It was a dark and stormy night.  And a man named Nicodemus is engaged on a secret mission.  He is covered from head to foot in a dark cloak, nearly invisible in the darkness in the deep middle of the night when all decent folks are already in their blankets asleep.  He has traveled some way – perhaps by foot, perhaps by donkey – out into the countryside outside of Jerusalem to the place where he has heard Jesus is staying.  We can imagine the wind howling that night – or perhaps instead silence filled with occasional night-birds calling – as Nicodemus stealthily knocks on the door of the small house where “a friend of a friend” has sent him to find Jesus.

            Is that a great scene or what?  The darkness.  The night.   The stealth.  We can almost imagine the eerie sound of oboes playing suspenseful background music, and the sudden hush as he pounds on the door of the tiny dwelling, sees the door open a crack, a little light streaming out, and he shoves his way quickly and furtively into the room…

            It’s a scenario we have seen in any number of modern movies – like almost every one of the Star Wars films.  Luke Skywalker and Han Solo, swathed in cloaks that hide their heads and their faces, creeping into seamy bars, or mysterious traders’ shops, seeking information or help that they need.  Knocking furtively.  Shoving their way into barely-lit rooms.  Asking for the person they’ve come to see.  Needing help – and not entirely sure they’ll get it. 

            Just like Nicodemus.  Seeking help this night – though he’s not sure quite what that help might look like – and not at all sure he’ll get it.

            He’s heard about this traveling rabbi named Jesus.  He’s heard some of the miracle stories.  He’s heard about the special power this man seems to possess, which other traveling magicians of the day do not.  And he’s heard about the strange – the radical – some would say the “heretical” message – this man is preaching as he travels. 

            Bizarre teachings like “love your enemies.”  Surely he doesn’t mean the vicious, oppressive Romans too?  Or the ever-threatening Edomites? 

            Bizarre teachings like “care for the poor – the orphans, the widows, the strangers.”  Surely he doesn’t mean those kids who got themselves kicked out of their homes because they misbehaved so badly, or those women who really should have put a better retirement plan into place?  Or those strangers who’ve come to Jerusalem from countries far away, wanting to live off honest citizens’ hard work? 

            Bizarre teachings like “every person is equally beloved in God’s sight.”  Surely Jesus doesn’t mean those horrible Samaritans, whose understanding of faith is all wrong?  Or those Sadduccees, who think they’re better than everyone else? 

            Maybe Nicodemus comes in part because he’s curious.  Because he wants to find out if all the rumors are true.  Because he wants to see whether this fellow Jesus really is crazy, or is just one more traveling huckster. 

            Maybe he comes in part because of his own standing in his community.  Nicodemus is a powerful lay leader in his congregation – a little like our congregation’s Moderator.  He’s a leading citizen of Jerusalem – a member of the Sanhedrin, the supreme Jewish judicial, administrative, and ecclesiastical council – rather like having a seat on the City Council today.  And because he is powerful – and intelligent – and responsible – if this man Jesus is a charlatan, Nicodemus wants to expose him.

But Nicodemus has more than just the interests of his community in mind when he comes seeking Jesus – he also has a spiritual need of his own that he apparently is hoping Jesus may be able to help with.  It is clear from the story that there is a part of Nicodemus’ heart – of his spirit – that is yearning deeply for a connection with the Holy.  We can imagine those lovely words from Psalm 42 echoing in the back of his mind and his soul as he moves through the darkness:  “As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.  When shall I come and behold the face of God?” 

And so Nicodemus comes to meet this rabbi named Jesus – hiding his identify perhaps for fear of repercussions from his fellow Pharisees if they find out, perhaps for fear of looking foolish, if Jesus does turn out to be another spiritual quack – but interested – curious – anxious to see what Jesus might be able to tell him about how to accomplish that connection with God that Nicodemus is yearning for.  And he asks, although indirectly, “when – and how – shall I come and behold the face of God?”

            Interestingly, it’s the very same question I heard last Monday from the dental hygienist who was cleaning my teeth.  She didn’t ask it nearly that directly – in fact, it emerged in the one-way conversation we were having (since my mouth was full of dental implements) when she saw on my chart that I’m a minister, and she wanted to talk about why she and her husband and kids do and don’t attend church regularly. 

            It’s the same question that I heard a couple of weeks ago when I was registering bidders for the annual Art Center Auction fund-raiser, and overheard two women debating the merits of one of the paintings that was for sale, and talking – again, quite indirectly – about how art helps them connect with the sacred. 

