quests for possessions, prestige, and power, and which are the voice of Christ, leading us toward connection with God and others. 

Jesus also says that what distinguishes “the good shepherd” from all the other characters is that the good shepherd comes “that [the sheep] may have life, and have it abundantly” (John 10:10), which provides us with a helpful criterion for sorting out voices. Namely, will this voice, which is to say this impulse, lead me (and others) toward the fullness of abundant life? This criterion of abundant life is not too different from the more colloquial, “How’s that working out for you?” that a friend might ask when we’ve made a short-sighted choice that seemed good but is actually turning out rather poorly.

BS

I have heard of an AA group in an in-patient treatment center that welcomes and initiates its new members in a unique ceremony. The initiate enters a room that is bare except for chairs that line the four walls and two chairs facing each other in the center of the room. The chairs along the walls are already filled. One person is sitting in the middle. The other chair in the middle is empty. 

The room is deathly silent as the initiate makes his way toward the empty chair. All heads are bowed; everyone is looking at the ground. When the initiate finally takes his seat in the middle, the person across from him raises his head and looks him evenly in the eye before asking, “What do you love more than anything else?”

Typically the initiate answers with a nervous, uncertain voice. “My wife,” he might say. Suddenly the room around him erupts, as everyone raises their head and shouts, “Bullshit!” Just as quickly, the room falls silent—a silence as serious as death. The host asks again, “What do you love more than anything else?” The initiate may try another variant of his previous answer. “My children?” Again the room erupts with cries of BS. This exchange may continue for another two or three iterations before finally the initiate realizes the truth. Finally, he is defeated—and at the same time, liberated. “What do you love more than anything else?” the host asks, and he answers: “Alcohol.”

This time there is no outburst. Instead everyone stands up silently, forming a line. One by one, they give the initiate a full embrace, as tears stream down the initiate’s eyes.

Everybody Worships

“All we like sheep have gone astray,” laments the prophet Isaiah in a well-known verse of scripture (Isa 53:6). For many of us, our wandering does not take the obvious shape of a single addiction. Instead it is diffused into many little wanderings or distractions. Either way, the principle holds: we are enticed by voices other than the good shepherd’s. 

I’ve heard it said that, on a practical level, there is no such thing as atheism. Which is really to say, “There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.”  What we choose, makes all the difference. There is a story in the Old Testament about the people wandering in the wilderness. Although God has provided manna and water for them, they complain, desiring some of the foods they remember in Egypt. The story ends with a great plague, and many of the Israelites are buried in what become known as “the graves of craving.” A perfect title. Because almost everything in this world that we could worship, will eat us alive. Or as Jesus said, will “steal and kill and destroy” our very souls. Worship money and possessions, and you’ll never have enough. Worship beauty and appearance, and you’ll always feel ugly. Worship power, and you’ll always feel weak and afraid. The tragedy that results is what could be called a living death. The opposite of what the good shepherd has come to bring: life before death, a life stronger than death.

Lent—and Ash Wednesday in particular—is a time for honesty. A time for calling BS on ourselves (only and ever on ourselves). Not so that we retreat to the corner of the room and curl up in a ball of shame, but so that we might stand tall in the center of the room and receive the full embrace and care of the good shepherd. Our honesty today about our limits and our failings invites us to worship the One who will not eat us alive but will instead lay down his life. The One who loves us and will not let us down. The One whose way leads us into Life before we die.

A Betrothal (John 4:1-42)

A Familiar Storyline

Imagine you’re watching a sports movie, and a ragtag team of down-and-out players get clobbered in their first game. Or imagine you’re watching a romantic comedy, and the female lead has just met a man who is the opposite of her in every way. These scenes are so common in our culture that you can guess what’s going to happen next. In the first case, we have an underdog story. The scruffy sports team are going to be whipped into shape, and they’re going to rise from the ashes and win the championship in dramatic fashion. In the second scenario, we have a classic opposites-attract comedy. Through a series of awkward but increasingly endearing encounters, the woman and man are going to fall in love and get married.

