Reflections on Birth and Change

Genesis 12:1-4a

John 3:1-17

Lent is a season for repentance and change, time to ask about whether we might need to molt out of old forms that are too small for who we’re becoming; whether our expectations for our lives were too small, too constricting, too safe, too timid; whether there is enough adventure and risk, enough sharing and depth.  Have our lives grown too comfortable or too patterned?  Are our hearts open to the blowing of fresh breezes?  It might even be that the path we’re on is a good one.  Then the question becomes, have we set up camp too early, before moving further on the path of faith, hope, and love? 

 

Jesus’ conversation with a man named Nicodemus is wonderful and strange.  And today I’ve chosen to focus on imagery of birth and change.  We usually have a graphic for each week’s worship.  And as I searched for an appropriate graphic for this week, I wanted something that was realistic but not too gross.  I’m not sure if I succeeded or not.  But let me tell you, when you do a google search for images of “birth,” that is not a pretty picture.

A couple of years ago, one of the Thursday morning Chamber Coffees was held at Reprologic, which is a new veterinary and research center.  I cannot explain exactly what they do, but it involves lots of technology and fancy computer equipment.  And they are artificially inseminating cattle.  Well, these Chamber Coffees are held at 8am.  And as usual, there were refreshments, juice, and coffee.  Around 8:15am there are community announcements.  And then there is a spotlight on the business that’s hosting for the day. 

That morning, when it came time for the folks at ReproLogics to explain what they do, they gather us to one part of the building where there’s a cow held in a shute.  One employee begins explaining the process of what they do.  And another person begins to put on a rubber glove that is not like most rubber gloves.  This particular rubber glove goes all the way up to your shoulder.  Now it was at this point that I began to worry.  This guy has just put on a very long rubber glove and as I glance around me, people are calmly nibbling on fruit and pastries.  The process they were describing involved harvesting eggs from the cow so that they could inseminate them in the laboratory and then re-implant them in the cow.  But these folks were firm believers in the “show don’t tell” principle of giving presentations.  I am going to spare you all of the gory details.  But suffice it to say that this gloved gentleman goes shoulder-deep into the back side of a cow.  I am now having flashbacks about some of what transpired.  But I literally had to move further away from this presentation so that I could have a little more space.  I do not believe anyone continued eating the food on their little plates.

Now it’s true, I’m not the most hardy person when it comes to the birth process.  I’ve told you this before.  But when my wife was giving birth at Yale New Haven Hospital, one of the nurses asked if we would like them to wheel up a large mirror so we could witness the miracle about to take place.  I wanted to say: “Are you insane?  No we don’t want you to wheel a large mirror up to my wife’s undercarriage!  And no we don’t want you videotaping this so we can watch it later!  I’m a nervous wreck.  I don’t even really want to be in this room.  Why couldn’t I have fathered a child in the 1950’s so that I could be smoking a cigar and reading the paper down in the waiting room?  I’m trying as hard as I can NOT to think about what’s going on down there.  And so no, I don’t need you to magnify it!”

But before I could say any of that, my wife said, “Yes, that would be great.”  And so, I courageously held my wife’s hand, facing the wall behind her bed.

These are the experiences I have in mind when I read this story.  If the newness God offers to us, the transformation, the change – if all this is best captured by images of birth, then I have some questions.  Nicodemus did too.  Born again?  Born a second time?  What on earth do you mean, Jesus?  What do you want me to do, crawl back in and come out again? 

Like Nicodemus, we like to hedge our bets.  We like to keep one foot in the familiar if we're going to dip our other toes into something new.  We'd like a little change, a little freshness, a small adventure - as long as someone could guarantee that it won't be too overwhelming. 

Abram and Sarai were in the same boat.  Had they been asked to explore the countryside near their home, to set out on a day trip to a not-too-far spot, everything would have been fine.  Yet they were called to leave behind everything familiar so that they could travel to a new place.  And Jesus called Nicodemus to open himself to change so deep and intense that it could only be compared to another "birth" experience.

If we like where we are, why do we have to set out for a distant country?  If we’ve arranged our lives in a comfortable way – if this feels like “home” – why would we leave it all behind?  How does a person already born once go through it again?  How much can we really change?  How much newness is possible when you've already established patterns and rhythms that work? 

