Nicodemus/born again

Born of the Spirit

by Pamela J. Tinnin

John 3:1-15

(An old woman remembers back to the night her husband Nicodemus was told he must be born again, and how that night changed their lives forever.)

So, you want to hear a story from your old grandmother…oh, I have a lot of stories I could tell you…of what it was like when I was a child, long before I knew what life could hold…I could tell you of how my parents gave half of everything they owned so I could marry well, and a Pharisee at that… I could tell you about your father, how he came squalling into the world and has been making noise ever since…

No, not on this night… I will tell you another story…of how long ago we were rich… of how we lived in a fine house with carpets from the East and a slave who was black as night and told tales of his boyhood in Egypt… I had three maidservants and a cook and spent my days at the market admiring gold trinkets or in the house of the seamstress Hannah being fitted for a new robe for the feast days. I would wile away warm afternoons in the shade of the grape arbor with other idle ladies gossiping and giggling, passing on harmless whispers of flirtations and engagements, weddings and babies.

Your grandfather Nicodemus, dead these many years, was the second greatest Pharisee in Jerusalem…everyone knew the high priest Abram had chosen my husband as the next leader of all the Jerusalem Jews. In those days, I was treated like a queen… Everywhere I went, the merchants came to greet me, fawning on me with hopes of gaining favor with Nicodemus. Oh, yes, my biggest troubles in those days was what gown to wear or how to punish the kitchen maid for spilling the good wine at table.

I remember when we began to hear rumors of a new messiah—it was a summer of hot, windless days, of long nights with little sleep. At first no one paid attention to the tales—there were always crazy beggars who claimed they had special powers and even one who said he was Yahweh himself. But the stories of this one, some peasant from Nazareth, would not go away. Why, there were those who told of a wedding where he turned water into wine! Of course, we didn’t believe it, especially after we heard about the uproar at the temple. This man Jesus threw over the tables, and chased the money changers, beating them with whips, shouting some nonsense about turning his father’s house into a house of thieves. He poured gold coins out onto the Temple floor! The poor ran off, clutching their stolen treasure. There were so many, no one could stop them.

When word came of what had happened, the Council called an emergency session. Of course, being a woman, I wasn’t there, but that night as we lay on our sleeping mat, Nicodemus could not help but talk about it. I could tell he was troubled. “Tabitha,” he said in a whisper so as not to wake the children. “The Council is worried—this man is not like the others. I do not think he will go away. People are talking about him—they follow him wherever he goes. It means nothing but trouble for all Jews.”

The next few days, my husband stayed close, speaking little, his face filled with worry. On the third night, the children were asleep. I was combing my hair and making ready for sleep myself. Nicodemus had sat all evening, sometimes with his eyes closed. I wondered a time or two if he was praying. As I took the pins from my hair and let it down, he rose from he sat. At first I thought he was coming to join me, but he went to the door and picked up his cloak.

“I must do something that you will not understand,” he told me. “I am going to speak to this Nazarene pretender.” I begged him not to—I pleaded, saying that the streets were not safe at night…but he would not listen, only opened the door and slipped out, telling me to bar it well. For a moment I saw the night sky in the open door, and then it closed and the stars were gone, leaving me there awake and frightened. Hour after hour I waited, jumping at every creak of the floor, at the rattle of the tree branches scraping against the shutters. Once the baby cried out, but she quickly fell back into sleep.

Finally there was a soft knock, three times, then twice more. I knew it was him, but whispered, “Is that you, my husband?” as he had taught me. After he answered, I slipped the bar out and opened the door. In the dark, I could not see his face, but he moved slowly, as if he had just returned from a long journey, and had no strength left. I asked him to tell me all that had happened, but he only shushed me, and in silence, we lay down in that awful heat, pushing the blankets away from us.

Though he lay still, I could tell he was not sleeping. Finally he began to talk, his breath warm against my face. “There is something about this man, Tabitha, something I do not understand. I went there to trick him, to catch him in a lie…but he only talked in riddles…I expected him to do some magic, some sleight of hand—to try and fool me. But there was nothing I could grab hold of, nothing I could accuse him of…”

Nicodemus was quiet for a long time then. I was almost asleep, when his voice sounded rough in my ear, “He spoke of being born again…of being born of the Spirit…but how can that be? How can a man be born a second time?”

