Barmherzigkeit

Barmherzigkeit

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector

St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas

May 31, 2015; Trinity Sunday, Year B

Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

John 3:1-17 – There was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, "Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God." Jesus answered him, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above." Nicodemus said to him, "How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother's womb and be born?" Jesus answered, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, 'You must be born from above.' The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit." Nicodemus said to him, "How can these things be?" Jesus answered him, "Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?

"Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

"Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him."

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From Thomas Merton: At the center of our being is a point of pure nothingness which is untouched by sin and illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark that belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God written in us. It is so to speak His name written in us, as our poverty, as our indigence, as our dependence, as our sonship. It is like a pure diamond blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely.[i]

I love this story of Nicodemus. An important man. A serious man. A successful man. A member of the Jewish Sanhedrin, the great national court that legislated all aspects of Jewish religious and political life. He was a scholar and a judge. But he must have had an itch, a dissatisfaction, or maybe a curious wondering. For he finds himself drawn to Jesus, an unconforming Rabbi from the outskirt province of Galilee, who is attracting some uncomfortable attention, mostly from the peasants and rabble. Nicodemus comes to speak to Jesus at night, under the radar. He keeps his distance; he doesn't want to be seen. Like a good politician, he's careful. Testing. But you sense in him a yearning. He is a judge who is not so sure he's got all the answers.

So this important man condescends to come to Jesus, and he pays the young rabbi a generous opening complement. You are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God. You would think Jesus would feel honored. An important man has just recognized him.

But Jesus responds playfully to Nicodemus. Signs of God, you say? Oh! No one can see the signs of God, the kingdom of God, without being born from above, born anew. (The Greek word means both, born from above and born anew.) Ever the serious theologian, Nicodemus answers, "How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother's womb and be born?" (A good, serious, literalist answer. He just doesn't get Jesus.)

Now I can just see the twinkle in Jesus' eye. Oh, I think he loves Nicodemus. Serious, ponderous Nicodemus. But Jesus will not be ponderous. In him is a lightheartedness, a warmheartedness, and he responds to Nicodemus with dancing energy. Twinkling, twirling around these serious theological notions of origins and destinies.

Nicodemus, do not be astonished when I say, 'You must be born anew, from above.' The wind, the Spirit blows where it chooses—you hear it but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. That's the way it is. That's the way to be truly alive! Maybe then the evening breeze picked up just a bit, rustling, dancing through their hair.

There is a rich theological tradition that speaks of the Holy Trinity as the Dance of God. We Trinitarians assert that reality is relational to its core. We see it in the dance of an atom, the exchange of energy across a field, creating something from nothing. We see it in the relationship of two persons—Jesus loving, inviting, challenging, opening; Nicodemus cautiously wondering, pondering, protecting. The Spirit dancing between them, lightly breathing over them the warmheartedness of God, creating a new relationship out of nothing, something born anew from above.

I spent much of this week on retreat. And what often happens on retreat is that my heart gets warmed and softened. After considerable time spent in Centering Prayer, and after joining the liturgical prayer and friendship of my companions in the Order of the Ascension and the monastic house of nuns who hosted us, I was open and at peace.

On the way home, I sat down for a bite to eat in Chicago's O'Hare airport. I looked around, and everyone looked radiant. Yes, when everyone in an airport looks radiant, you are in a warmer frame of mind. A woman sat down with her back toward me. Doesn't she look interesting?, I thought. A large man corralled his family. Oh, he loves them so, I thought. I took delight in some family resemblance I thought I picked up from what might have been daughter, mother, grand-mother. A child screamed bloody murder. Poor thing. Bless his heart. He kept screaming, amplifying it a bit. I felt such compassion for the parents. How miserable and helpless it can feel when a little-one is unwilling to be consoled. Next to me, a toddler from India or Pakistan said something I couldn't understand, pointing toward the planes outside. Her mother answered. The child's beauty was just thrilling to me. And as I delighted in her, there was another part of my mind—what can I call it? My dusty mind, my smaller mind, my conditioned mind?—a part of my mind thought, this child is not really very attractive at all. But, oh. She was beautiful to me.

I learned a new word this week. It is a German synonym for "mercy"—barmherzigkeit. (pronounced barhm-heur-seeg-kite). "Mercy." Or better translated warmheartedness. Barmherzigkeit. It is said to be the quality of the Divine Heart of God. Warmheartedness.

Can you feel the warmheartedness of Jesus as he seeks to draw this serious, important man Nicodemus into the dance of God's Spirit, the warmheartedness which blows where it chooses, coming and going, endlessly giving and receiving of itself, the very dynamism of love. The Spirit blowing, breathing, eternally inviting us into the barmherzigkeit dance, the dance of warmheartedness.

Though it seems that Nicodemus left that evening conversation still in the dark, something had happened. Not long afterwards, in Jerusalem during the Festival of the Booths, when the Sanhedrin admonished the temple police for failing to arrest Jesus, Nicodemus courageously asserted Jesus' legal rights to a fair hearing. For his efforts Nicodemus was sternly ridiculed by his colleagues.

After the crucifixion, Nicodemus helped Joseph of Arimathea with the preparation of the body for burial. There, in the brutal presence of death, it is the light of Nicodemus' warmheartedness that shines in the darkness, a gentle act of love and mercy is the prologue to resurrection.

At the center of our being is a point of pure nothingness which is untouched by sin and illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark that belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God written in us. It is so to speak His name written in us, as our poverty, as our indigence, as our dependence, as our sonship. It is like a pure diamond blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely.

Merton goes on to say: I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is every-where.

[i] Thomas Merton, "A Member of the Human Race," in A Thomas Merton Reader, pp. 346-347, quoted in Cynthia Bourgeault, The Holy Trinity and the Law of Three (Boston & London: Shambala, 2013), p. 150-151

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