Every storytelling culture has familiar plots like these with various cues that indicate to the discerning audience what is going to happen next. In the Old Testament, one of the most cherished storylines tells how a man meets his future wife. There are six essential ingredients to this storyline. To illustrate, I’ll refer to the story of Jacob in the book of Genesis.

First, a man makes a journey to a foreign territory. Jacob, you’ll remember, has fled home to escape his murderous brother, Esau. Second, the man meets a woman at a well. Jacob, you’ll recall, meets Rachel when she comes to a well to water her father’s flock. Third, someone draws water in a gesture of care for the other. Fourth, there is a hurried sharing of news as the woman rushes home to tell of the encounter. In Jacob’s story, Rachel runs to the tell her father, Laban. Fifth, there is a show of hospitality to the traveler, usually an offer of food and lodging. In Jacob’s case, Rachel’s father, Laban, welcomes Jacob to stay for a month. Sixth, and last of all, the man and woman are betrothed with the blessing of the surrounding family or community.

While we’ve looked only at Jacob’s story, there are several others that follow this pattern, most notably the betrothal of Isaac and Rebekah in Genesis 24 and the betrothal of Moses and Zipporah in Exodus 2. (The betrothal of Ruth and Boaz follows a similar pattern, although it makes a few minor adaptations.)

With these six elements of the betrothal-at-a-well storyline fresh in our mind, let’s turn now to this morning’s scripture, John 4:1-42.

A Woman at a Well in Foreign Territory

5 [H]e came to a Samaritan city called Sychar—in other words, Jesus is now in foreign territory—near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. 6 Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon.

In foreign territory, Jesus stops at a well. Is it a coincidence that John tells us it’s Jacob’s well? Could he be inviting his audience to remember what happened long ago when Jacob stopped at a well?

7 A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” 8 (His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.) 9 The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?” (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.) 10 Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.” 11 The woman said to him, “Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? 12 Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?” 13 Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, 14 but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” 15 The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.”

Here we see a twist on the third element of the betrothal-at-a-well storyline. A tired Jesus first asks the Samaritan woman for a drink of water. (Even though John doesn’t make it explicit, I assume she gives Jesus a drink even as they continue their conversation.) The twist comes when Jesus in turn offers the woman water of his own—“living water,” that is, water that will ensure a person never go thirsty again. (We’ll learn in a moment just how spiritually thirsty this woman has been.)

A Mismatch

16 Jesus said to her, “Go, call your husband, and come back.” 17 The woman answered him, “I have no husband.” Jesus said to her, “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband,’ 18 for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband. What you have said is true!”

Traditional interpretation takes a rather dim view of the woman for having five husbands and living now with a man not her husband. But it’s equally possible—especially in that time and place, in that deeply patriarchal society where women were regularly talked about as property and could be divorced at the smallest whim of a displeased husband—it is equally possible that this woman has been severely mistreated and is desperately seeking some security in life. A grown, unmarried woman in the ancient Near East was in a particularly vulnerable position and would likely not be able to provide for herself. I don’t think it would be a stretch to say that this woman is spiritually parched—spiritually thirsty to the point of death, wondering each night how she was going to make it in what seemed like a cruel, unkind world.

19 The woman said to him, “Sir, I see that you are a prophet. 20 Our ancestors worshiped on this mountain, but you say that the place where people must worship is in Jerusalem.” 21 Jesus said to her, “Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. 22 You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews. 23 But the hour is coming and is now here when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father seeks such as these to worship him. 24 God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.” 25 The woman said to him, “I know that Messiah is coming” (who is called Christ). “When he comes, he will proclaim all things to us.” 26 Jesus said to her, “I am he, the one who is speaking to you.”

