Joel D. Kline
Highland Avenue Church of the Brethren
February 20, 2005
The Second Sunday in Lent
Is there any more familiar passage of Christian Scripture than John 3:16, “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that anyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life?” The verse is not only known in church circles; no televised political rally, no major sporting event, it would seem, is complete without someone holding up a sign labeled John 3:16. And occasionally the sign holder chooses an alternative passage, using John 3:3 instead. It’s the words of Jesus to Nicodemus, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” The more traditional translations, of course, render this verse, “You must be born again” or “You must be born anew.”
In his book The Heart of Christianity biblical scholar Marcus Borg laments that all too many mainline Christians have allowed their more conservative Christian brothers and sisters to have a near monopoly on born again language. Borg suggests that the phrase born again has a rich meaning all too often lost when associated too narrowly with one kind of spiritual experience, one version of piety, one facet of a long list of doctrinal beliefs.
Look with me anew at the encounter between Jesus and Nicodemus, as we consider this notion of being born anew. Symbolism of light and darkness abounds in John’s Gospel, with Jesus identified as the light shining in the darkness, the light of the world who seeks to bring light to all creation. The fact that John portrays Nicodemus as coming to Jesus by night no doubt carries symbolic meaning. Though Nicodemus comes to the light, he has not yet grasped the light; Nicodemus remains in the dark. Some assert that it is as if Nicodemus comes furtively, unwilling to face Jesus in the day. And yet for a leader of the Pharisees to come before Jesus seeking wisdom and new truth—this would have required courage.
Nicodemus addresses Jesus in flattering terms, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God, for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” Jesus does not acknowledge the flattery, but in fact appears to change the subject. Or perhaps Jesus has heard deep yearnings behind the words Nicodemus speaks. In any case, Jesus tells the religious leader, “no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”
But Nicodemus doesn’t get it. He’s thinking in literal terms, and wonders out loud how anyone could experience once again a physical birth. Jesus, however, is talking about an experience akin to a new birth, but this time a spiritual experience. What Nicodemus—and each one of us—needs is the personal transformation of a spiritual rebirth, a moving beyond self-centeredness to an embracing of life with God at the very center of our living. It is a matter of being born of the Spirit of God, an experience that Jesus elsewhere defines as dying to self, taking up the cross, and following Jesus along the way of discipleship. When we embrace the way of Christ, we are choosing Christ’s path of death and resurrection; our experience of new birth involves dying to self-absorption and rising to a new experience of life. A few chapters later in John’s Gospel Jesus announces,
Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life (John 12:24-25).
The apostle Paul, writing to the church at Rome, echoes this theme, speaking of the act of baptism as a matter of being buried with Christ into death, and then being raised with Christ into newness of life (Romans 6:1-4). In truth, it is a call to put on a new center, a new purpose, a new loyalty in life.
A month or so ago I saw a powerful movie entitled “Hotel Rwanda,” the story of a hotel manager who is able to save over a thousand Tutsi refugees from Hutu-led genocide, during the horrendous conflict in Rwanda a decade or so ago. Near the beginning of the film, as the conflict begins to affect the neighborhood in which the hotel manager lives, the manager, himself a Hutu who is married to a Tutsi, draws a distinction between family members, for whom he is willing to take risk, and non-family members for whom he is not willing to get involved. But in the unfolding course of the film, as the genocide continues and as it becomes apparent that the outside world will not intervene, a transformation occurs within the manager. He cannot turn away from the hotel those who come seeking refuge. Sickened by the cruel and thoughtless killing, the manger does all that he can—and more—to save as many refugees as possible. One senses a deepening transformation within the manager—a dying to self and a rising to a new level of courage and compassion.
Brian McLaren, pastor and columnist for Leadership, a journal for church leaders, recently wrote an article entitled The Passion of Hotel Rwanda, in which he contrasts the response of the church to Mel Gibson’s film of a year ago, The Passion of Christ, with Hotel Rwanda, a film most churches are ignoring. McLaren asserts that he walked out of a viewing of Hotel Rwanda saying to himself, If we really had the mind and heart of Christ, this is the movie we would be urging people in our churches to see. Why? Because the film evoked in McLaren a wave of compassion for neighbors around the world, whatever their color or tribe, whatever their religion or politics. And, adds McLaren, “I hear our Lord saying, As you have done it to the least of these . . . you have done it to me.
Such an understanding is at the heart of what Jesus yearns for Nicodemus to experience. To be born anew, to experience a spiritual rebirth, is to be filled with a new wave of compassion and courage, a new way of thinking and acting in the world. That’s the power, too, of our lesson from Genesis 12, as Abraham and Sarah respond to God’s call to an unknown new land, to trust in the goodness of God even when their destination remains uncertain.
