The Ladder (Story Sermon)

“The Ladder”

John 3:1-17

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/11/18

         My name is Nicodemus. I’ve been a leader of the Jews for many years. And just weeks ago I would have told you how confident I was of myself, and of my mastery of the law. I would have told you that in knowing the law, I knew the heart and mind of God.

         Part of me still aches for that sense of clarity, for that certainty. But things have changed. Where my vision once seemed clear, it’s now blurred. Where my feet once felt like they stood on broad and solid ground, they now step tentatively, as if crossing some high, narrow bridge through thick fog.

         Things really turned when I snuck out one night to speak with that young rabbi, Jesus from Nazareth. He’s an odd man, disturbing and compelling at the same time.

         My brothers on the Sanhedrin think little of him, as did I at first. But the reports of things he said and did fascinated me. I was curious. He wasn’t of high birth or formal education, but if what people were saying were true, where did Jesus get his authority if not from God?

         I spoke to Caiaphas about Jesus, and the chief priest did not receive my questions with patience.

“Have you forgotten his sacrilege in the temple?” he said.

Then he sneered saying, “We’ve seen his kind before. He won’t last long.”

         I let it drop, but the curiosity kept stirring inside me.

One night, I was unable to sleep. And like my mind, my feet wouldn’t stay still. So, I found myself sneaking through the streets of Jerusalem toward the house where Jesus was staying.

Pitiful. Me, a leader of the Jews, creeping like some cockroach through the inky shadows of that new-moon night.

         When I reached the house, I knocked so gently I knew that part of me didn’t want the door to open. But in a moment, it creaked on its hinges. It was one of Jesus’ disciples. That bunch of vagabonds. You know, Jesus may have lost his temper in the temple, but many consider his choice of followers his greatest weakness.

The one called Peter answered my knock. It was midnight, but if the sun had been shining behind him, it would have been no less dark in the huge man’s shadow. A fisherman, patient and strong, Peter must have been watching over the others, waiting to catch someone like me in some act of mischief against Jesus.

“Who are you,” he said in a threatening voice.

         “My name is Nicodemus. I’m a priest. If possible, I would like to speak with the Nazarene.”

         Peter eyed me with suspicion. Then a quiet voice from above said, “Peter, let him in.”

The disciple opened the door and stood aside. He led me to a wooden ladder against the back wall. It led to an opening in the roof.

“Up there,” he said. Then he caught me by the arm. “Count the rungs,” he said, “and step over the sixth one. It’s coming loose.”

         I thanked him and eased onto the ladder. It groaned and flexed beneath my feet.

         Jesus sat across the rooftop on front edge of the house. He was staring into the sky as if the stars themselves were some still and small-voiced text he was reading.

He motioned for me to come and sit beside him. As I shuffled across the timbers of the roof, I thought of Adam, reaching out with dreadful curiosity when tempted with forbidden fruit.

“So,” he said. “What brings you here?”

         “Rabbi,” I said, “we know you’re a teacher sent by God. Who else could do what you do without God’s help?”

         Returning his gaze to the sky, Jesus said, “I tell you the truth, Nicodemus. No one can see the kingdom of God without being born anew.”

         Born anew? I wondered. Born anew?

“Jesus, I heard you turned water into wine, but how can anyone be born a second time?”

          “I’m talking about a different kind of birth,” he said. “I’m talking about a spiritual birth, a birth from above.

“Right now, Nicodemus, you can’t see beyond the worldly realm. It’s not your fault, but over the years, the leaders of our faith have reduced God’s Torah to a scoresheet. You’re missing the fundamental blessing – the blessing of holy community through which people come to know and love God.

         “The physical world is good, Nicodemus. It’s a great gift from God. Indeed, the creation is a revelation of God. As such, everything around us, including each other, is an invitation – an invitation into the deeper world of relationship with all that is seen and unseen. That’s the world of Spirit and truth.

“Don’t look so surprised, Nicodemus. You have the stories of the Exodus and the prophets. You have the poetry of the psalmists. You have all you need to hear everything I’m saying.

“Like the wind, you hear it, but you don’t know exactly where it comes from or where it’s going, do you? It’s the same way with everyone who is Spirit-born, everyone who walks in the flesh while living in the Spirit.”

         “Rabbi, I…I’m not following you.”

         Jesus looked at me with those deep, night-sky eyes. “Nicodemus,” he said, “bless your heart. You’re a teacher of Israel. You’ve memorized so much, but you understand and feel so little.”

         At that point Jesus began to speak some more, but he didn’t seem to speak just to me. He spoke inward, to himself. Or maybe he spoke outward, to God, or to the stars, or to ages yet to come. He said something about believing earthly things and heavenly things. Something about how no one had ascended into and descended from heaven but the Son of Man.

         Then he talked about God’s love for the whole world. He mentioned an only Son, sent by God, and how that Son connected everyone with God in such a way that he brought us into God’s presence and light. He said that the Son’s purpose wasn’t to keep score or to punish, but to redeem. In all of this he made no mention of laws or sacrifice. Only love.

“Jesus, what you’re talking about,” I said, “sounds like a love that lives beyond the law. Is there even a word for that?”

Jesus let a silence as deep as the heavens fall around us. He didn’t answer, and when it was clear he wasn’t going to, I got up. Frustrated and confused, I made my way back to the ladder. When I set my foot on the top rung, it dawned on me: I had counted six rungs on the way up, but I hadn’t counted beyond that. So going down, which was the bad one? I had no idea. I leaned into the ladder and held tight to the upper rungs as I made my way down. I expected, at any moment, to feel that weak rung give way and send me crashing into the pile of snoring roughnecks below.

         When my foot touched solid ground, I turned and found myself face to face with Peter.

         “You okay?” he said. I think I heard a grin in his voice.

         “Yes,” I said. “Did you fix the ladder while I was up there?”

         Peter shook his shaggy head. “No. Did you trust me when I told you to avoid the sixth rung?”

“Of course, I did.”

         “But you didn’t count above it, did you?” 

         “No, I didn’t.”

         “So, coming down became a kind of step-by-step leap of faith.”

         “I suppose so,” I said.

         “‘No one,” said Peter, “has ascended into heaven but the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man.’”

          So, he had listened to our conversation.

“Nicodemus,” he said, “here’s what we’re learning from Jesus: He is the Son of Man. He is God’s Son. And I’ve decided that he’s kind of like this ladder.

         “You doubted the ladder when you went up because someone told you it wasn’t safe, but you had feel your way down. And the ladder held. It will always hold, Nicodemus. It will always take you to the roof where you can stand beneath the endless heavens, where you can feel the renewing peace of awe and humility. And it will always deliver you back to earth.”

         It seemed that I had misjudged this fisherman.

Peter stamped his foot on the dirt floor of the house “Nicodemus, this earth, right here, right now, this is where the Son of Man and all who follow him live their Spirit-born lives.”

Just then, a breeze rattled the shutters on the front of the house. In the cedar outside, a warbler began to sing. Down the street a dog barked. I wanted to stay and hear more, but dawn was about to break, and I could not be seen leaving that house.

“I should go,” I said.

“I understand,” said Peter. “But listen, Nicodemus, everyone in authority is saying that Jesus isn’t safe. And while there’s a certain truth to that, he is faithful. He’s true and good. He can be trusted.”

         I thanked Peter, and he opened the door for me. The moment I stepped into the street, someone whispered my name.

“Nicodemus!”

Terrified that I’d been caught, I looked around.

“Up here,” said the voice.

I looked up and saw Jesus peering from the roof.

“There is a word for it,” he said, “a word for love beyond all law.

“The word is grace.”