by Fred G. Garry - June 18, 2000
Texts: Isaiah 6:1-8 and John 3:1-17 All he said was, "I wouldn't
do that." I must have been 10 or 11, Just old enough to
be given freedom and the consequences as well. "I wouldn't
do that." What I wanted to do was to go wadding out into
a canal. But the canal had a base of very thick soft mud I found
somewhat unpleasant to walk in. So a pair of tall rubber boots
would do the trick.
It was just after lunch. Things had stopped
for the day. My grandfather would build, haul, and do any other
kind of work he could get his hands on until lunch time and then
the 110 plus temperatures of the desert would drive us into the
shade until four o'clock. This was a daily ritual. He seemed
to enjoy the break.
This day he was seated on his back porch
looking out at the canal that had been cut to provide access
from the Salton Sea to his house. So when I walked past carrying
his rubber boots, he said, "I wouldn't do that." "I'll
wash them off," I said and continued on my way.
When I got down to the water I took off
my shoes and socks and slipped the boots on. They were big for
me. I eased into the water and was about four feet out when I
realized I could not lift my legs. I was stuck. Really stuck.
It wasn't that it was hard to pick up
my feet. I literally could not. My booted feet had sunk deep
in the silty mud, and the mud incased them Eke concrete. There
was just enough room in the boot to try and pull my feet out.
So I tried this for a good ten minutes on each foot. This option,
though, had a price, the inside of the boot, made tight by the
mud, rubbed my ankles raw and bloody which became very clear
to me when I placed them in the salt water.
With each movement I would look over
my shoulder and check, and wait for my grandfather to holler
out, to yell. He was a hard man and was not shy to give you a
good dressing down. So as I struggled I waited for the rain of
verbal assaults, yet they did not come. It took me a good hour
to get my feet out and then to dig the boots out of the water.
I knew leaving the boots in the mud was not an option. All the
while the sun beat down, the salt water stung, and I had to stand
in the mud I had sought to avoid.
Finally, boots in hand, head down I went
to face the wrath. As I came to the top of the rise and looked
to where he was sitting, I was shocked; he was gone. Not only
was he gone, but no mention was ever made of the boots.
Sometimes silence is more profound than
speech. There had been many times when my grandfather had spoken
harshly with me. He was a hard man who had little tolerance for
mistakes. Often, misdeeds were simply not intuiting what he wanted.
When you only see someone for few weeks a year it is hard to
learn the unspoken rhythms of deep regret. And this was a man
who had many demons of regret. His eyes were marked by the brokenness
of his generation: alcoholism, divorce, emphysema, careers and
fortunes gained and lost. When I spent time with him these scars
would strike and then fall silent. For reasons that are still
not quite clear to me, I have always remembered the silence of
the porch that day, and how he let me stand there by myself.
Sometimes silence is more profound than
speech. I stood there again not too long ago when I read the
words of T.S. Eliot. It is strange the places we go in our mind
and the events .or words that can lead us there. Eliot wrote
of his growing discontentment with the modem era's drive to succeed,
to produce, to strive endlessly. He wrote of a kind of restless
misdirection that offers little satisfaction. Listen to his lament.
"0 world of spring and autumn, birth and dying!/ The endless
cycle of ideas and action, endless invention, endless experiment,/
brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness;/ knowledge
of speech, but not of silence;/ knowledge of words, and ignorance
of the Word./ All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance,/
all our ignorance brings us nearer to death, but nearness to
death no nearer to God."
And then he asks three questions that
are deeply unsettling: "Where is the life we have lost in
living?/ Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?/ Where
is the knowledge we have lost in information?" Deep within
Eliot's well-chosen words and crafted questions is a hunger for
stillness, for silence, for a hearing of the truth. There is
also a recognition: in the pursuit of information, in the pursuit
of knowledge a way has been forsaken, something has been lost,
and there is a kind of being lost.
Nicodemus was lost. He may not have known
it then, but it would come clear soon. Nicodemus came at night
to Jesus. For the ancients this was a marker of chaos and confusion,
birth and dying. To be out at night was to be lost in a sense.
Nicodemus came to Jesus filled with questions. His questions
have been ridiculed over the centuries. Chrysostom, the great
early church theologian, derided Nicodemus for asking such impudent
questions. How are we born again? Do we enter the womb once more?
How can this be?
Yet, like Eliot's questions, these are
deep and profound questions, restless and unsettling. They are
in fact some of the greatest questions asked in the New Testament.
They rival Pilate's, "what is truth?'.' Or John the Baptist's,
"should we expect another?" To truly appreciate the
questions Nicodemus asked and the response Jesus gives there
are few things you need to know about him, and about the Gospel
of John.
Nicodemus is only mentioned in the Gospel
of John; no other gospel mentions him.
