Sermon: "Unbind them." (April 6, 2014. Lent 5A)

April 6, 2014

John 11:1-45

            Not to be morbid, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately about death. Part of it is that it is Lent, and I’ve been preparing for Holy Week – so it’s an occupational hazard that I think about death pretty thoroughly every spring. Then, I recently read a book about someone’s near-death experience, in which she talks about how sad she was to return to earth after having been briefly in the presence of Jesus. Then we were in this musical called, “Death Takes a Holiday,” which, even though it is a comedy, got me thinking about different perspectives on death – how we view it, how we deal with it, what it means, etc. Then this week I went to a continuing education event led by a pastor and a funeral director called, “The Good Funeral,” in which we discussed different elements of funerals in a culture that has really changed the way it deals with death over the past 100 years or so.

            And then, of course, there are our texts for today, in particular the raising of Lazarus. Perhaps it was all the other thinking I have been doing about death that made me read this story about Lazarus with very different eyes this time around. It’s a very famous story, of course, one I’m sure you all have heard before. So before I comment further, let me just ask you: who thinks this is a joyful story? Who thinks it is troubling? Who thinks it is something else? How would you categorize it?

            I always thought it was a joyful story – who wouldn’t want their loved one brought back from the dead? Sure there is sadness at first, but it definitely has a happy ending, I thought. But this time around, I wasn’t so sure. I wondered how Lazarus felt about being brought back from his peaceful rest, especially since he has already begun to decay, knowing that he is going to have to go through death again. I wondered how Mary and Martha felt, having already begun to grieve and come to terms with the loss of their brother, and now he is back – so they, too, will have to go through all of the grieving process again. And I wondered how Jesus felt, knowing that it would be this act which would finally lead to his arrest and his own painful and humiliating death. This time around, I noticed a lot more negative emotions than good ones, and I was left thinking, did we really have to go here? Weren’t there other ways that the Son of God could be glorified? The story of the healing of the blind man that we heard last week was such a nicer way to show God’s glory!

            But I suppose that’s the thing about God defeating death and about new life. It sounds so good, at first and in theory, but really, it can be uncomfortable, and at worst, quite terrifying. As good as it sounds, it may very well be something we try to resist, even without knowing it. And I’m not talking anymore so much about physical death, but about the various sorts of deaths we experience on a more daily basis, the metaphorical tombs in which we find ourselves buried: addiction, hopelessness, guilt, depression, loss, pain… All such difficult things, but getting out of those things can be even more difficult than just resolving to stay there. It may not be a good friend, but it is at least a familiar one.

Michael and I have been watching Downton Abbey – we finally gave in, and we’re just starting season 4 – and one of our favorite characters just died. (I will be vague, in case there is anyone out there who hasn’t seen it yet but plans to!) The grieving spouse of this person has been wandering around the house like a ghost for six months, wearing black and refusing to engage once again with life. Finally Carson, the old butler and dear friend of the person grieving, speaks up, saying, “You are letting yourself be defeated by this.” And we do sometimes let death defeat us, don’t we? Whatever it is that keeps us in the tomb has power over us, such that it can defeat us. And so even when God comes to set us free from our pains and our tombs, our response is often that of Martha: “Don’t open the tomb, Lord. He’s been dead a long time. It’s really gonna stink in there!”

            Thankfully, God dismisses our objections, and calls out anyway: “Lazarus! Come out!” And like Lazarus, we may come out, alive once again… but also like Lazarus, still bound by strips of cloth. We may be alive, but are we free?

            You may have noticed that the confession we have been using throughout Lent is the one from the LBW, the old Lutheran Book of Worship: “We are in bondage to sin and cannot free ourselves.” When the new hymnal came out in 2006, the words of the confession were changed to, “We are captive to sin and cannot free ourselves.” That’s good too, but I prefer the older version, and here’s why. In Greek, the words for bound and unbind are the same words that are used to describe the power of God – and the power of the clergy – to “bind” and to “loose.” That is what we call the “power of the keys” – that is, the power to forgive and to declare forgiveness to you for all your sins. When we confess that we are in bondage to sin, then when the pastor declares forgiveness on Christ’s behalf, we are essentially being unbound. It is as if Christ says to us, “Unbind them!”

