The Spiritual is Literal (Or Why God So Loves the World)

John 3:1-21

Holy cow. John 3. One week to talk about Nicodemus and Jesus, this banter back and forth. One week to talk about John 3:16, “For God so loved the world…” One chance to talk about Moses lifting up the serpent as Christ is lifted up on a cross. Holy cow. This is the week I need to talk fast and slow—get a lot in and a lot understood—and do it while you’re smelling potluck. Talk about an impossible task.

Might as well start with Nicodemus. Here’s a guy after Jesus’ own heart. He comes to him secretly by night. Nicodemus, the Pharisee, appears three times in John’s Gospel. He shows up first in this story to set the stage for Jesus’ giant theological announcement (so people have something to put on their signs at football games); then he appears once again in the middle of John’s Gospel to remind the Sanhedrin—that is, the Jewish high court—that they are to follow due process (so we know he was a good lawyer); and then he appears finally after Jesus’ death to help prepare his body for burial. What a strange mix of appearances for this guy.

In this first appearance, Nicodemus gets off to an inauspicious start. He doesn’t seem to get it. At least he misunderstands the central most important words Jesus uses. Let’s run through the encounter one more time:

Nicodemus says, "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 answers, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born anothen (Gk. from above, again, or anew)."

Nicodemus responds, "How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother's womb and be born?"

Here is the essence of the misunderstanding: Jesus is speaking spiritual language that Nicodemus is taking physically. The same thing happened in last week’s reading where Jesus starts talking about the temple, how if they destroy it he will raise it in three days, and he’s really talking about himself but the temple leaders assume he’s talking about the building. In this case, Jesus is talking about being born a heavenly birth, while Nicodemus is imagining re-entering the birth canal. Again, Nicodemus says, “Jesus, how can a person be born again?” But this is simply not what Jesus was saying.

The allure of isms and God's economy of joy

John 2:13-25

            This past week we talked about wealth and materialism in Confirmation class with the ninth graders. Of all the topics we cover in Confirmation it never ceases to surprise me how this is one of the hardest. Nobody—and I mean nobody—wants the things they have put into question. Nobody wants to deal with all the ways that our economy differs from God’s economy. Everybody wants to gloss over this stuff. It makes some people feel guilty or angry, and other people feel ashamed

We didn’t talk about today’s scripture reading on Wednesday, though we certainly could have. When Jesus overthrows the marketplace that has come into the temple he does so to demonstrate all the ways that God’s economy is going to be different from ours. Jesus is not going to be a capitalist, or a socialist, or a communist, or any other –ism. He is going to be about God’s economy and God’s economy only. As he famously answers the Pharisees that other time, “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s.”

In order to understand a little about God’s economy we have to understand this word, “economy,” from the Greek “oikos,” meaning “house,” and nomos, meaning “law.” God’s economy is the law of the house—God’s house. At first that sounds like it’s about the church rules, and Jesus starts there, but that’s only the beginning. As Jesus’ ministry takes him from the temple and out into the world (and beyond) God’s economy takes on a whole different meaning. It becomes a question of what matters to us and why. Then, it is about all the ways that the laws of our houses distract from the good news of the gospel.

You probably aren't that fun, but Jesus is

John 2:1-11

            According to the Gospel of John, the first public miracle of Jesus’ ministry is to keep the party alive. Not healing; not raising people from the dead; Jesus reveals himself in his glory by participating in something so trivial. Just a party... compared to all the serious things that happen in our lives—life and death moments and all—is a party really worth Jesus’ time?

            The wedding at Cana walks us on the tight rope that runs between the life of joy and the discipline of being a Christ-follower. To be a Christian is not to party away our lives, but it’s also not to live a life devoid of joy. To be a Christian is about commitment and discipline… and it’s also about celebrating what is good. Jesus shows us the way.

            There’s a long tradition of biblical heroes dancing and partying and celebrating stuff. There was David dancing through the city; there is Peter leaping from the boat; there is the church in Acts where people are speaking in tongues; and there’s John’s vision in Revelation of the end of the world, which looks like a big old party around God’s throne. The fact that so many people enjoy parties is not something we need to find shameful. The question, as it always is in these cases, is what are you celebrating? What makes you joyful? And, conversely, what are you running away from?

