Sermons and Reflections:

Wednesday after 2 Lent
February 23, 2005
Lutheran Theological Seminary Chapel
Dr. Timothy Wengert

John 3:1-17

In the name of Jesus. Amen.

We're not on a journey. Yes, I know, the language sounds so helpful, so religious even, to imagine that we are going somewhere -- journeying through Lent as faithful pilgrims. But it's a myth. Like the overly honest Dallas Cowboy running back, who, when asked how it felt to play in the ultimate game, the Super Bowl, responded, "If it's so super, why do they play it again next year?" I am here to tell you we are not on a journey. We only think we are -- for next year we will be back where we started, ready to repeat another cycle, ready to play out the Christian equivalent of a springtime festival. Oh, true, we will have completed another journey around our yellow star, and that star with its planets and comets and meteors will have, with the galaxy, moved somewhat less than a light year in some fixed direction or another. But we know and feel nothing of that cosmic journey, except perhaps the dread that we are one year closer to succumbing to the second law of thermodynamics -- to death.

No, we are not on a Lenten journey, despite our pious hopes and wishes and boasts. Except, except at night, in the dark of night, when no one is looking, when Christian leaders that we are, upstanding, upright people that we are, we come to Jesus. You see, here in this gospel, as our preacher last week reminded us about the story in the garden, do not imagine either that Nicodemus is unlike us or that we are like Nicodemus. No, we are Nicodemus. And when we journey to Jesus on our own, we come with all our credentials: pious Christian, honored professor, clever student, industrious staff worker. We come as the ultimate Christian Pharisees, leaders of the Christians -- that's what we either are or hope to be.

We come at night, and the words of praise for Jesus fairly drip from our tongues. You're a teacher come from God; no one can do these miracles unless God comes along for the ride. Perhaps, if we praise Jesus enough, some of that praise will rub off on us. Certainly, if we praise Jesus, acknowledge Jesus, it shows just how smart we really are. If he's got the power -- and all the signs point in that direction -- then we'd better stick with him for the journey.

So we come in the dark of night, enamored by his power and glory. Trouble is, Jesus knows all about sign-seeking believers, as the verses just before our text remind us. No one needed to tell Jesus what was inside a person; he just knows. So he stops our journey in its tracks, pushes us off the glory road. "Amen, amen, I say to you, unless a person is born from above, there's no journey -- no entry into the rule of God.

Of course, the word in Greek is anothen, and it means both "from above" and "again." So, Nicodemus, busy with his journey -- and we, busy with ours -- can understand it only one way. It must mean "again," for we are on our way. If we are born once already, then to bring up birth for a second time must mean it is up to us, something we do, some new hurdle on the race, some complicated crossing on the journey.
But Jesus, of course, means "from above." For he is intent on blowing up our bridges, knocking down our hurdles and bringing us back down to earth. Born from above means it is out of our control, precisely not something we can journey toward or do on our own.

So we misunderstand -- we must misunderstand. "Born again? How can that be? Does our journey imply a second trip down the birth canal?" Oh, we are so clever. Jesus is either going to help us on our journey, or he is no use to us at all.

But Jesus is no help. "Amen, amen" -- there are those ominous, journey-ending words again -- "I say to you, unless a person be born from above of water and Spirit, there is no journey, no entry into the rule of God." Water and Spirit. True, we can run to the font, if we wish, but the fourth evangelist would take us somewhere else, would drive us first to chapter four, where Jesus offers living water to the woman, and to chapter seven where Jesus cried, "If anyone is thirsty, come to me and drink … for as Scripture says about me, 'Out of his side shall flow rivers of living water.'" And John reminds us that he was talking of the Spirit given in Jesus' glory. But more, my dears, Jesus was speaking of the cross, where his side was pierced and blood and water flows out in a living stream to this day, and he was speaking of his resurrection, when he breathed on his disciples and said, "Receive the Holy Spirit to forgive sins." So, we cannot run to the font until we see the rosy red water of the crucified and risen savior. One must be born from above of cross and resurrection, water and Spirit. Otherwise we're stuck in the flesh, stuck in our perpetual, unending journeying, from which we have no way out.

If this were not enough, Jesus smashes our mad racing around by knocking the breath out of us, taking the wind out of our sails. "The wind blows wherever it wants, and you do not know where it came from or where it is going." What? This cannot be! If we're on a journey, we have to know where we've been and where we're going! The whole point is that we are going somewhere. How dare you take the Spirit out of our control? How can this possibly be?

Now our boast is unmasked. "You are a teacher of the church and do not yourself trust God's grace?" Well, you can't believe it! Simple analogies fail; so will the naked truth. But here it goes: "No one has ascended up to heaven." There really is no journey. You and I cannot get closer to God with all our pious Lenten mumbo-jumbo, or with our pious theological mumbo-jumbo, or with anything else our busy, racing, traveling minds might invent.

So the Son of Man must journey to us. Ah, now do you hear? It is not about our journey at all, but about our precious, dear Lord Jesus, who, for us and for our salvation came down from heaven. And, coming down, he will be glorified, lifted up on a cross, like the serpent in the wilderness. In the middle of our wilderness wanderings, when death is at the door and the poisonous snakes have done their best to kill us, then there is only this one on the cross, who journeyed all the way into the flesh for us.

For God loved the world in this way, by giving the only Son God had, by giving everything up, by journeying to us, so that all who believe in him should not perish but have everlasting life. Lent is not about our journey to God but about God's unconditional journey to us, for us. This sending of God's Son, however much it silences Nicodemus and us and condemns our frantic journeys in the night, this sending is not for condemnation but for salvation, for rescue from trusting the interminable cycles of the seasons and our ability to escape them. It is just like this rosy bath, to which Christ comes and to which we are carried; it is just like this bread and wine, into which Christ comes to save and forgive us all over again. You see, you can stop all your wandering. You have been rescued, brought home, and supper is on the Table. Amen