            In other words, in the story of the raising of Lazarus, we see a link between two central promises of God: life and forgiveness. The more brokenness I see in the world, the more convinced I become of how much healing could come from forgiveness: forgiveness for people who have hurt us in the past and caused us to put up walls of protection that keep anyone else from really knowing us; forgiveness for those by whom we have felt neglected, or who were too overbearing, or who were too critical and not enough loving; forgiveness, perhaps most of all, for ourselves, for falling short of who we think we ought to be, who others think we ought to be, who God thinks we ought to be. When Jesus commands those gathered around to “unbind him,” and they respond, Lazarus becomes a man who is not only alive, but also a man who is free – free from death’s defeat, and from the fear and hopelessness of the tomb.

            What binds you, people of God? From what do you need to be unbound? From what do those around you need to be unbound? What keeps you from dwelling fully in the land of the living, the land of the forgiven and free?

            Whatever it is, brothers and sisters in Christ, hear this: Christ calls you out of the tomb. He knows what it is like in there, he has wept the tears you weep, he has felt the desolation you feel, and he is calling you to come out. And, he bids you be unbound from all that would keep you from life.

            Let us pray… Lord God, we sometimes find ourselves trapped in a dark tomb, bound by our concerns and our pains and our illnesses. Help us to hear your call to us to come out, and help us to allow ourselves to be unbound and freed to live fully. As we enter next week into the time when we remember your own suffering and death, may we be grateful that you proved once and for all that death need not have any power over us. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

A Theology of Death based on "Death Takes a Holiday"

Now a bit more than a week after doing the show, Death Takes a Holiday, I have continued to reflect theologically on the show. And this week, as I prepare for a sermon on the raising of Lazarus (and of course, Holy Week and Easter shortly thereafter), it seemed as good a week as any to share some of those reflections with you.

First, allow me to tell you the basic plot of the story. *spoiler alert*

It begins in the 1920s, when an aristocratic Italian family is driving in the car, having just celebrated their 21-year-old daughter Grazia's engagement. They get in an accident and Grazia is thrown from the car. Death, the Grim Reaper himself, comes onto the scene to do his job, only to be so taken with this beautiful young woman that he can't do his eternal duty. He leaves her, and the family returns home, shaken, but grateful. Meanwhile, Death begins to wonder: Why do all men fear me? Cling to life so dearly? What is it they fear they'd lose? He decides that, for the first time "since the dawn of time," he will take a holiday, taking on human form for a weekend, and spending the time with this very family, learning from them what is so great about LIFE. He takes the form of a "not unhandsome" Russian prince named Sirki, telling only the master of the house of his plan. Meanwhile, Grazia, having had a near-death experience, begins to re-evaluate her life, and doubts her engagement to her childhood love is what she is meant to do. When Sirki comes to town, all the girls fawn over his charms and good looks, but Sirki only has eyes for Grazia (and at first, I will note, the sexy maid, aka yours truly, who brings him towels his first morning!). The two fall madly in love, much to the privy father's distress. Most of the show is taken up by Sirki learning about the various aspects of life (and is of course replete with death puns, to the delight of the audience!). In the final scene, Sirki tells Grazia that he must go, and, knowing how in love with each other they are, she insists he take her with him. He says he can't, and she insists all the more. As the clock tolls midnight, he disappears and returns as Death, saying, "This is who I really am." Grazia says she still loves him and wants to go with him, even if it means leaving her family and what she has known, saying, "Love is greater than death!" And so she does. The end. Happy ending? No one is sure.