For Nicodemus, change is a crisis.  And he feels it as a threatening possibility.  It does seem that on some level we will have to find a way to stop dividing our lives into fragments, doling out a few commitments in this direction and a few the other way.

But that can’t quite be the whole truth.  If change is all devastation, all destruction, all threat – then Jesus’ invitation to enter God’s new kingdom wouldn’t ever get any takers.  So there has to be some sort of invitation, persuasion, delight, wonder, anticipation and excitement about what’s around the bend or down on the next level deeper.  It has to feel like change is about clarifying who we’ve been called to be in this time and place.  There must be some overlap between this invitation to see the kingdom of God in a new way, on the one hand, and our desire for our lives to unfold into new freedom and fullness. 

John 3

Nicodemus comes to Jesus at night.  He has to be careful.  He is treading between two worlds.  In the public light of day he has commitments as a Pharisee, and yet in the shadows of his life he harbors other questions, other commitments that sit at an awkward angle to his usual identity.

He comes to Jesus at night, possibly expecting affirmation or praise for being so flexible and for his courageous insight?  And he tells Jesus what he knows.

Jesus seems very little interested in what he knows.  Jesus changes the subject in a way that’s strange: “No one can see God’s kingdom without being born from above.” 

Nicodemus presses back against Jesus playfully: how do you experience birth again when you’re old?  You can’t get back inside your mother’s womb to come out again. 

Jesus holds to his line about the necessity of new birth, this time including a reference to baptism as this birth experience must involve “water and spirit.” 

Here, Nicodemus simply admits to being stumped: “How can these things be?”  It’s a wonderful question, really.  I can’t get my head around this.  I can’t imagine this world to which you refer.  Why entrust myself to a reality you describe when I’m currently walking around in a very different world? 

Then Jesus launches into a little sermonette that I find rather uninteresting.  I would rather have more of the back and forth between Jesus and Nicodemus, but that’s not what we’re given. 

We are left with Nicodemus’ questions: how can you be “born” when you’re older?  How can there be fundamental changes in a life that has already settled into patterns?  How do we change?  How do we form ourselves around a new center?  How do we take up fundamentally new life projects?  How do we work ourselves loose from the grip of comfortable habits and commit ourselves to fresh alternatives?

Maybe Jesus’ question for us is whether we’ve got so much invested in our current path that we’re unfree to make changes?  Might we need to disassemble what we’ve already built?  Have we taken off on a trip before deciding which direction to be going?  Are we carrying too much weight, too much cargo, to turn the ship around?

It’s hard to change.  If you’ve ever tried to convert from a PC to a Mac, or from an iphone to an Android phone, you’ll testify that change is complicated.   If you’ve ever changed your cable service and been forced to learn how to use a new remote . . . or more likely new remotes (plural, because “you use this one to power the TV on, and then this one for volume, and then another one if you want to change the channel”).

Some of us are so dedicated to our routines that we can’t even imagine sleeping on a different side of a bed!  Whether you’re single and sleep on the same side of a big bed all the time.  Couples have their side of the bed.  They can’t change.  When we travel and sleep in hotels, I like the side of the bed closest to the TV.  But if it’s not the “normal” side of the bed I sleep on, my wife makes me move.  I heard an interview with a married couple who confessed that they alternate sides of the bed every year.  Why?  They claim it’s better for the mattress.  But they were also afraid that sleeping on the same side of your face might flatten out your face over a lifetime.  And they wanted to avoid this.

There is hope for us, I think.  It’s hard to be born again later in life.  But it’s not impossible.  Maybe some of you can even name some examples of starting something later in life.  Or learning something new.  Or shifting your life in fresh directions that allowed you to experience more of God’s love for you and others. 

The Arts Council hosted their art show this week.  And as I walked around the displays, I noticed some wonderful art created by some of you in this room.  And I notice some impressive pieces made by adults who are students of Elaine Buerge.  Imagine that, learning to paint later in life.

I had a conversation with a 61 year old man this week.  We were talking about how to handle stress, how to take care of ourselves.  He mentioned that the best thing he has done for himself is to begin taking piano lessons again – in his 60’s.  He played when he was young and always wanted to pick it back up.

Within John’s gospel, we never find out for sure whether Nicodemus became a follower of Jesus or not.  Perhaps that’s because the story is as much about us as it is about him.  Do we want be born anew?  The season of Lent is a wonderful time to move out of the shadows and into the light of God’s love.