If this encounter at a well is leading to a betrothal, it cannot be overstated how mismatched this couple is. First, the woman is not quite what you’d call eligible in her culture, as she has been married five times. She has perhaps herself given up on the idea of marriage. Next, she is a Samaritan, which as we see in the preceding verses means she is not only ethnically different than a Judean but religiously different as well, worshiping on a different mountain and with some different traditions. In short, then, she would appear to be ethnically, religiously, and morally disqualified from a betrothal to this man.

Which makes it all the more astounding what Jesus does here. Jesus reveals himself completely—gives himself to this woman in a way he has not given himself to anyone else. This is the first instance in the gospel of John where Jesus reveals himself to be the messiah. And he says it not to his disciples or fellow Judeans but to a foreign “heathen” of ill repute. Thrice disqualified in the eyes of her world, but she is the one to whom Jesus chooses to give himself completely. If we take nothing else from this story, this one point would be enough. Nothing disqualifies us from God’s love. No misdeed, no failure, no habit, no addiction—nothing disqualifies us (or anyone else!) from the advances of Christ, who gives himself completely to us.

Transformed by Love

27 Just then his disciples came. They were astonished that he was speaking with a woman, but no one said, “What do you want?” or, “Why are you speaking with her?” 28 Then the woman left her water jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, 29 “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?” 30 They left the city and were on their way to him. …

If you’ll remember, after the drawing of water comes the hurried sharing of news, which is precisely what we get here. That the Samaritan woman leaves her jar of water suggests just how much of a rush she’s in. She can’t wait to tell others in her town what’s happened to her. (As the CWF group who studied this story on Tuesday pointed out, leaving her jar of water behind may also symbolize that she is leaving behind her old life of despair. She now has water that satisfies.) While many readers take the woman’s proclamation—“Come and see a man who told me everything I’ve ever done!”—as an exclamation of wonder at Jesus’ omniscient or all-knowing character, I’m inclined to think her wonder has more to do with Jesus’ all-accepting character. That is, this man knows everything I’ve ever done and instead of judging and condemning me (as everyone else does), he has given me himself completely. Or in more basic terms: “He loves me!”—rather than “he loves me not.”

A Transfiguration

39 Many Samaritans from that city believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, “He told me everything I have ever done.”

Jesus’ acceptance transforms the Samaritan woman to such an extent that her neighbors look on her with a wonder similar to her own wonder. “How she has changed! How she holds herself, how brightly she beams! Whatever she’s encountered, it must be real. How else would she be so different?” And so they believe too in this incredible love and acceptance—that the messiah would come to them!

As a brief aside, it’s worth noting that today is Transfiguration Sunday. Traditionally we read the scripture where Jesus ascends a mountain with Peter, James, and John, and he is suddenly transformed into a bright, shining figure, his glory completely revealed. But today’s scripture reminds us that Jesus’ glory is not an isolated reality over and against us. It is rather a revelation of all creation’s glory, including our own. John calls Christ the Word, the “logos,” which is to say, Christ is the underlying logic of reality, the pattern of the universe, the fabric in and from and through which we are all woven. He reveals our true nature as beloved, glorious children of God. Thus Paul says, “All of us…seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed [or transfigured] into the same image from one degree of glory to another” (1 Cor 3:21-23). I like how Bernard of Clairvaux, a 12^th-century monk, puts it: “In giving me himself, he [Christ] gave me back myself.” We see this in the Samaritan woman, to whom Jesus gave himself completely—and see how she was transformed—transfigured. How she came to inhabit her true self as a daughter of God.

“…and the Soul Felt Its Worth”

40 So when the Samaritans came to him, they asked him to stay with them, and he stayed there two days.

Here we have the fifth, penultimate element in our betrothal-at-the-well story, the show of hospitality. I imagine much of Jesus’ two days was spent with the Samaritans sitting at tables, breaking bread.

41 And many more believed because of his word. 42 They said to the woman, “It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the Savior of the world.”

The final element of the betrothal-at-the-well story is the betrothal itself. And that’s the one element that seems to be missing. Its absence threatens to undo this entire comparison I’ve been making.