The second night of the show, the pre-show talk was offered by one of the ministers of the Unitarian church that was our host. I didn't hear it, but chatted about it with some folks who did following the show. He said, "He talked about the Unitarian perspective on death." I said, "And that is?" and he couldn't quite articulate it - which was probably pretty accurate, which I'm sure there are as many perspectives on death there as there are members of that church! He asked me the Lutheran perspective. I said that for a lot of Christians, you live a good life so that you can go to heaven, but I don't believe that. I live a good life because I am a loved, graced, forgiven person, and living the best life I can is out of gratitude for that fact ("springs spontaneously from it," Luther would say), and enabled by the Spirit. Death, then, becomes a sort of "going home" - though that language is a bit simplistic. But it isn't a failure to me; even as it is often a time of sadness because we on earth will miss that person, it is also an occasion for joy and thanksgiving, because it is in death that we enter the everlasting joy of basking in the love and light of God. I don't fear death for myself (though I do fear losing those dear to me), because when I am dead, I know I will be living in Love forever and ever, Amen. The Unitarian gentleman then surprised me by saying, "That sort of fits with the ending of this show, huh?"

It had not occurred to me that this show, which I would categorize as a comedy, actually did align pretty well with my theology. I had rolled my eyes at Grazia, giving up her life so young to spend eternity with Death, whom she presumed to love. But framed a different way, she wanted to spend eternity with Love, just as I do. Granted, a different sort of love. The Love I crave is divine, while hers is presumably romantic. Ironically, her desire for Death is what, in my faith, I would call Life.

Or is it ironic? It is significant that in this scene in which Grazia decides to follow Death into eternity, she is wearing a white gown. In Christian theology, white garments are baptismal garments. I, for example, wear a white robe to lead worship, because it hearkens that my call came in the moment of my baptism, like it does for all the baptized - that is, my call to love and serve God's people, the call I share with all Christians, and my particular pastoral call became the way I live that out. In Christian baptismal theology, we believe baptism is a sort of death - as St. Paul says, we are baptized into a death like Christ's, and so we are also baptized into a resurrection like Christ's. Said another way, we die to sin and rise with Christ. The font becomes a watery tomb, and in full immersion baptisms (which I wish we did more of!), that first breath after coming out of the watery death is the breath of the Spirit, a new life, a new creation.

Is the direction that Grazia wear a white dress in this scene meant to evoke baptismal theology? Perhaps; perhaps not. But I'm going to say: yes, because that suddenly makes her much less a flighty 20-something who follows her every whim, and instead she becomes symbolic of the hugeness and life-changing-ness of baptism, in which we truly die and then re-enter life in a new way. In Grazia, we see that to bask in Love's glow for eternity is indeed the deepest satisfaction we can have.

Death and Grazia prepare to exit life on earth...

It isn't completely sound theology, I know, and the metaphor eventually breaks down, like most metaphors. But, I rather like it. Maybe I can turn it into an Easter sermon...?

Sermon: "This is where the light shines through." (March 30, 2014)

Lent 4A

John 9:1-41

            There have been a lot of things in the news lately that have made me really want an explanation. A flight mysteriously disappears from the sky and now seems to be somewhere in the Indian Ocean. A mudslide near Seattle covers, traps, and kills dozens of people. Several decisions have been made in various circles that many believe to have been misguided and even unethical. Day after day, something else happens to make me shake my head and wonder, “Why this?”

I’m sure I’m not alone in this. We humans crave answers and understanding. We have this need to ascribe reasons for things. If we can give something a reason, can explain it, then we can put it in a box and move on. This has long been a part of the human condition. It is noteworthy, in our Gospel lesson today, that the introduction and actual healing of the man born blind takes a mere 8 verses; the remaining 33 verses are dedicated to the controversy surrounding the healing, and people trying to figure out exactly what happened, who did it, why, and whether or not it was of God. The story starts with a very simple explanation: clearly, either this man sinned in his mother’s womb and was thus was born blind, or his parents sinned and so his blindness is their punishment. Whichever the case, it is a neat and tidy explanation for something that otherwise would be so tragic.

Don’t we just love to come up with reasons for things? Following 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, the earthquake in Haiti – people were so quick to blame it on this kind of person, or that person’s actions, or this situation. We just can’t stand not understanding things.