He is mentioned three times. The first
we read this morning where he comes and speaks of birth and being
born again with Jesus. The second time is when he is arguing
with the Sanhedrin, a kind of bar association and city council
put together. In this instance he asks, "does our law condemn
a man before he is tried?" The last instance is when he
helps Joseph of Arimethea take the body of Jesus to the tomb
for burial.
To really appreciate what the Gospel
writer is doing with Nicodemus you need to know two things: the
first is that John is doing more than recording the words and
deeds of a Pharisee. He is using Nicodemus to paint a picture
of life. Notice in John, Nicodemus is seen as moving from the
womb to the tomb, from birth to death. In between he wrestles
with the law, or how to live life. What John is doing is crafting
an image of the soul moving from birth to death, from the womb
to the tomb. The second thing he does is go from speech to silence.
In each instance Nicodemus speaks less
and less, until finally, in last instance he is silent. For John
this is a marker of great spiritual gravity, being silent.
So when Nicodemus comes to Jesus he is
not yet on his way, he is just beginning a great spiritual journey.
He is filled with deep questions and troubling thoughts. In spite
of his lack of spiritual depth, Jesus offers him the most penetrating
glimpse of God's love for creation and humankind. I am always
struck by the fact that all the commentators who deride Nicodemus
and his questions were never moved to ponder why Jesus was willing
to give to him the most pure and direct vision of himself and
of his Father. "For God so loved the world that he gave
his only begotten son, and who so ever believes in him will not
perish but have everlasting life." Jesus only spoke these
words to Nicodemus.
The words that Jesus spoke to Nicodemus
set him on a path to salvation. The path was one, according to
John, leading to silence. Although silence is still referred
to as golden, I believe, today this simply means the absence
of intrusive noise. When the children are asleep there is a moment
each day of silence that is golden. Yet I do not believe this
was the silence John esteemed or sought to offer in his account
of Nicodemus. The silence he sought to offer is the kind where
we stand before God and can hear the Word, as Eliot most kindly
wrote.
This silence is not marked by absence,
but by presence. To stand before God in silence is a marker of
spiritual growth. It is a great challenge. When I find people
who are undone, who are falling apart, who are filled with strife
and turmoil, I am always struck by the need for silence. Fear
and worry shout. Have you ever noticed that? They cannot be silent
if they are to be. Our moments of dread disrupt any possibility
of peace with the ceaseless droll of what if? Or, what will happen?
Or, who will wee? To stand before God in silence is to leave
these fears behind and listen.
I think it took Nicodemus awhile to become
convinced that God loves the world, gave his son, and to believe
in him is to inherit eternal life. I think it took him awhile
to become. convinced of this, for that seems to be the case with
most who come to believe. Yet I believe it took even longer to
grow accustomed to silence, to gain the confidence to stand before
God and listen. When was the last time you stood before God and
simply listened? Do you seek a silence filled with the presence
of God each day?
Life will bring moments of silence. I
learned a hard lesson that day, bloody ankles stung by salt water
to prove it. Yet in the midst of the embarrassment and pain came
a moment of mercy. He let me stand there alone, although I was
not alone. I had his words in my mind; I had his. boots in my
hand; I was filled with a relief his departure had offered. I
believe I will never forget that moment for it was then that
I saw what it meant to become transparent, to simply let another
encounter the truth and listen. I heard more in the silence than
I ever would have if he had given me the tongue-lashing I expected.
When Nicodemus spoke to Jesus that night
I don't believe he really understood or believed what was he
said. I believe it was when he stood in the tomb with Joseph
of Arimethea, in the silence (when the spirit, of Jesus had departed)
that life for him really began, a life filled with the Spirit
of God. For silence is sometimes more profound than speech.
The chances are pretty good that if you
are spending your days in turmoil, if you are filled with anxiousness
and worry, that silence has long ceased to be an option. And
with the departure of silence so goes truth, and peace, and hope.
Having faith is not being tenacious, it is not endurance, nor
is it a kind of zealous prattle that often confuses the truth
with easy answers. Faith is standing before God and waiting,
listening, and trusting in silence.
Take time today to listen, to wait, to
trust in silence. And the ten minutes before you fall asleep
doesn't count.. Practice this silence by listening more than
speaking, hoping more than worrying, believing in the loving
will of God instead of dreading the arrival of Monday. The promise
of Jesus, of new life, of being born again did not begin for
Nicodemus that night, it took a while. It was only in the silence
of death that he began to truly live. Life can bring these moments.
Yet life becomes truly joyful when we are open to them each day.
Open your heart today and the next to the silent presence of
God and listen. The Word you will hear conquers fear, does not
condemn, but saves us, redeems us. Amen.
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