For those who may doubt the case I’ve been trying to make or need a little extra convincing that John intends to portray this scene as a betrothal, I would point out that only verses before today’s scripture (back in John 3:29), Jesus is referred to by John the baptizer as a “bridegroom.” That’s a curious coincidence. And it’s not the only one. In the chapter before that, John 2, Jesus performs the first sign of his ministry. Where? At a wedding.

All of this leads me to believe that a betrothal does take place at the end of today’s scripture. Not a literal betrothal, to be sure, but a spiritual one. “Betrothal” comes from the old English word for “truth,” and it means something like “to be true.” When Christ betroths himself to us, revealing his true self and his desire for us, we learn our own true selves as blessed and beloved children of God. His transfiguration kindles our own.

Or as it is put so beautifully in the Christmas hymn, “O Holy Night”: “Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.” His glory…reveals our own. He appeared…and the soul, finally, felt its worth.

Prayer

God of longing,
Who knows everything we have ever done
And still looks upon us
As the apple of your eye—
Open our hearts to receive and believe
The good news that you love us
As we are
…
May the woman at the well inspire us
To leave behind our old jar of water—
Our old, false self of shame and fear—
And to drink instead
From the living water of your love,
Where our soul knows its worth.
In Christ, whose glory reveals the glory of all creation: Amen.

 

Seeing God's Kingdom (John 3:1-21)

“By Night”

I have a hunch that most major life decisions are made, unofficially at least, at night. Contracts may be signed in the daylight. But before any handshakes are made, the heart must in its own solitude make a critical decision. In any major life decision, the heart must decide to leave behind what it knows.

Sometimes, it’s simply a case of leaving behind less for more: a lesser role at work for a bigger role; a smaller salary for a larger one. Other times, however, it’s a case of leaving behind a community, a place of belonging, a secure way of life. Either way, the heart often makes its deliberations under the cover of night, when it is alone, when there is space to think, when there is freedom to ask questions and consider possibilities. Ask someone how they feel about their job while they’re surrounded by their boss and work colleagues and you’ll likely get a very different answer from what you would hear if you asked them later that night in a quiet kitchen or a deserted bar. And sometimes the heart needs even more cover. Not until we are asleep, sometimes, does it feel free to ask the hard questions and to explore alternatives that might otherwise seem impossible. Hence those sudden awakenings at 3 am, the heart beating fast, having itself stumbled upon the truth that the mind was working so desperately to avoid.

Some people label Nicodemus a coward for visiting Jesus under the cover of night. I have a lot more sympathy for him. I would call him “human.” It’s human to fear what other people will think, to feel the pressure of their judgments. It’s human to weigh heavy decisions privately, away from prying eyes.

“Churchy” People

As a Pharisee curious about Jesus, Nicodemus would have found himself between a rock and a hard place. As you know, the Pharisees were considered experts of the law. The name “Pharisee” derives from a Hebrew word that means “to separate” or “divide.” The word characterizes the Pharisees by their most distinctive behavior, namely dividing between what is good and bad, what is right and wrong, what is lawful and not lawful. In a word, “judging.” The Pharisees were always judging. And they were scrupulous to keep themselves on the side of what was right and lawful, to the point that they would often avoid associating with anyone who might have fallen afoul of the law.

It’s easy to write the Pharisees off as the bad guys -- "those self-righteous hypocrites!" -- but I think we do so at our own risk. They actually serve as helpful mirrors for typical religious behavior. When people refer to certain behaviors of Christians as “churchy,” I think they’re referring to a Pharisaical impulse that is common to all religion: namely, judgment. For reference, dictionaries define “churchy” as “marked by strict conformity or zealous adherence to the [laws] of a church” and consequently marked also by intolerance and narrow-mindedness. Sounds a bit like the Pharisees, doesn’t it?

