Nicodemus: A Young Old Man
Sermon
To The Cross and Beyond
Cycle A Gospel Sermons for Lent and Easter
Sermon Note: This story sermon is best read with a "special" voice reserved for the scripture included in the story. Read the scripture with a lower and slower voice so that the congregation realizes that all the rest of the story is "commentary" on the scripture.
When the last farmer from the most distant field arrived home to his family and the temple police were tromping their patrols around Jerusalem's walls and the remaining member of the Sanhedrin set aside the last legal brief and blew out the seven candles at the entrance of the Sanhedrin's chambers, Nicodemus left his quarters. He looked quickly left, then right, and walked out into the night. The first blast of wind hit 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 ill or a scribe returning from a late session of teaching a convert's family. 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 was 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 he 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 he neared Jesus' house, his chest seemed like a cave full of crazed bats. What's so disturbing about this young man? Is it because, unlike the scribes, Jesus doesn't lay down his main proposition, as a general sends his infantry into the field, and then Jesus doesn't surround that proposition with quotes from the esteemed rabbis, as a general rings his troops with wings of cavalry?
Two men approached at a distance. Nicodemus dashed into an alley and walked 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?
Such thoughts kept 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, splattering 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?
Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night (v. 1). Nicodemus, shaking off the last shiver of reluctance, rapped at the door. The soft steps inside became louder, and the one who'd chased people from the temple now filled this doorway. But his eyes that before had invited strangers seemed merciful still and Nicodemus stepped out of the dark.
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 started 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 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 lithe, 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 defended Jesus before the Sanhedrin, not well, but he made his start. Finally, he helped 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.
Communion
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.
When the last farmer from the most distant field arrived home to his family and the temple police were tromping their patrols around Jerusalem's walls and the remaining member of the Sanhedrin set aside the last legal brief and blew out the seven candles at the entrance of the Sanhedrin's chambers, Nicodemus left his quarters. He looked quickly left, then right, and walked out into the night. The first blast of wind hit 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 ill or a scribe returning from a late session of teaching a convert's family. 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 was 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 he 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 he neared Jesus' house, his chest seemed like a cave full of crazed bats. What's so disturbing about this young man? Is it because, unlike the scribes, Jesus doesn't lay down his main proposition, as a general sends his infantry into the field, and then Jesus doesn't surround that proposition with quotes from the esteemed rabbis, as a general rings his troops with wings of cavalry?
Two men approached at a distance. Nicodemus dashed into an alley and walked 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?
Such thoughts kept 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, splattering 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?
Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night (v. 1). Nicodemus, shaking off the last shiver of reluctance, rapped at the door. The soft steps inside became louder, and the one who'd chased people from the temple now filled this doorway. But his eyes that before had invited strangers seemed merciful still and Nicodemus stepped out of the dark.
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 started 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 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 lithe, 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 defended Jesus before the Sanhedrin, not well, but he made his start. Finally, he helped 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.
Communion
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.
