Nicodemus. It was then that he worked in his garden. Flowers.

Transcription

1 Nicodemus There was one time of day that he loved the most. He never lost the ache in his throat, for the miracle of it; the simple, astounding wonder that it was. Those exquisite moments when work is almost done; not quite night, no longer day; when the light, such as there is of it, falls slant onto the cooling world, and anything seems possible. The trees stand black against the purple orange of the fading sun, and if a breeze happens to arise, it blows so slight you hardly know it's there, and you can't tell where it came from. Or where it went, come to that. It was then that he worked in his garden. Flowers. He grew flowers. They were a passion for him, digging in the dirt, feeling the soil in his hands and the smell of it; second only to his love of Scripture, and sometimes - it felt like the same thing. He liked his flowers simple and orderly; no showy blossoms, but pale colours, perfect shapes, and pruned - to avoid the higgledy piggledy wild look, undisciplined, with blossoms falling open at all angles. No. None of that in his garden. He planned and he planted. He pruned, and currently he was working on grafting a vine that, with any luck at all, would this very season produce a magnificent, tiny, perfect bloom, One that would release its sweet and subtle scent exactly at this time of night. He'd been working on it for several seasons, and he was close. He was very close now. It always seemed that he was most truly himself, there in the garden. He loved being a Pharisee, he did. But the deep and careful thinking it required came most naturally to him not with the others, not in the gatherings and the debates about Torah, delightful as those things were, but here. Among the flowers. And in the dirt. At least, that's how it always had been. Recently though... For some time now he'd become restless, unsettled. He'd always loved studying Torah, he loved it still. But increasingly, that study made him ask questions he'd never asked as a young man. He used to be so sure. He used to KNOW. Now...the questions circled, buzzing, like the insects in the garden that no amount of annoyed swatting would remove.. Night time, the rabbis say, is the best time for the study of the Scriptures, and Nicodemus found that to be so. The air at night is soft, the light more muted, the mind more focused and fluid. He loved to read a passage after the evening meal and let it marinate in him as he worked with the

2 flowers... then when the light was gone, to walk down by the sea, letting the water and the darkness and the fragrance of the flowers still clinging to his robes, do their work in him. It was there that he ran into Jesus of Nazareth that first time. Nicodemus had heard of this rebel teacher, of course he had. Many of his fellow Pharisees rolled their eyes, and tsk tsked at the mention of his name, but others were curious, and often impressed. When Nicodemus saw him first, this Jesus was talking to some friends. Nicodemus was drawn to the edge of their circle because, by chance and the direction of the wind that day, he heard the topic they were discussing. It was close to Passover, and someone was clearly passionate about the subject.... but...the Holy one, blessed be that name the voice was insistent on the night wind....the Holy One SURELY would not kill all the first born of the Egyptians! How can this be? The prophet Isaiah tells us that ALL creatures belong to God! His ears perked up; something stirred in his soul. That was EXACTLY what he'd been asking himself lately. How can it be that our Creator kills some in favour of others? He risked walking a bit closer. They were sitting there at the fire, eating together and arguing about Torah. Questions he'd been afraid to ask, even of himself. But that wasn't what stunned him; as he approached, he saw the group of them more clearly. All kinds of people women and men together, and some of the foreigners from the edge of town eating together! Some of his fellow Pharisees too...they looked at him, smiled a half guilty smile that seemed to say me too - who knew? and gestured for him to sit. It was unheard of and there were those...lepers? Yes they were. And there in the middle, the man they called Jesus. Listening, watching, and mostly passing around the bread to those too shy to reach for it. He noticed Nicodemus, and called out to him. Come and join us my friend he said holding out a skin of wine. What does a teacher of Israel have to say about these things? And he did! He joined them there, took the wine passed to him by a Samaritan boy. (it took all his self control not to wipe it with his sleeve first) sipped gingerly, then passed it on, sat and listened. Shocked at how easily they made room for him, and equally shocked at how easily he made room for them, he sat on a log and smiled. He talked and argued with them, rabbi to rabbi as was the custom. But these people were...to say the least, NOT rabbis! It was a little frightening to tell the truth, but he leaned backward into the fear, stretched out his long legs and simply let things flow. The topic for that night seemed to be sacrifice. It was approaching the time for the slaughter of the passover lambs. Some, especially those not raised as daughters or sons of Abraham and Sarah, had questions: does God really require blood sacrifice? Does something or someone have to die in order for things to be made right between heaven and earth?