Anyway, the point is that Nicodemus belongs to a community that is sometimes prone to judge and condemn. If they catch wind that Nicodemus is consorting with the Jesus who just overturned tables in the Temple, the Jesus who quickly makes a name for himself by sharing the same tables as impure and impious “sinners and tax collectors,” then Nicodemus will quickly fall on the wrong side of their judgment. Just like that, he could lose his entire community. His teachers and friends—gone, ashamed of him. Maybe even some of his family.

So he visits Jesus by the cover of night. Not because he is a coward, but because he is human. Afraid, careful…and most importantly, curious about Jesus. His heart has a decision to make. Is it worth leaving behind everything he knows?

Seeing “from Above”

When Nicodemus confesses to Jesus that he knows God is with Jesus, Jesus has a surprising response. He does not commend Nicodemus for getting it right; nor does he acknowledge the truth of Nicodemus’ statement and claim some special privilege for himself. Instead, he makes an invitation: “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above” (John 3:3). In other words, yes, God is with me, and God is with you too—if only you are “born from above,” you will have the eyes to see it. Jesus essentially invites Nicodemus to see the world differently. As God does. “From above.” To do so—to see as Jesus sees, to see as “from above”—will place him on the same plane in which Jesus lives, the kingdom of God itself, not up there in the clouds somewhere, but right here on this very ground.

Nicodemus gets bogged down in the language here. The phrase “from above” is a double entendre that can also mean “again,” which is what Nicodemus hears. When he presents Jesus with the impossibility of getting back in the womb and being born a second time, he also unwittingly presents the gospel of John with a beautiful metaphor that remains to this day. “Born again.” This seeing differently—seeing as “from above”—into which Jesus invites us, is so different from the conventional way of looking at things that it is indeed like being “born again.”

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the most famous conversion experience in the Bible shows us a man (Saul of Tarsus) who is blinded from above and then later has something like scales fall from his eyes (cf. Acts 9:18). How we see the world is crucial to this new life in the kingdom of God.

Seeing Our Sin (Melt into the Sea)

Personally, I believe that Jesus has some sympathy for Nicodemus, who struggles to understand his words. Jesus proceeds to explain this new sight, this being born from above, in terms that Nicodemus would know. He refers to a story in the book of Numbers, when the Israelites have rebelled against God and then a slew of fiery serpents enter their camp and begin to bite them (cf. Num 21:4-9). God tells Moses to create a statue of a serpent and set it on top of a pole, explaining that everyone who looks upon the serpent will be healed. It is a cryptic story at first glance. Serpents are the problem, and…a serpent is the solution? But a closer look suggests that this story directly addresses the situation of a people who are mired in the repetition of hurtful habits. The message of the story seems to be that only when they have looked their own sin and its consequences squarely in the eye will there be healing. A wound can only be healed when it is seen and acknowledged and exposed.

The strange thing is that Jesus then compares himself to that serpent on the pole. Just as Moses lifted the serpent in the wilderness so that people might see their sin and be healed, so Jesus says he himself (“the Son of Man”) must be lifted up. The implication is that when people look upon Jesus crucified, they will see their own sin, their own woundedness, and somehow will be saved.

How? Well, Jesus follows this immediately with one of the most quoted verses of scripture, John 3:16, insisting that all of this flows from God’s saving love. Christ on the cross, refusing to judge and condemn anyone—refusing to condemn the Romans who have crucified him, refusing to condemn the Jewish leaders who have judged and condemned him, refusing to condemn his own followers who have denied and deserted and betrayed him—this nonjudgmental Christ shows us the depths of God’s love as it confronts the worst of humanity’s sin. Jesus ends up on the cross because humanity needs a scapegoat, someone to blame their problems on, someone to judge and condemn. But in Christ on the cross, we see an innocent man scapegoated; we see the error of our sin. And we see it meet a God who refuses to do the same thing, to accuse, to blame, to judge and condemn. What a contrast! The horror of a human blame game that ends in death, met with a God who refuses to play the game, a God whose love is too great for something like judgment and condemnation.