Faith requires the frequent making of decisions that go against the grain of common sense. Back in the 1960s Martin Luther King, Jr. was surrounded by voices suggesting that it would be a disaster for him to speak out against the Vietnam War, that it would only weaken his leadership in the civil rights movement. But increasingly King came to see the interconnections between poverty, racism, economic injustice, and the wastefulness of war and militarism. And so in a well-publicized speech in April 1967, one year to the day before he was assassinated, Martin Luther King declared before a meeting of Clergy and Laity Concerned at Riverside Church in New York City that he had reached “A Time to Break Silence.” Proclaimed King,
We are confronted with the fierce urgency of now. In the unfolding conundrum of life and history there is such a thing as being too late. Procrastination is still the thief of time. Life often leaves us standing bare, naked and dejected with a lost opportunity . . . There is an invisible book of life that faithfully records our vigilance or our neglect . . . . We still have a choice today: nonviolent coexistence or violent co-annihilation.
We must move past indecision to action. We must find new ways to speak of peace . . . and justice . . . . Now let us rededicate ourselves to the long and bitter—but beautiful—struggle for a new world. This is the calling of the sons [and daughters] of God, and our brothers [and sisters] wait eagerly for our response.
To be spiritually reborn is to find the courage to embrace a new way of living. It is to allow the Spirit of God to empower us as advocates for peace and for justice; it is to work and pray and sing and hope now for the unfolding of God’s new creation, of God’s kingdom.
I spent several days recently on a prayer and silence retreat at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky. Father Matthew is available as spiritual director for retreatants who would like to talk about issues or struggles in their spiritual journeys, and each evening, following the closing worship of the monks, Father Matthew shares a meditation time with those who are on retreat. In one of his evening meditations he spoke of the “foolishness” of the monks’ way of living, of their alternating between work and prayer. Said Father Matthew, “We make cheese and fudge,” with the sales supporting their community; “even more ridiculous,” said Father Matthew, “we pray and we sing.” Sing the psalms; sing for retreatants, for themselves, for the world; ever singing of God’s gracious love. And this, too, is at the heart of the born again experience—finding in relationship with God a new joy, a new hope, a new purpose.
Shel Silverstein has a poem entitled “The One who Stayed,” a creative twist upon the familiar story of the Pied Piper. Silverstein writes of the man who “piped away the kiddies,” with all the children of Hamlin Town leaving—“dancin’, spinnin’, turnin’—except for one boy who stayed at home. The boy’s father affirmed the son’s decision not to follow, and said that the boy was fortunate not to be lured by the piper’s music, or he would have been “witch-cast like all the rest.” But the boy knew better. He knew that the music had stirred something in him, something life-giving, and that he would long regret silencing those longings within him. Silverstein has the boy saying to himself,
I cannot say I did not hear
That sound so haunting hollow.
I heard, I heard, I heard it clear . . .
I’m afraid to follow.
It takes courage to respond to the call of Christ, a call to be born anew, a call to deny self, take up the cross, and walk in the footsteps of Jesus. It takes courage to sing and to pray in the face of life’s struggles and darkness and fears and hurts. It takes courage to come to Jesus, even by night, as did Nicodemus, hoping beyond hope for the gift of light and of new life. It takes courage to venture forth, as did Abraham and Sarah, going to a land that God promises to show them. It takes courage to stand against the violence and injustices of our day, and to stand for the way of compassion and peace, the way of self-giving love and servanthood, the way of mercy and grace.
The ancient choice continues to confront us: Choose this day. Choose life over death; choose courage rather than caution. Sisters and brothers in faith, let us embrace the call of Christ. May it be so. Amen.
O God our God, how excellent is your name in all the earth! You are the Source of life and love, the fount of compassion and peace, the bearer of goodness and grace.
God of all creation, we thank for the promise of life—for the gift of relationships, for the beauty of creation, for the love made visible in your gift of Jesus the Christ. Hear us now, O God, as individually we express our thanksgiving for the good gifts that bring meaning and joy to our lives . . . .
God of healing and grace, forgive us when we lose sight of your presence in our lives, when we go our own way in life and act as if we have no need for you and your people. Teach us what it means to be born anew, to embrace your new creation. Take us beyond self-centeredness, and grant us courage to take up the cross and walk in the compassionate footsteps of Jesus.
Hear us now, holy God, as we hold before you those in special need of your healing presence. We pray for . . .
God of peace and wholeness, deep within us are yearnings for your realm of peace. We pray for the coming of that day when swords are beaten into plowshares, when bombs are recreated as instruments of grace and compassion and peace. We pray for that day when the mountains of violence and fear and suspicion are brought low, and the valleys of hope and self-giving love are lifted high, when all creation shall see your glory, O God. Empower us, almighty God, to be your peacemakers—to work and pray for peace, to sing peace, to proclaim peace, to be witnesses to your coming reign of justice, peace, and compassion. We pray in the name and spirit of Christ Jesus who is our peace. Amen.