Holy Confusion

John 3:1-17

Years ago, at my ordination, the preacher complained to me about having to work with this gospel story. It’s not obviously about priesthood, or the work of the church, and Nicodemus maybe isn’t the best model for leadership.

He’s a publicly recognized leader, yes - the Pharisees were the folks who were obviously good at religion, keeping the faith in all kinds of serious ways.  But he’s sneaking off to see Jesus late at night, which makes it obvious he’s up to no good.

And once he gets the conversation started he frankly can’t keep up with Jesus.  He’s baffled and scrambling:  

“Wait, you want me to go back through the birth canal?  And there’s something about being born from wind? and that’s supposed to be godly? (sounds kind of pagan if you ask me…) Wait, what were you saying??”

You can’t entirely blame Nicodemus — Jesus is being deliberately ambiguous in this conversation. Where our English translation has Jesus telling Nicodemus that you have to be “born from above” to see God’s kingdom, he's using a Greek word that means both “above” and “again.” Like our term “hold up” which can mean either to support someone or to rob them.

Jesus probably intends both “above” and “again” - or something beyond both - but Nicodemus is making a fairly logical assumption in context. “Born again” makes just a little more sense than being “born from above,” when neither of those is a normal or practical birth. But logic just makes him more confused.

And then Jesus goes on about “wind” and “spirit.” Those are the same word in Hebrew, the same word in Greek - no wonder Nicodemus is baffled about being born of the wind, and spirit blowing wherever.

It’s not his fault, really, that he doesn’t understand Jesus.  But it may be what he deserves, sneaking around to interview Jesus at night so that none of his religious leader friends will figure out he’s interested in this weird new rabbi on the scene.

Nicodemus is a model of Just Not Getting It in this story, not a respectable religious leader.

He’s a model of discombobulation.

Anybody here like to be confused? No?

There really are people who enjoy being a little uncertain, amazed, or puzzled. But for the most part, we’re taught that being confused is a bad thing - a short step to flunking tests or just being laughed at.

And yet today in the church we celebrate confusion - we revel in ambiguity, uncertainty, contradictions and complications.  And math. Sort of.

You see, officially it’s Trinity Sunday. The day the church pauses to pay attention to this idea we have that God is really three distinct people —and that that equals only one God.

(And we promptly flunk Sesame Street math.)

If you don't think too hard about it, it’s fine.

We know there’s one God.  

We know about Jesus, who is the Son of God; 

we’ve heard of the Holy Spirit.  

We pray in all those names, and praise God that way.

But if you stop and really think about it, you have to at least consider the questions:
If Jesus is truly God, why does he talk to himself so much?  

If God is fully Jesus, and Jesus is running around on earth, who is minding the store?

How the heck is the Holy Spirit supposed to work, anyway?  Where does it come from? Is anybody in charge? 

And if I really believe in all this, can I still really say I believe in one God? Can I say it with enough sense to convince an atheist?

This is the day that the church sets aside to remind ourselves that those questions are real, that it’s worthwhile to be confused by God, and by Jesus, and by that unpredictable Holy Spirit. It’s worthwhile to be confused by all those things that we stand up every Sunday and proclaim that we believe. Because confusion is what makes us practice belief. 

“I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe,” Jesus tells Nicodemus. “I’ve explained these things that happen here and now, we’ve talked about real experience, and you’re not practicing believing. So how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things, the things you really want to know about the Kingdom of God?”

Belief, you know, is not a question of logic; not of facts, not being convinced, not of the head,

but of the heart. Believing in Trinity, believing in God, is about what we’re willing to risk our hearts on and how we live our lives, not what we can explain.

That’s Nicodemus’ great blessing and great challenge: that believing sometimes requires doubt, sometimes requires confusion, wonder, and bewilderment, because only when we find ourselves fully lost can we fully commit to trust.

If we can do it ourselves - if we can understand by ourselves, or accomplish a task by ourselves, we’re never going to fully depend on someone else. That’s safe and natural and normal.

But to really believe in God,

to really give your heart,

we have to be face to face with the uncomfortable truth that we really can’t understand God.

Certainty isn’t trust — in fact, it might get in the way of trust — and we need to trust God with our whole hearts more than we need to believe with our whole minds.

Because that’s the faith that stands up to all the painfully unfair, illogical, odd and unpredictable realities of life. The only faith that can stand up to the way life and God both work in mysterious ways, and turn us upside down on a regular basis.

And it’s the only way to understand Jesus:

to trust before you ask, to commit before you know,

to believe by heart and action before you try to believe by convincing your brain.

Sometimes confusion really is the work of the church, the mark of a faith leader, and the best of our hearts.

So in honor of Nicodemus, will you revel in bewilderment this week?

Spend some time with the questions that make you scratch your head - about God and about everyday life. Challenge your brain and your logic with poetry, or new math, or the bizarre true things that scientists are discovering every day.

Or when life goes awry, and the inexplicable happens, just welcome it, and embrace the confusion.

Will you be baffled, this week, for God?

And risk your heart on the unbelievable, so that you may really, truly, madly, deeply believe?

Where Pentecost Happens

Acts 2:1-21, John 15:26-27;16:4-15, Romans 8:22-27 

Pentecost is one of the church’s great stories, isn’t it? 