One desert father of the 7^th century, Isaac of Syria, says that the sins of all humanity are like a handful of sand thrown into the ocean when compared to God’s mercy. We see this ocean of God’s mercy in Jesus lifted up, in Christ on the cross, refusing to condemn the Romans or the Jewish leaders or his fickle followers—and not because he’s better than all of them, not in some “I’m taking the higher road” sense, but because his love for all of them is bigger and truer than any of their wrongs or faults. 

God’s Tear upon Our Neck

If you think about it, Moses’ serpent on the pole schtick in the wilderness isn’t so different from the way we sometimes discipline our children. “Go think about what you’ve done.” In other words, consider your wrongdoing, your sin; look it square in the face. See what you’ve done.

Sometimes when my nephew does something that he knows he shouldn’t have done, he literally hides his face—a little bit like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand. Or, he’ll immediately shift his attention away from the misdeed, saying, “Anyway…” before he’s off to a completely different subject (perhaps one in which others have done wrong but he is a shining example of virtue). His reaction, I think, is completely human. As adults, our evasion tactics have evolved into more sophisticated practices, such as flipping on the TV or checking our phones. But the principle holds. Seeing our own misdeeds—our sin—is perhaps the hardest thing to do. We so fear the shame and judgment that we avoid looking at our own woundedness and sin. And so “go think about what you’ve done” rarely seems to have any transformational effect. (It’s much easier and safer to stay a Pharisee or a “churchy” person, to judge and condemn and see all the wrong around us.)

But in today’s scripture Jesus hints at a crucial difference in the way God responds to us. Christ on the cross is not just saying, “Go think about what you’ve done.” In a sense, Christ isn’t pointing us at all toward what we’ve done. Christ is pointing us toward God’s love.

There is an old Japanese tale about a teenage son who is beginning to act out in more and more destructive ways, stealing his family’s money and spending it toward dishonorable pursuits. A little bit like the prodigal, except that he’s living at home. Finally the father, who is something like a town mayor and so very concerned not only for his son’s behavior but also the family’s good standing, calls for his brother, who is a monk, to come and help. His brother, the monk, comes and spends a day with the family. All day he says nothing to the nephew, while his brother and sister-in-law are nudging and prodding, hoping he’ll offer some stern reprimand. But he stays silent. Finally it is time to leave, and he says, “I must be getting old.” Turning to his nephew, he says, “Would you help me tie my sandals?” And the nephew, a little miffed, shrugs and then bends down before his uncle and begins to tie his sandals. As he’s doing this, he feels a warm drop on his neck. He looks up toward his uncle…and finds him gazing at him tenderly through tearful eyes. The story ends almost abruptly at this point, indicating simply that the uncle departed and that the nephew changed for the better.

Seeing our own sin is almost impossible, afraid as we are to feel the shame and disapproval. What enables us finally to be honest is a love that eclipses that shame and disapproval. The nephew changes not because he shamed into it, but because he finally feels the safety of his uncle’s love.

Christ on the cross is God’s tear upon our neck. Christ on the cross is God’s love, enabling us to do what we otherwise are unable to do: to see our own sin. To see that our judging, condemning, blaming—it may make us feel good for a moment, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. It keeps us divided. It doesn’t heal wounds. What does heal, what does reconcile, is love.

And it’s like a whole new world. This extraordinary ocean of love that swallows our sins like sand—this love opens our eyes to see much more than just our sin. It opens our eyes to see the kingdom of God right here. “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above,” Jesus tells Nicodemus (John 3:3). Once we truly know we are loved, we know the same truth holds for everyone else. And it’s like we’re swimming in entirely new waters. An ocean of mercy where judgment and condemnation dissolve and have no place.

Prayer

God of boundless love,
Who looks upon us
Not with judgment
But as on sons and daughters
Who will always be first in your heart:
Where we remain under the impulse
Of our world,
To judge, to condemn, to exclude
…
Turn our eyes upon Jesus,
Whose eyes look with compassion
Upon us all.
In Christ, our Lord and savior: Amen.