            I find that the problem with many people who are always looking for the next party is that they have lost the sense of joy that is so essential to celebrations. They’re trying to recreate something that was joyful—that first experience of something good and true—but it’s always only a shadow of that thing. You can never re-create it. The harder you try; the sadder it becomes.

            Jesus’ parties are the kind that are meaningful, because they are about more than just a good time. They are celebrating something important; they are grounded in something that actually matters. Parties, at their best, are mere reflections of the cosmic party that God threw for us from the moment we were imagined. The problem with our parties isn’t that they’re too lavish or too crazy; it’s that they are so pathetically bland, so dependent on taking pleasure in one another’s problems. They can’t even begin to touch the party Jesus would throw; a party that doesn’t really need wine at all and, yet, there it is—above and beyond.

            Jesus could have made a little wine from water—a jug or two would have sufficed. He also could have made average wine—it’s what the steward was expecting, after all. Instead, Jesus makes so much wine of such a high quality that it begs the question: Why? It’s going to be wasted. It’s not a very responsible move on Jesus’ part. Frankly, it’s wasteful.

            You see, I think this miracle is first because it answers all our essential questions about God upfront. If we ask Jesus, “Is God good?” His answer is “Better.” If we ask Jesus, “How big?” he responds, “Bigger.” If we ask “how much?” he says, “More.” If we try to imagine something we think is great—a party, a relationship, money, power, sex—you name it—Jesus says, “More. Bigger. Better.” We can’t even begin to understand, Jesus says. He makes so much wine of such a high quality so that we remember: We don’t know a thing.

Nobodies from nowhere

John 1

            There’s this scene in the latest Star Wars movie—don’t worry, I’m not spoiling anything—where Luke Skywalker looks at Rey, his unlikely heir apparent in the ways of Jedi, and asks her, completely befuddled, “Who are you?”

            Who on earth are you?

            That’s the kind of attitude I imagine of the priests who come to John the Baptist in the wilderness. Who the heck are you?

            The answer, as it was for Rey in Star Wars, is much the same for John: I am nobody from nowhere. Or, rather, I am not who you expect me to say that I am. I will not claim the authority of Elijah, and I am certainly not the Messiah. No, I am just out in the wild saying, “Prepare the way.” Someone is coming after me.

            In the Gospel of John there is no Christmas story. That’s why we read Luke, as we always read Luke, on Christmas Eve. Instead, the Gospel of John begins with those famous words, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” John prefers to dwell less on Jesus’ earthly origins and more on his divinity. He was in the beginning; he was and is God. That’s a dramatic start. But from there John introduces us to John the Baptist, who takes us into a different kind of fringe-world to the Gospel of Luke. Whereas Jesus was born in Bethlehem, in an out-of-the-way stable, in Luke’s Christmas story, John the Baptist emerges quite literally in the middle of nowhere.

            This is a profound way to start the Gospel, just as it is to build a story around light and darkness (which is both the Gospel of John and Star Wars, by the way), because we can all relate to being nobodies from nowhere. The fact that God would come to the middle of nowhere, to nobody—that is an astonishing thing.

            Part of the Jewish assumption was that the Messiah would come as the heir of David’s throne. They assumed he would be a military leader in the style of David who would overthrow the authorities—at that time, the Romans—and he would create a lasting peace by virtue of the chosen people getting what was theirs: Their land, which was their power.

            Part of the reason the Jewish temple authorities—the priests and the Levites—were so suspicious of Jesus (and John the Baptist before him) was because he was acting very much not like the king they imagined. The irony is that the one thing they thought he actually did have—the lineage of David—was something he couldn’t actually claim. This may surprise you, because you have probably heard that Jesus is descended from David. This is important, because the Messiah is supposed to be the heir of David. In Jesus’ case he is almost there. The Gospel of Matthew starts with that long genealogy connecting Jesus to David and all the way back to Abraham. This feels dramatic, except there’s one little detail. The genealogy ends with Joseph…

            As Simon Birch once quipped, “It’s the Virgin Mary… what does Joseph have to do with anything?”