And someone being born blind – this seems very sad to us indeed. And so it is no wonder that Jesus’ disciples have ascribed the reason for this man’s blindness to either his or his parents’ sin. In their narrow perspective, that makes sense. Maybe it even makes sense to us today. How often do you hear that someone’s poverty is their own fault? If they would just get a job, or work harder, or be more responsible, then they could be middle class like the rest of us. Their life situation is merely a result of choices that they made.

But how much do we miss when we are so quick to offer reasons and explanations? How often does our insistence to explain things reflect our own blindness, our own unwillingness to fully see?

Stated a different way, how much do we miss when we only see someone for his or her ailment? Sometimes, what you notice determines what you miss. It is remarkable in this story that everyone knows this man as “the man who was born blind” – such that when he has regained his sight, no one is even sure anymore that it is him! They see him day after day, give him money and food, even worship with him, but when he is no longer “the blind beggar” but has become “the seeing evangelist,” confessing a faith in Jesus, they say, “No, that’s not him. It’s just someone who looks like him.” They noticed his blindness, and missed his personhood. He couldn’t possibly be anything other than what they have already pegged him as. He couldn’t possibly be different, or more, than what they have already decided to perceive. Eventually, their resistance to the possibility of this man having undergone a transformation, and their inability to explain it, results in them simply kicking the man out of the synagogue.

What we notice determines what we miss. So what do we miss when we focus only on what is wrong – with others and with ourselves? Might we miss seeing the mysterious work of God? That’s what Jesus says. When his disciples ask who sinned, him or his parents, Jesus responds, “Neither. He was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” But the people were too busy noticing his blindness to notice God’s work.

            But Jesus’ way is a much more faithful and transformative way to understand what we would dub as “disability” or “weakness.” It’s not an external reflection of an inward sin. It’s not punishment for bad decisions. It’s not something to judge and put into a box and move on from. Difference and brokenness and weakness are ways for God to show God’s works.

            I have been reading Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal – a wonderful book full of life-giving stories. It’s written by a woman who is a doctor-turned-counselor, who works with people with cancer and other life-threatening illnesses. There’s one story about a young man whom the author says was the angriest person she ever met. He had lost a leg to cancer in his 20s and as a result he lived in a deep, angry darkness. In one session with him, she asked him to draw a picture of himself, and he drew an outline of a vase with a huge crack down the middle. He angrily scribbled with a black crayon, making that crack more and more prominent, tears of rage in his eyes.

In time, his anger began to change. He started bringing in newspaper clippings to their sessions of stories about people like him, young people who had lost a body part, always angry that no one knew the first thing about it. “If only these people were nearby, I could talk to them,” he said. She told him, “There are people like this nearby.” He started visiting people in the hospital who had endured something similar to him, just lending an ear and connecting with them and letting them tell their stories. As he continued doing this, his anger began to fade. It was clear he had found a purpose. One day, he visited with a young woman who, at age 21, had just had a double mastectomy. Nothing he did or said could reach her; she was in a deep depression. Finally, he noticed there was music playing, and he took off his prosthetic leg and started dancing around the room, bouncing on his one leg and snapping his fingers. The girl took notice, and burst out laughing. “Fella,” she said, “if you can dance, maybe I can sing.” The two became friends, and started visited people together. She encouraged him to go back to school to study psychology and carry his work further. Eventually, the two got married.

            Sometime later he was back in the counselor’s office, a completely different man. Now that he was in a much better place, the counselor showed him his self-portrait from earlier, the vase with the deep black crack. He looked at it thoughtfully, then said, “It isn’t finished.” He took a yellow crayon and drew thick lines radiated from the crack, then handed it back to the counselor and explained, “This is where the light comes through.”

