Once Upon the Ink

(Contemplation taken from John 3)

It’s late. There’s a hushed, summertime vibe in the flickering torches on the roof – in the shadows flooding every corner, swallowing up details – leaving Nicodemus and Jesus in a small bubble of intimacy. I study the two of them, heads bent together, speaking in hushed tones as if they’re having an intense campfire discussion at a Bible camp.

Jesus keeps telling me there’s something here, but I didn’t really want to come into this story, and so I’m hesitant to enter that bubble. Jesus has always confused me a bit with the way he explains birth and Spirit and the weird bronze snake… And the rest of John three – especially that oh-so-famous verse, has been drummed into my head so many times those words go in one ear and out the other most days.

So I linger in the shadows – I decide to research some of the ancient references Jesus refers to – I look up what google knows about Nicodemus and Pharisees etc. I read the Greek and look up words I don’t know in lexicons, I think about “born from above” versus “born again” translation differences. I look up all the Old Testament references to snakes.

Essentially I dither and dawdle. I even at one point turn to leave.

But Jesus holds his big hand out and waits. I argue with him a bit – basically tell him there’s nothing he can show me here that he hasn’t already. But he just does that patient waiting thing he does. The one that always outlasts me. So I finally crawl into his lap with a long-suffering sigh.

I settle in against his chest (my favourite place to be) and study Nicodemus. There’s very little I know about this man. I know he spoke reason to the ruling council when they wanted to kill Jesus (after this meeting in John 7). And I know that he bought tons of burial spices to prepare Jesus’ body after his death. My heart gives a pang at the thought of it now, as I watch him and know he will grieve and be generous when all the world turns away from Jesus at his death. I know he’s a Pharisee (a minority on the ruling council) and that as such he sets his sight on following the letter of the law and waiting for the Kingdom of God to arrive.

What I see now is someone who’s on the brink of what I like to call a Holy Spirit induced meltdown. The kind I know well. He didn’t just come here on a whim. Holy Spirit has been scratching at his heart, exposing the tender parts, turning up soil in preparation over the past several weeks – probably longer. And now his heart is in distress over the conflict between the council’s fear-filled portrayal of Jesus versus what he’s watched Jesus do for the “common” people over the past few weeks.

I think Nicodemus is thirsty, but he can’t understand what’s missing… and I wonder if, the minute he stepped onto this roof, he sensed that love that constantly trickles out from Jesus and wafts around him. Even now, as Jesus challenges him, I bet he senses the underlying presence of living water.

If he’s anything like me, his heart is racing and his throat closes up with longing. This seems to always happen when Holy Spirit reaches into a soul that feels bone-dry and crooks her finger in invitation to step into and under her waterfall.

Maybe, like many say, Nicodemus came here in the dark because he was afraid of the others on the ruling council finding out what he was doing.

But I think he came here, now, because he wanted to know for himself if Jesus is a mirage or the more that he longs for. Because he’s desperate for the real. With no crowds, and no oversight by his fellow council members, he can be real.

He clears his throat and opens with, “You must come from God. No one can do such things of power without God.” (I paraphrase)

I wonder, as I study his face, nervous and expectant at the same time, if he’s hinting that he thinks Jesus could be the messiah and he wants Jesus to confirm it.

Jesus doesn’t beat around the bush at all, he answers right away. But as most times with him, he turns the conversation somewhere else than where Nicodemus expected it to go. He doesn’t answer simply, “yes, I am the messiah, Nicodemus.”

Instead he leans forward, earnest. “Truly, Nicodemus, no one can see the Kingdom of God unless they are born again.”

A giggle bubbles up my throat at this Yoda-type answer, I barely hold it back, and I fight the urge to elbow Jesus when I see Nicodemus’ expression of complete bafflement followed by skepticism.

I huff a little, and roll my eyes, even as I snuggle a little closer to Jesus, glad it’s not me being baffled this moment. What is it with this Person who just seems to love scrambling the traffic patterns of our brains?

Nicodemus, meanwhile, sits there struggling to figure out how to respond. As a reasonable, calm individual who thrives on logic, is he wondering if Jesus actually is crazy with this born again talk? This is not what he expected Jesus to say.

The Kingdom of God is serious business to him though, and the mention of it enough to keep him from walking away. He wants to understand.

So they go back and forth over the connection between the physical now and eternal invisible spirit and I rest my head under Jesus’ collarbone as I listen to the deep rumble of his voice above me. Feel him tighten his arms a bit – just a little squeeze to reassure me that he’s glad I’m here.

I’ve gone over this conversation so many times that it’s hard to pay attention to it. It’s so weird and seemingly random. When Jesus starts talking about being lifted up like the bronze snake Moses fashioned, I look up at him.

“Why that story? Why compare yourself to a bronze snake – why would Moses choose a snake in the first place to be a healing symbol? How do you not draw parallels to the serpent in the garden and the references to Satan?” My questions are endless. My brain starts its logic circles about sin and death and serpents and sacrifices and which one to pick.

But, as often happens, Jesus winks at me, grins… and doesn’t engage in my rabbit trail leading me away from what he wants me to see. I’m certain there’s more to that obscure Old Testament reference than the obvious, but after straining my brain for a while I finally give up and sink back against his chest. Try to suss out what he’s so intent on sharing with Nicodemus.

There’s a slow sort of unfolding happening in my heart as I realize Jesus is sharing a secret with Nicodemus.

He’s telling him more bluntly about spirit stuff than he normally would, being open about the intersection between spirit and physical body and how that plays into the Kingdom idea.

He’s being vulnerable with this stranger who could turn him in, twist his words and call for his immediate arrest.

I can feel the slight leaning in of his body, how he wants Nicodemus to see what God’s love looks like, the plan that’s been in motion for so long and now so close to coming out into the open. He’s showing this man a lot of respect.

And, I realize, (my head lifting in surprise that I hadn’t noticed it sooner) Jesus is right now planting something in Nicodemus’ mind; an obscure story for future Nicodemus to find after all is said and done – one that will bring him comfort and more revelation.

This weird story of the ancient bronze snake will act like a key to unlock a map to God’s love. I’ve watched him do it with his disciples at various times, but I didn’t realize he was doing it now.

When Nicodemus sees Jesus on the cross he will remember this conversation, the reference to the bronze snake on a pole. He will remember what Love looks like in the face of despair. What God’s answer looks like.

One of my favourite things I heard this week was from Paul Young’s podcast where he said, “I don’t think it’s love that expands and grows. It’s knowing that grows… as I grow to know you better, the love that I have expands inside that knowing.”

Jesus doesn’t have to answer my every question like why a snake on a pole (even if it annoys me when he doesn’t), because the slow knowing of him – getting to be around the intangible spirit of his day after day – has filled my heart enough that he’s become my anchor and safety – and my greatest source of comfort… when I look at him. When I let him past my fears and insecurities. Or when he finally tugs on that string that connects us after I’ve exhausted all other possibilities. When I step into that Kingdom space he’s in charge of – the one that exists at the intersection of physical reality and the spiritual.

Thank goodness Love is eternal and knowing can grow. Thank goodness for simple things like the feel of his arms squeezing. Thank goodness for the genius that he is that plants surprise ideas and keys for later when we need them.