“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 7th 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
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.
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