            What if instead of searching for explanations for difference and brokenness and pain, we saw them as places where the light shines through? “He was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him,” Jesus explains. All of those “whole” people around him, making judgments and offering explanations, and yet it is the man born blind who was able to shine the light of Christ, to profess his faith to the authorities, and to say to his Savior, “Lord, I believe.” Getting to that place where we can not only see light shining through the cracks of others, but also in ourselves, can be a long road, and when we finally do see that light it can be blinding after so much darkness. But then our eyes adjust, and the light that shines in the darkness, the one who came into the world so that all might not perish but have eternal life, helps us to see the truth and beauty in each person we encounter – whether they are like us or not, whether they are rich or poor, blind or seeing, gay or straight, Christian or not, black or white or other, liberal or conservative, healthy or sick… All of these people have the potential to show us the light of Christ. All of these people, and their unique situation and experiences, have the potential to have God’s works revealed through them, if we have the eyes to see.

            Let us pray… God of light, we are sometimes so quick to judge. When our judgment makes us blind and keeps us from truly seeing your works revealed, grant us eyes to see your light shining in the darkness. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Production and Being a Part of the Body

Credit: Ellen Rockett

This past weekend, Michael and I performed in a musical called Death Takes a Holiday. It was great fun to be a part of it. While Michael has performed in 30-some shows over the years, this was my first as an adult. (I did star in the 1st grade musical, and the 4th and 5th grade musicals, but that is where my theatre career had ended.) We met wonderful people, and were impressed both by the level of talent in this community theatre company, and in the willingness of people, many of whom work hard in full-time jobs and have families at home, to step up and dedicate their time and energy to this project. (The company is FirstLight Players, which is connected with First Unitarian Church of Rochester. Many participants, though by no means all, are members of the church... which, for interest's sake, is where Susan B. Anthony was a member!) The resulting show, which was performed three nights this past weekend, was quite remarkable, and a load of fun to be a part of.

Butler Fidele and Maid Sophia after one of our performances.
(Thanks Ellen, for the photo!)

I played the role of Sophia, the "sexy maid," who first introduces "Death" (who has become human for a weekend so he can learn about life) to the feeling of lust, and it was a blast to play a character so completely different from my Lutheran pastor persona. (I had to work at saying one of my few lines - "I brought you fresh towels, sir" in an alluring way. "Towels" is just not a very sexy word!) As people discovered I was a Lutheran pastor, many asked about my churches, and about what I do exactly. The conversations I had with various members of the cast and crew were interesting, open, and loving. A colleague of mine recently mentioned that she interacts with very few people on a regular basis who are not either members of her church, colleagues, or otherwise somehow members of the Christian church. I felt very blessed to be spending several days a week working with people who did not necessarily share my beliefs. Unitarianism, you see, tends to draw people from many different faith backgrounds: people who have been hurt by religion in the past, people who haven't felt welcomed in other churches for whatever reason, people who married someone of a different faith, etc., all come together with a shared desire for community, service, and thoughtful, communal reflection on spirituality and life. Consequently, the conversations I had with the wonderful folks from this congregation - and some who were not - were varied and enlightening. I am a richer pastor for having spent so much time with them!

Credit: Ellen Rocket

Of course, as a Lutheran pastor, I couldn't help but reflect theologically on the experience. I will comment on the content of the show in another post, but for now, just the experience:

Most of the time I spent was with the cast, but it soon became apparent just how many behind-the-scenes people were involved. We had the two young men, twins, who are students at Rochester Institute of Technology, doing the sound; the young woman new to the area who wanted to be involved (but didn't want to sing in front of people) serving as the stage manager; the full-time-mom/former fashion designer working on costumes; the graphic designer who donated her time and talents to create all the publicity and the programs; the folks who built our incredible sets and hung the curtain, transforming the sanctuary into a theater; the women who worked tirelessly collecting props, and then organizing them each night during the performance; the immensely talented choreographer, director, co-producers and music director, who worked tirelessly and incredibly patiently to bring a bunch of amateurs to their best; the ticket-sellers; the folks who made food for intermission; the ushers; the folks who ran lights and sound cues; the musical ensemble; and then of course the cast, made up of everyone from people who had studied and even done theatre professionally, to those who thought, "Hey, I'd like to try that," and stepped on stage for the first time in this show. Our leading man, for example, had never acted, save one play in 8th grade! Some of the cast inspired and energized us with their acting skill, some with their incredible singing voices, some with their good humor or kind words behind the scenes, but every person on that cast had something special to offer the others. In the last week, especially, I gazed around at all these people, cast and crew, doing their part, putting their unique talent to work in the particular area that they could, and I was amazed.