Dramatic! People with fiery halos, out in the streets, preaching the gospel with enthusiasm and vigor. Traffic stops and people from all over the known world listen, and hear, and understand, and get involved!

The punch line of this story - one they leave out of the selection we hear today, but one I can’t forget - is that three thousand people were baptized in response to this dramatic witness. Three thousand people join in, and the church is born as the faithful believers grow by something like 2,000 percent.

This is amazing! Right?

So why doesn’t God keep doing it?  What should be happening to us? 

If the Holy Spirit is supposed to be among us too, why isn’t Calvary growing by the thousands?
Why aren’t we lit up like fireworks?
Why aren’t there more of us out and about telling the good news in the streets and on TV?

Why - instead - is our world’s religious news so often about how the church is failing?

Maybe those things don’t keep you up at night, but I confess that every time we read and hear this story,  I get preachers’ envy.

Because, you know, I’ve never stopped traffic with the gospel, never seen conversions in the thousands, and some weeks, it’s all I can do to wake up to preach, much less be fired up like those disciples were.

It’s a tough story to measure up to, especially if - as I suspect - this is God’s standard for all Christians, not just preachers; for all of us who know the gospel story, and know we’re not supposed to keep it to ourselves.

So I’m always a bit anxious preaching on Pentecost, and a little resentful that the Holy Spirit doesn’t light up the room or the street for us the way we hear about in the Bible.

Until I re-read the beginning of the story, and remember that these are the people who’ve spent much of the last seven weeks hiding out in locked rooms in Jerusalem: hiding out in fear of the temple authorities, huddling because they’re weirded out by Jesus coming back from the grave,

worrying about who’s going to serve on the vestry, and praying, because they haven’t got a clue what’s going to happen next, and they’re still not over Jesus leaving them (again).

I sit at my computer wishing for the dramatic appearance of the Holy Spirit - until I remember Jesus telling those disciples that the Spirit doesn’t come unless Jesus goes, until they’re left leaderless and grieving.

And I fantasize about God’s holy fire making church growth and evangelism easy, until I listen to Paul talking about labor pain, and how the Spirit helps us at our weakest, when we can’t even find the words to pray.

And then I’m a little less envious of Pentecost, and a little more cautious about how I pray, because the truth of these stories, the truth of the fire and the spectacle and of Jesus’ teaching, is that the Holy Spirit shows up not when we’re looking for something to happen, but when we are vulnerable, fragile, uncertain, lonely or afraid.

The amazing thing about that story of disciples preaching in the streets isn’t just the language miracle, or the conversions, or even the visible fire around their heads - the most amazing thing is that these are folks who were - perhaps still are - afraid to leave the safety of their rented room. These are mostly under-educated, marginal folks who have no business in the public forum, just as likely to get arrested for disturbing the peace as to get a fair hearing. Anxious and at risk at the same time they are alight with the Holy Spirit.

Perhaps the Holy Spirit is indeed among us now, as Jesus promised, but needs us to be that vulnerable, be risky, lonely, terrified or helpless, before we’re ready for the power and transformation that make miracles.

Perhaps the promise of Pentecost, the miracle of the Holy Spirit, is not about results: proclamation, publicity, and conversion. Perhaps it’s actually a reminder that God’s business is with our vulnerability, not our confidence, our pain, not just our work, our empty spaces, even more than our successes.

Some of the best preachers I’ve ever known weren’t professionals, but people at our prayer desk, who’ve heard God respond to a prayer they couldn’t even name, a pain they didn’t even know.

People telling stories of love and loss at funerals. 

People reacting - just reacting - to the experience of being vulnerable in the presence of God. 

I’ve seen God more clearly, more transformatively, when you have let me help you than when you’ve been strong; more powerfully in apologies than in competence; more vividly when you’ve asked for my prayers, when we’ve made mistakes together, than when we keep it all running on tracks.

That’s what Pentecost is like, you know:

that huddle of disciples, fretting, waiting, wondering, hiding, are just reacting to the sudden powerful experience of the presence of God in their time of uncertainty and loss, fragility and suspense, and because of that, thousands of people see that being foolish is grace-filled, 

and being vulnerable lets God act.

That sounds a little scary, but it sounds like good news to me.

Since, like those disciples in Jerusalem long ago, I’ve got a LOT more vulnerability than success in my life - despite how good this life truly is - and an ample stock of doubt, grief, and fear.

And I’ll bet I’m not the only one.

Is there some vulnerability in your life, right now?

Some very present pain or loss, or some lurking, barely conscious fear or anxiety?

Are there things that feel too risky, things you just won’t do, because you’d be embarrassed, or lonely? Things you avoid, in case you fail, or in case you just don’t really succeed?

Believe it or not, those are the places in which Pentecost happens.

The cracks in our lives and hearts where we’re afraid that pain can get in are the openings through which the Holy Spirit pours out grace for us and others.

So maybe what you and I are called to do for Pentecost isn’t necessarily to run out preaching in the streets (if you want to, please do! But) maybe we’re called to embrace those cracks and limits, not avoid them.

To make friends with the pains or the doubts you try not to dwell on - we don’t have to face them head on, just sidle up to them, and be present - and remember that the Spirit prays in you in those raw and helpless places, prays too deep for words.

And when you respond to that,

God is revealed in glorious, wonderful ways.