            It’s the same question that I see in so many of your faces as we gather here to worship on Sunday mornings, or on Friday or Wednesday afternoons as you gather in Chuck’s or in Gary’s Adult Sunday School groups, or as we gather for Women’s Fellowship or Men’s Breakfast, or as we gather to make or eat lasagna             at the fundraiser for the homeless shelter.  Where and how can we connect with God?

            And at first blush, Jesus’ answer in this Gospel story seems just as confusing to us as it did to Nicodemus:  “truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”  No-one can enter into God’s realm without being born anōthen (that’s the Greek word here).   “Without being born again” or “without being born anew.”

            And not surprisingly, Nicodemus’ response is, “Say what?  What do you mean being born again?  Being born anew?  How on earth can you do that?  You can’t go back into your mother’s body once you’ve been born!  What are you talking about?” 

            And Jesus says, gently, perhaps, but clearly and insistently, “No-one can enter the kingdom of God without being born not just from the body, but from the Spirit (the Holy Spirit) as well.”

            Now it’s interesting how much has been made of this passage by people in some faith traditions.  Over the centuries, some Christian communities have decided that in order to really be a person of faith – in order to really know God – in order to really get into Heaven – you have to have what they call a “born again” experience.  And what they are talking about is some kind of powerful one-time conversion experience – some specific moment in your life when you consciously accept Jesus as “lord and savior” – that changes forever your relationship with God. 

            And that’s not a bad thing.  Such experiences witness to the reality of conversion experiences that can happen today just as surely as they happened to Biblical folk like Paul, and to post-Biblical folk like St. Augustine, and Mother Theresa, and C.S. Lewis.

            But Jesus is talking about much more than that in this story.  He’s using that metaphor of birth very deliberately and carefully.

            Any of you who have given birth – or who have been present at a birthing – know that being born is a long process, as a rule.  It usually takes a long time, and it’s very hard work – both for the mother, and for the baby trying to be born.  And any of you who have raised children know that being born really doesn’t stop once that child arrives in the world, and gets wiped off, and has its umbilical cord cut, and it gets wrapped in a warm blanket.   Being born is a life-time-long process. 

            Children – especially very young children, who are continually learning – are born in a sense every single day – as they learn what those amazing wiggly pink things are at the end of their legs (toes!), and as they learn to pull themselves upright, and then to stagger a few steps across a room, and then to start making sounds – words – sentences – that other people can understand.  Teenagers, too, are born daily as they grow into a new sense of themselves, and of other people, and of what they value (and don’t value), and what they want to be when they “grow up” and what the possibilities are that their lives hold for them.  And it goes on and on, across our entire lifetime, if we remain attentive and aware and curious – intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually, we are born again day by day. 

            And that’s a large part of what Jesus is talking about in this passage with respect to our faith – the need for us to stay attentive and aware and curious.  The need to keep our faith fresh, to keep asking new questions, to keep stretching and growing our understandings and our relationship with God.  The need to stay open to the promptings, the whispers, the laughter, the nudgings, of the Spirit – that invite us moment by moment, day by day, to become new people.

            We know – from the other places he shows up in John’s Gospel – that that happened for Nicodemus.  Some time after the incident we heard about this morning, when the Pharisees (of whom Nicodemus is a member) and the chief priests are trying to get Jesus arrested, Nicodemus stands up, putting himself very much at risk, and defends Jesus, using his expertise as a lawyer.  And still later, after Jesus has been crucified, it is Nicodemus who helps Joseph of Arimathea embalm and wrap the body of Jesus, and lay it in the tomb in the cemetery, and roll the stone across the door.  We don’t know why – we don’t know how – but we do know that the Nicodemus who buries Jesus is a different man from the one who showed up knocking on a cottage door in the middle of a dark night.

            And this kind of transformation can happen for us as well – if we want it to; if we’re open to the possibility.  Sometimes we begin by simply acknowledging:  there is something missing in my life.  Sometimes we proceed by actively searching – reading, writing, listening, debating, engaging with others, learning more.  Sometimes we deliberately choose to try something new – a new form of prayer, a new kind of service to others, a new way of opening ourselves to the movement of the Spirit.

Transformation – of our faith – of our selves – like birth, takes time.  It usually isn’t something we ”get” all at once, even though we may have those sudden, once-in-a-lifetime experiences that help us understand it more deeply.  It’s a process – that ebbs, and flows, stronger sometimes and weaker at others.  And – as Jesus tells Nicodemus – it’s unpredictable.  God moves – the Spirit blows – where it will. 

            But if we are willing to wait … if we are open to the process … if we will allow ourselves to be moved, that Spirit can blow each of us into new life!  Amen.