And I couldn't help but think of the Body of Christ. What a beautiful expression of the way the Spirit has gifted each of us in different ways, and when we put all of our talents and passions together, we can bring delight to hundreds of folks over the course of a weekend, making them laugh and cry and smile and say, "I can't remember when I've enjoyed myself so much!" What a beautiful thing it was to watch! What a lovely expression of the way God uniquely gifts and equips us! And what a privilege to be a part of it.

For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free—and we were all made to drink of one Spirit.

 Indeed, the body does not consist of one member but of many. If the foot were to say, ‘Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body’, that would not make it any less a part of the body. And if the ear were to say, ‘Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body’, that would not make it any less a part of the body. If the whole body were an eye, where would the hearing be? If the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be? But as it is, God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose. If all were a single member, where would the body be? As it is, there are many members, yet one body. The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you’, nor again the head to the feet, ‘I have no need of you.’ On the contrary, the members of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and those members of the body that we think less honorable we clothe with greater honor, and our less respectable members are treated with greater respect; whereas our more respectable members do not need this. But God has so arranged the body, giving the greater honor to the inferior member, that there may be no dissension within the body, but the members may have the same care for one another. If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it. (1 Corinthians 12:12-26)

The cast!

Sermon: The wind blows where it chooses (Mar. 16, 2014, Lent 2A)

John 3:1-17

            Like many of you, I hunkered down this past Wednesday during our little mid-March blizzard, cuddled under blankets and a Dachshund while I waited for the storm to pass. I looked out occasionally to see snow whipping past the window, drifts forming all around the house, trees shaking with the wind. As I witnessed this famous western NY wind and snow, from the safety of my nice warm house, I couldn’t help but think about Nicodemus.

            Why Nicodemus on that blustery, winter day? It was those words Jesus says to Nicodemus: “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.”

            Well, the wind was certainly blowing where it chose on Wednesday, huh? That much is clear. But it’s that second part of Jesus’ statement that I have been grappling with this week: “So it is with everyone who has been born of the Spirit.”

            Even if you didn’t remember the details of this story, the imagery is known all too well – that is, the image of being “born again,” or born of the Spirit. If you’re like me, you have been asked by people once or twice if you have been “born again.” Also if you’re like me, this question makes you very uncomfortable, and you aren’t quite sure how to answer it. If they mean, “Do I know Jesus,” then yes, I do. If they mean, “Am I baptized?” then yes. If they mean, “Did I have a life-changing moment in which I suddenly got myself out of a downward spiral and came to Jesus and my life has never been the same since,” well, maybe not so much. One pastor tells a story about sitting in the waiting room while she waited for some new tires. A man sat beside her and thrust a pamphlet under her nose and asked if she was born again. She thought for a moment, then answered, “I’m glad you asked. I’ve been reflecting on Jesus’ words to Nicodemus in John chapter 3 and I don’t think Jesus means ‘born again’ as if it were some emotional lightening strike that once it’s over, we speak of our salvation in the past tense, like, that’s done, now I have that checked off my to-do list. I think being born again calls for our participation, and I think it’s a life-long process.” Apparently the man was unimpressed. I wish I could come up with something so articulate on the spot!

            But she’s right – being “born again” is a life-long process, and not something that happens just once. Perhaps a shorter version of her answer is, “Yes, I’m born again, and again, and again, every single day!” That is what Luther was fond of saying: that we are born again every time we remember our baptism, which ought to be every day. Ours is a faith of new beginnings, you see, based on a resurrection story that repeats itself in many ways in our day-to-day lives.

            So, that’s what it means to be “born again” or “born anew” or “born from above” in Lutheran terms… but how do we live like that? Here the Nicodemus story can help us out, as his encounter with Jesus can shed some light on how one is to live as a “born again” person.

