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There is so much we do not know.
In the first hours and days without our brother John, we realize yet again that we do not know “the day nor the hour,” as our Lord says. We do not know the day nor the hour when each one of us will die.
But there is so much more than that, lying outside our knowledge, outside our awareness, outside our understanding.
Where is John now? We wonder. What can we do for his family? What can we do for each other? Where will our grief for our brother and friend lead? It will lead to hope, we are told; it will lead to hope, we firmly (but maybe not always firmly) believe. Our grief will culminate in hope in the One who is the firstborn of the dead, the One who died but is risen, the One who embraces us with wounded hands.
But there is so much more death around us. Physical death, surely, but also the deaths of many other things: the death of fellowship and friendship between neighbors and family members torn apart by conflict; the death of security and serenity in an age of deepening anxiety about public health and safety; the death of whole species on this living planet, so damaged by human shortsightedness. What will become of all this?
We cannot predict the future, or even, it seems, the present. And we struggle to interpret and understand the past.
There is so much we do not know.
John the Evangelist offers us a simple but powerful image to understand and reflect on our own ignorance: night. In John’s Gospel, night is powerfully symbolic. Judas enters the night when evil is at its most triumphant (though even then, Jesus is ultimately in control and his light is never overcome). On that same night, Peter warms himself by a campfire—a lesser light that is tragically dim—and denies his Lord three times.
But Nicodemus enters a night of ignorance, and a night of anxiety. His ignorance and his anxiety embrace each other, and strengthen each other. If he is seen in broad daylight talking to Jesus, he will be in political trouble, and he likely does not have the strength of character (yet) to endure the rebuke from his colleagues that would surely follow even a casual encounter with this controversial, trouble-making rabbi. But perhaps he waits until cover of night for another reason: Jesus is known to be a formidable adversary in debates. Like Nicodemus, Jesus too is a teacher of Israel, and an excellent one at that. Imagine a public encounter with an adversary you know to be a brilliant tactician, an expert conversationalist, a shrewd and well-informed scholar. You might understand why Nicodemus wants the cover of night. He fears public humiliation.
We came here this morning in the light of day, but we nonetheless are surrounded by plenty of night, by all the things we do not know, about the world, about Jesus, about one another, about ourselves, about all our deeply human problems.
Jesus comes to us this morning. He meets with us, just like he does on that intriguing night with Nicodemus. He comes to us with words of comfort but also challenge. He comes to tell us who we are as baptized children of God, and what our baptism does to us—how it changes us.
Here is what he teaches.
First, because we are human beings, we are embodied spirits. We have flesh and bone, but we also bear within that flesh the Spirit, the breath, of the One God, who took a lump of clay from the muck and blew the Spirit into it, bringing it to life. God is Spirit, and God in Jesus takes on our human flesh and becomes an embodied spirit with us.
Second, we are joined with the death and resurrection of Christ through Holy Baptism, the rebirth of water and Spirit that Jesus speaks about in his nighttime encounter with Nicodemus. We are reborn in Christ, which means that though we die as he dies, we also rise as he has risen. We rise in so many ways! We rise with all the saints at the end of all things, but we also rise daily in the here and now.
We rise to lives of loving service to our neighbor, which sometimes is the simple embrace of a friend who is grieving. We rise to lives of bravery and courage, the kind of bravery that has us taking the risk in broad daylight to tell the truth, come what may, cost what it will. We rise to lives of mortal vulnerability, choosing to love someone even though that love may break our hearts. We rise to lives of delightful enjoyment of all God’s works and wonders, sharing the splendid gifts of this living planet with all creatures. We rise to lives of careful stewardship and ethical discernment, choosing carefully how to spend our money, how to protect the vulnerable, how to simply do the right thing.
There is so much we do not know. But there is much we do know, too, and together, with God’s help, we can help each other see more and more.
We next find Nicodemus at the grave of Jesus, helping Joseph of Arimathea with the burial arrangements. Nicodemus does this in the light of day. He does it because he is beginning to rise with Christ, and leave, at long last, that old night of ignorance and fear.
Today we join Nicodemus at that same grave of Jesus, but we find it empty. We are met this bright morning by the Risen One, whose light casts out our night and raises us up in joy. And we too now rise, like the sun itself, shining brightly with warmth and light.
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Preached on the Second Sunday in Lent, Year A, at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, Burke, Virginia, March 8, 2020. The parish lost their friend, brother, and senior warden John Jaskot the day before.
Genesis 12:1-4a
Psalm 121
Romans 4:1-15, 13-17
John 3:1-17
Artwork: Jesus and Nicodemus, by Henry Ossawa Tanner