A nervous plane ride Many years ago I got on a plane in N'Djamena bound for Douala in the Cameroons. I took my aisle seat on the sparsely populated plane. We took off and were soon flying south over the African landscape below.
The sky was troubled that day, and in time we were flying into the dark clouds. The ride was bumpy but the attendants were still trying to respond to the needs of the passengers. But then, suddenly, the ride became very, very rough. I gripped the arm rests on either side, and looked around. The attendants were stumbling, racing, for a seat. Everyone sat frozen in their seats as the plane rocked about. Then up ahead, above the door, a red light began flashing, ``Emergency! Emergency!'' I'd never seen that light on a plane before. My heart was beating fast.
No, no, my heart cried out. Oh God, please! Please! Keep me safe! Oh God, I believe in you! I tried to stay calm while I desperately prayed, all at the same time.
Then, just like that, the light stopped flashing. Oh thank you, God! Thank you! And then the plane started to level off. In time the attendants got up and went back to work. Thank you, God, thank you! Yes, Lord, I believe!
Nicodemus, the dark, and the light When I took my plane ride to Douala it was actually daytime, but figuratively speaking, it was nighttime. It was one of those ``dark nights of the soul'' when I was reaching out for some shard of hope, just wanting to find some glimmer of light.
The familiar Nicodemus story takes place in the dark, at night. Nicodemus, an intelligent, devout, seeking Pharisee, comes to Jesus under the cover of darkness, to explore some ideas with him. He finds Jesus in a reflective mood, ready and willing to talk, challenging of course, but open.
It is interesting to think about this common Johannian image of dark and light. Jesus is the light of the world, we read. In God there is no darkness at all. Of course it is a theme throughout scriptures. At creation there was darkness, but then God created light. The prophet Isaiah said that the ``people who have walked in darkness have seen a great light.'' (Is. 9:2) Peter writes of moving from darkness ``into his marvelous light.'' (I P. 2:9)
Let me digress to acknowledge that in our time in history we must be careful with language. We have to watch ourselves when we work with the image of light and dark. We are talking here about illumination, about the fact that when we just can't see anything we have no illumination, we have no possibility of seeing our way. When the light comes, we can see again. It is easy to give the impression that we are speaking about color, contrasting dark colors with light colors. African American people, Africans, and others have suffered unfairly when the metaphor of darkness unhappily is used to equate the dark pigmentation of the skin with evil.
Since light is what we want and need, darkness can come to be seen as necessarily a bad thing. In the dark it is hard to make proper distinctions. In the dark one can't be too sure. Light is associated with getting it, with grasping something. Darkness is tied to uncertainty or ignorance.
Yet it is in the context of darkness that one of the richest dialogues in scriptures unfolds. Maybe there is something to be said with exploring the darkness. Maybe too much light, like when a big truck comes barreling towards you, its lights glaring, maybe too much light isn't always the best.
For me, at least, too much light can feel fake. If all I can see are big Crest smiles, men in tailored suits, women in exquisite dresses, bright lights shining on a smooth cross, everyone merrily chirping about how wonderful it is to be alive, and how great God is. It is as though the real things that we think about in the middle of the night can't be talked about here. They just don't fit.
So there's something to be said for dark woods, for windows that don't let in all the light, for a few candles flickering in a shadowy room. This is real, and reflects the real tension which exists in our hearts. And the small but persistent candles can and do remind us of God's persistent voice, calling us to the warmth of Jesus' way.
Believing After Nicodemus and Jesus finish their conversation in verse 15 John editorializes, giving meaning to the back and forth between the two by saying that this is what it is all about: God loves all humankind and anyone who believes in him can find their lives transformed forever and ever.
You know believing can take on different shapes and forms. Certainly when the light was flashing ``Emergency! Emergency!'' I was proclaiming my belief. I am confident that believing in Jesus is far more than just pronouncing the right words, though of course words, which can seem so trite or shallow, are all we have to say what we know. ``I believe,'' to be real, has to take on life beyond the words. Just like ``I love you'' is nothing but nonsense if I don't live out those words.
This week I came across this word picture from Jim Schrag. He says that the gospel of Jesus Christ is more like a tree than it is like a treasure box. It is more like a tree which is alive, growing, changing, stretchingthan a treasure box, a box with lock and key, that contains the sacred truth.
What is in a treasure box can only be taken out from time to time and looked at. It is still there. It looks the same. We know precisely how to get to it. By taking this key, placing it in this lock, and opening the box. A tree, by contrast, lives and grows in ways appropriate to the changing weather about it. It adjusts to the rain and the snow, the wind and the rain. And so it is with believing, as we pass through life there are different ways of crying out to God in belief, different and evolving ways of expressing our ``yes'' to the Lord.
I think we cause ourselves a lot of grief, and we don't give God much credit, if we just grow satisfied with, say, our sixth grade understanding of the gospel, put it in a box, and unlock it from time to time.
Rather, let us dare to walk into the shadows where Jesus will be waiting for us. He will be patient, and he will take us as we are, no matter how faint or courageous our whisper of faith may be.