            It won’t surprise you, especially given our focus this Lent on prayer, that I will say that so much of being born anew has to do with prayer. In fact, being “born again” is such a very large topic to tackle in a 12-minute sermon, that for today I will only focus on the prayer aspect of it, and look to Nicodemus as guidance for how we are to pray like we are born again.

            The first thing we can learn from Nicodemus is how we are to come before the Lord – or rather, how not. What is the first thing Nicodemus says to Jesus? He tells him what he already knows, what he has perceived and so can believe. “You must be from God, because how else would you be able to perform these signs?” he asks. I think that’s often how I’m inclined to come before God, too: putting right up front all the things that I know. I often come to prayer with an agenda, and an expectation (or at least a hope) for a certain answer. But in Nicodemus’ case, his know-it-all approach serves as a barrier to him understanding Jesus’ words. He gets stuck in what he knows – for example, that no one can crawl back into his or her mother’s womb and come back out – and so is quick to dismiss any other possibility. So he can’t hear about the heavenly things Jesus is really trying to teach him.

            There is a famous parable from the Buddhist tradition, in which the teacher invites the student to pour a cup of tea, and to keep pouring until the teacher says to stop. So the student begins to pour, and soon enough the cup is overflowing and tea is spilling onto the table and floor. The student says, “The cup cannot hold any more tea!” and the teacher replies that the same is true for the young student: his mind is so full that he cannot hold any more. Only when he empties his mind will he be prepared to hear what the teacher has to say. Jesus might say the same to Nicodemus, and to all of us, for that matter – “your mind is too full; you are not prepared to hear what I have to teach you!”

            So the first thing to learn from Nicodemus’ encounter with Jesus is to let go of the control that knowledge makes us feel we have, and come prepared to hear and to listen and to learn, rather than with an agenda and an expectation. The second is related to that, and that is to be prepared that when we encounter God, we encounter mystery. I don’t think we leave a lot of space in our lives for mystery. Science helps us to understand so much of our universe, and if it can’t be explained, it is tempting to simply dismiss it. But God is so much bigger than what we could ever understand – and that is a good thing! As frustrating as it may be not to understand God’s mysterious ways, at the end of the day I need a God who is beyond my understanding, who is beyond anything I can wrap my head around. And so while our world may tell us to be skeptical of mystery, it order to hear God and come even close to understanding God’s ways, we need to be prepared to embrace mystery, and trust that God works mysteriously, and that that is okay.

            The third observation about prayer that this story brings up is in that line I thought about during the blizzard: “The wind blows where it chooses!” I had a professor in seminary who used to warn us to pray with caution, because your prayer might just be answered affirmatively. He tells a story about when he was in seminary and a friend of his got really sick. They prayed so hard for him to get better and be able to finish seminary. When he came back to school he was in a wheelchair, and needed a lot of help from his friends – even help going to the bathroom. My professor said (and this is a quote!), “I never thought that the answer to my prayers would include me wiping my friend’s butt.” But the wind does blow where it chooses, and you never know what door it is going to slam shut and what door it’s going to fling open, even out of your grasp. Prayers are always answered, just not always the way we want or expect them to be.

            There are lots of things we can do to prepare ourselves to be born from above or born anew again and again. But at the end of the day, the heart of what it means to be “born again” is letting the Spirit do what the Spirit is going to do, to let it blow where it chooses, and to let God do what God wants to in the very depths of our lives. As we trudge through Lent, what God wants to do in the depths of our lives becomes abundantly clear: God wants to forgive our sins. God wants to give us and our community the courage to live with joy and purpose for someone other than ourselves. God wants to gives us peace and assurance of eternal life. Learning how to receive these gifts is an ongoing process – and each time we come a little closer to understanding God’s promises and grace for us, we are born again. Every time we recognize that God so loved the world that he gave his only Son so that we might have eternal life, we are born again. Every time we open ourselves to the transforming power of honest prayer, we are born again. May it be so!

            Let us pray… Heavenly Spirit, you make it possible for us to be born again and again. Grant us courage to come to you with open hearts and minds, help us to embrace and not dismiss mystery, and make us attentive to the unexpected ways you may blow through our lives. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.