Reimagining Birth

Several years ago I was prompted to try something a little different. I imagined the sermon as a creative exploration of Nicodemus, as a religious leader who wrestled with the doubts, disappointments and difficulties that have called me to seek out God with my questions in the quiet of night. I hope, my preaching friend, this prompts some creative exploration for you.

Once there was a boy; he was a first-born, doted upon and loved.  His family was devout, more so than most and he slid effortlessly into the rhythms of a faithful household.  Prayers, regular worship, singing together - all of it was in the fabric of his life from the moment he was born.

When he was in what we’d call elementary school he began his studies of the Torah. This boy had a knack for memorization.  It wasn’t that he had special tricks or techniques, the words resonated deep within him and memorizing came easily.  The prose and the poetry struck a chord as if already written on his heart.

It was clear to him and everyone else that he was destined for the religious life. But which one? Should he become an Essene? Join with a community of ascetics out in the desert adhering to strict laws and purity codes?  No, he was too gregarious for that.  Maybe a Sadducee?  Again, too set apart from the common folk.  This boy was common folk and he loved being with people. He loved eating, praying and singing together.  He loved the festivals and the solemn assemblies.

And inside, although he never shared this with anyone, he loved the feeling that washed over him when said his prayers, completed religious tasks, and recited those scripture stories.  For he felt he was basking in the presence of God, his guidance and loving hand.

So a Pharisee he did become. His congregation was well-known for their songs, and prayers and right ways of worship.  And as the numbers of his flock grew he was sure his approval rating in righteousness did as well.   

Now, don’t get me wrong, he was sincere and authentic in his religious duties, but as he grew into adulthood, the simplicity and eagerness with which he engaged his religion changed.  More and more, he noticed himself critiquing those around him who made mistakes.  Who stumbled over their words in proclamation or forgot the proper postures for prayer.  His patience grew short and his temper quickly flared.  It was hard to sit still with one person and simply listen when there was so much busyness to tend to.

Sometimes he sat in worship, his body going through the motions but his head somewhere else entirely.  Running down the long list of appointments he had to keep.  Worrying about the new congregation down the street (they had just called a much younger rabbi who was rumored to be a great preacher).  Or rehearsing the chastising that awaited his children who spent far too much time playing instead of memorizing sacred texts.  Didn’t they understand who their father was?

And inside, although he didn’t share this with anyone, he was finding that the seasonal observances of faith – the specific prayers on the specific days, the solemn assemblies and days of fasting – were all beginning to feel like a matter of course. Same old, same old, year in and year out, giving up this and taking on that. What was the point?  The fervor he had as a child was gone.  The practices felt as religiously exciting as daily chores.

You see, what had once been a pure desire to be in the holy light and loving hand of God had gotten confused with the rubrics of faith. Piety had become performance. His accomplishments and achievements proclaimed his righteousness and were only of use in comparison with others. He no longer heard, felt or prayed words of blessing written on his heart.

One afternoon the Pharisee heard about another rabbi. On a pastoral visit with a widow he heard what had happened at a wedding nearby. Water turned to wine. Our rabbi told his parishioner that this seemed to him a rather silly story; but, inside, something struck a chord.

And in the coming days stories of this other rabbi kept popping up. In pastoral visits, with his colleagues, even his wife mentioned something. So finally, he decided he needed to meet this guy for himself.  What could it hurt?

Well, it might hurt he thought, if someone saw the rabbi of the largest congregation meeting with an itinerant teacher with just a few followers.  So, he went out at night, on the sly.

He met with the teacher, talked and listened.  The conversation was strange.  At first he tried compliments, hoping to get on his good side, but that didn’t seem to work.  So he asked what he thought was a straightforward question, “How is one born again?” But the answer was not straightforward. The answer was not what he expected at all.

Now maybe it was because it was late and he was tired.  Or maybe it was because he was so tired of what his faith had become, our rabbi decided he would be open to the words of this teacher.  The strange phrases and metaphors didn’t make sense but he wasn’t going to dismiss them outright.  

Because between the metaphors he heard phrases he knew to be true: God loves. God gives. God saves. He walked home mulling over their conversation, repeating those words: God loves. God gives. God saves. They became a mantra and forgotten words of belovededness poured into his heart.

The next morning, the rabbi renewed and renounced his habits and strict observances.  He decided to fast from worrying about the perfection of his practices; and feast on spending more time with his children.  He fasted from words of criticism and critique and feasted on speaking words of gratitude.  He fasted from always comparing himself to others and feasted on thanking God for the gifts he had been given to share. 

The rabbi took a lifelong fast from worrying about what each day would bring and feasted on starting each day anew. Indeed, the rabbi felt born again.  Once more he saw God already was in the world. A world filled with the divine light. Once more he felt that divine light within and he was eager to shine it in his world Amen.