3 It was loud, unordered in every way. Everyone was talking at once. Like the wild flowers, the weeds, that threatened his orderly flower garden. People unschooled in Torah uncovenanted and unclean. Each with deep questions, and wild opinions and most of all passion. Passion about faith, about God, about life. What was right and true. He loved it even as it disturbed him. More questions than answers, some refreshing, but others unbalanced him, like a strong northern gale blowing in off the sea. He left the group late into the night, the smell of the wood smoke and flowers now together on his robes. His head was spinning. He woke up his wife: Hannah I've been to the water, I can't explain, but you must come. Will you come with me tomorrow night? And she did. Bless her heart, Hannah went too. Since that night, they'd been going to the water and fire as often as they could. Jesus and his followers were unpredictable though, you never quite knew when he'd be in town, where he was off to or where he'd go next. But tonight tonight they were nearby, camped in the fields near the leper colony. He'd heard the grumbling of the synagogue leaders. And as soon as it was dark, he'd go again. Hannah was staying with a friend, whose son had been taken by the Romans on suspicion of treason. They all knew the inevitable consequence the Romans were ordered and efficient in their cruelty. Crucifixion was a deterrent to all but the wildest rebels. Hannah was taking a risk even being with her friend, now tainted by her son's crime, but how could she not? If we can't stand with our friends when the wind blows hard, what is anything worth, in the end? He worked at his flowers, thought about Hannah and the unfairness of the boy's predicament, and anticipated what the night would bring. Finally the darkness prevented any further work in the garden. Tomorrow, he'd finish that last vine. Now, he thought, washing the dirt from his hands in the bucket by the shed, now, I think I'll go to the lake. His insides clenched a little as he anticipated the visit; as though something a little wild inside him was stirring with the night breeze. They were down by the water, as he knew they'd be. He could hear them from the road; the warm sound of laughter, the lapping of the waves against the rocks. The breeze carried sparks from the bonfire, and the fishy, salty smell of the sea. Some of them were loading nets into the boats; fishing was good at night. Most, though, were sitting around the fire, some on old logs, others in the sand or the flat rocks worn smooth by passing years and the persistence of the waves. It wasn't hard to tell where Jesus was sitting. Nicodemus heard his laughter before he saw him, and as usual, he was surrounded by people of all kinds. Jesus saw him coming, called out Levi here has a question, Nicodemus. He wonders about the things I've been doing. What do you have to say about it?

4 Rabbi Nicodemus said, with a glance at Levi. The man was angry, and afraid. Rabbi Nicodemus said again, we know that you have come from God as a teacher. No one can do these signs that You do unless God is with him Jesus smiled. And, as was his habit, responded cryptically: Truly I tell you, unless one is born from above, he (or she, he added, before Susanna could object) he or she cannot see the Kindom of God Nicodemus tilted his head, letting the words wash over him, soak in a bit: He'd not heard Jesus say this before. He wasn't sure what it meant. As usual, when he wasn't sure, he let his brain take the lead, turned to logic and the literal. It helped him get to what was deeper, in the end. How can someone be born from above when they are old? No one can enter a second time into the mother's womb and be born. Can they? He looked around at the others was he the only one confused? The faces told him clearly not. Some were smiling uncertainly, others wrinkling their brows and still others eagerly awaiting the rest of the exchange. Jesus looked around at the crowd, smiled into Nicodemus' eyes, nodded, and continued: Truly I tell you, unless one is born of water and the spirit, one cannot enter the Kingdom of God. That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is Spirit. Don't be amazed that I said to you, you must be born from above. He looked out toward the water; lifted his face to the night breeze. His eyes seemed focused on something unseen. The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear the sound of it, but do not know where it comes from, or where it is going. He turned back to them. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit The words were confusing, Nicodemus couldn't understand the plain meaning. What he DID understand is that he trusted the One who was speaking the words. He hadn't realized that until now. The words rang true, even though he groped for their meaning they rang true because Jesus spoke them. Spoke them from the midst of a crowd of people who never in a million years would have gathered together but for him. Spoke them while he passed bread without question to a woman who worked the streets, held on his knee a little boy whose open running sores foretold his short future in this world, spoke them to a group that included lawyers and beggars, the judges and the judged, those who worshipped in the temple, those who worshipped at foreign altars and those who didn't worship at all. Water and the Spirit. New birth.

5 The wind blows where it wills These words, pointing to something wild and free were not able to be pruned or harvested but inhaled and cherished.. Nothing was clear to him; nothing at all. Only this: what was happening in and around this man Jesus it mattered. It mattered very much. And that in itself felt like a new birth. He said his goodnights; said he'd see them tomorrow. If we're still here, you will. When you gonna quit your day job and come with us? They laughed, he did too. They'd been over THAT question more than once around the fire. He stepped out of the circle of light the fire cast, and promptly and clumsily stumbled. Fell onto his hands and knees in the sand. A gnarly old root, sticking up out of the dirt. He looked around fast had anyone noticed? They all had of course some laughed some said you ok there? Too much wine? and the little boy with running sores, came over shyly, and helped him up. He brushed the cold, wet sand from his robe, and looked down at the root it was a wild rose growing there, against the wind and salt air and all the odds of life in so little soil. Shallow, spindly, it offered two small brave blossoms to the night air. He picked them both, thorns and all. With bleeding hands he tucked one into his belt, and offered the other to the little boy. They both walked into the waiting night, each in his own direction..