We did not yet know that that night was the end of peaceful times, the end of our quiet, easy life. It did not come quickly, but by the end of that summer, we saw that things would never be the same. Jesus was spreading unrest in village after village…at first only a few followed him…but the stories spread like fire in desert grass. Soon there was a crowd wherever he went. We heard of how he accepted water from a Samaritan woman and told her that he could give her water that would always quench her thirst… of how he spit, made mud, and rubbing it on his eyes, gave a blind man his sight. Mary and Martha, two honest women if there ever was, told how he raised their brother Lazarus from the dead…

The Councilmembers accused the Nazarene of being possessed by a demon… the truth is, they were afraid of his power. Twice they tried to bring him before their court…and twice he slipped out of Jerusalem.

At first Nicodemus said little and he certainly told no one of his late night visit. He did not want to bring trouble on our heads… blasphemy was not a matter to be taken lightly… besides he did not know what to think of this Jesus. But he found how quickly people can turn against you. When at last he spoke up and said, “Why don’t we listen to the man? Doesn’t every man have the right to defend himself?” they hissed and booed.

Suddenly, our friends found reasons why they could not come to our Sabbath dinners… there were no more afternoons in the grape arbor… my husband didn’t go out much. We heard that Abram had begun to turn to others for consultation… I was angry… after all, it’s not like Nicodemus was a follower of some crazed wanderer… he only spoke of the law and what was right. After that he kept his own counsel. As the days passed and things grew worse, his eyes grew sadder and sadder

Then came that awful day…they arrested Jesus… and brought him before Pilate…the crowd screamed for his blood… Like all those who stand against the powers that be, he died for it… after three days of agony… he died.

At first it seemed like Nicodemus died a little, too. All that terrible day, the steet was alive with noise, but Nicodemus sat like a stone. No one was more suprised than I when he chose to go with Joseph of Arimathea to claim the body for burial. Later he told me how they carried him to the tomb. They washed him with their own hands, the water running dark with his blood. My husband spoke of how they carefully rubbed the spices over the bruised and torn skin; of how with his own fingers he felt the terrible wounds. Nicodemus said he wrapped the last of the burial cloth, gently tucking the end under Jesus’ head. The last thing he saw was Jesus’ face, a face that came back to him in his dreams…

In the days that followed, I knew that the prideful, powerful man I had married was no more. Nicodemus gave up his place on the Council, though they probably would have taken it from him anyway. I wondered how we would survive, how we could continue to live where people spat at us on the streets, and smeared manure on our door. I needn’t have worried—Nicodemus had other plans. He sold all that we had—our fine carpets, the silver bowls from Rome, my jeweled combs and silken robes, his own finery. He gave much of it away, not to the Temple but to the people on the streets—to Amon, the legless beggar; to the widow Mariana with three babes to feed; to the lepers in the Valley of the Tombs.

For many years we wandered from village to village, working here and there, sharing what we had with all who were in need, telling what we knew of Jesus of Nazareth. When we were too old to travel—your grandfather could barely walk by then—we settled in this small place, the village where we would live out our days.

On the afternoon of his death, my heart ached for Nicodemus. In those last hours, he was so restless, his talk wandering back to his earliest days. He kept returning to that long, hot summer that changed our lives. Over and over, he said, “I should have done something…I should have stopped it…” I tried to soothe him, stroked his hair, gave him a bit of water. Then just before he died, he grew much calmer. His blind old eyes were bright, and he was smiling, smiling as if he’d seen an old and dear friend. He spoke one last time, his voice so soft I had to lean close to hear, “Now I understand…to be born again is to learn how to love… to learn how to love.” Soon his breath ended and the old man I had loved for so long was gone.

Well, child, that’s the story. That’s how we came to be here. You run on now…go and help your mother. I am tired and need to sleep. But child, do not forget what I have told you. Some day, tell the story to your grandchild…the story of your grandfather, and of the night he met the Messiah.

(Comments to Pam at pamelatinnin@EARTHLINK.NET.)

Guerneville Community Church-UCC
Guerneville, California

Clips of Pam Tinnin's one-woman show can be seen at http://www.youtube.com/VinegarPie.