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CHAPTER VIII Nicodemas
The night cold and humorless.
An aging scholar stood in the street and waited. Pulling his robes around him against the chill he wondered if his quarry would come out of the house that he had seen him enter the hour before. It had been a curious day. He had watched amused, then terrified, the event that unfolded in the Temple. What an event it had been! How he had felt his blood pound as the young man had usurped commerce in the Temple. Never had he seen such controlled violence, such precise and titillating physical force from one man. The commerce of piety, as usual, had been going on for centuries. But this young tiger, this virile hero, this, this superhuman man, or whatever he was, had completely arrested his sensibilities. And so, he had furtively followed him here. Followed him through the streets and paths of the city. He had listened as he heard the young man speak to those who were likewise curious of his actions. Only one nondescript face in the crowd, so as not to be noticed. Yet insistent in his intent. Determined to meet this man. He would not rest until he had heard him for himself. He could not stop until there had been personal contact. Face to face dialogue. He is a man, isn't he?
The light from the windows of the home gave the illusion of warming the night. The man shivered. What must I do to make him notice me? How shall I approach him? What shall I say? I do not wish to seem like a foolish old man? With such haunting trivia flitting among his thoughts, he waited and watched.
Is there a way, a stratagem if you will, for men to get the attention of God? It is easier to think of this on a mass level. How easy it is to say that "God loves the world." But, how easy is it to say, "God loves me--personally and individually?" And know it. And feel it? More than that, how easy is it to really believe that God notices? That God genuinely cares about the struggles or, for that matter, the whims of an individual? How curiously satisfying to know that God is my Friend, my friend, as distinct, different and unique, say, from being your friend. I have no quarrel with God being your friend or his having as many friends as he chooses. But I want the character of my contact with him to be different than it is with you. I want to know him in a way nobody else does, be with him in a way nobody else can. Does God actually concern himself that I have a stall for my ass? Does he fret when I am late for an appointment? Do the stars in the sky actually have names that he gave them? Are the hairs on my head actually numbered? This one is number one, this one is number two, this one is number three? Does he really notice when a single sparrow falls from the sky? If so, then maybe he needs to find something real to do. Why doesn't he notice whole races of people in slavery? Why doesn't he notice genocide? Why doesn't he notice the bulging eyes and protruding bones of starving innocents? Why doesn't he shoo the flies from their nostrils? Never mind friendship with God on the individual level. God has the power and the motivation, one would assume, to address this terrible human trauma. Why doesn't he? While his eye is on the sparrow, while he sees the tiny bird fall, does anyone notice that God does not catch it, that he does not lift it again to fly? Does anyone notice that God lets its carcass rot in the dust? It is enough to make one reject entirely the notion of an omnipotent, loving God. Those of us who think about such things, who ask such questions are often inclined to observe, If God really does exist, then he must be a monster. He must actually enjoy the killing fields.
The killing fields? And just who is killing whom? And is there a substantive difference between a prescient human and a non-prescient sparrow? In musings and arguments such as these, we forget, or choose to ignore, that humans are created in the Image of God. To put it bluntly, we know exactly what we are doing when we destroy babies in the fire of Molech, or ruin completely the existence of life, or crucify a Lamb. We are responsible for our inhumanity to each other. God gave us that responsibility and will not interfere with our ability to exercise it until his purpose for creation is realized. Meanwhile, he concerns himself with the sparrows until we ourselves become as innocent as they. Now, therefore, let us sit in judgment of God for natural phenomena such as earthquakes, droughts, whirling storms and floods. Are these not the natural consequences of things he set in order? Of course, they are. Isn't he then responsible for the wholesale loss of life they cause? Indirectly, since he did indeed set them in order, yes, of course. We view these things, however, as disastrous. No doubt they are. Some are witless enough to discern that God is bringing punishment on a rebellious and wicked mankind. Perhaps this is plausible should these events only exterminate the wicked. But they also annihilate the innocents along with the wicked. It is entirely plausible that God does not view death as we do. If God is real, and if eternal life is a direct consequence of death on earth, it is not unreasonable to conclude that life on earth is temporal. Is massive death so terrible if it is merely a gateway to eternal life? Yes. Massive death is terrible. Life on earth is precious and, other than by faith, some would think that we have no tangible guarantee that life beyond death even exists, let alone exists as paradise. Perhaps this life is the only paradise we will ever know. But it is not just hard, it is impossible for me to accept the notion that Jesus is a liar; or that the appearance of Moses and Elijah, or that his resurrection is all a convenient fiction! Are not these guarantee enough? It is he who has taught us that eternal life awaits those who trust in him. That is enough for me.
Similar thoughts as these molested the trivia in the man's mind. He belonged to a self-righteous sect called the Pharisees. He also held membership in the Sanhedrin, the Jewish ruling council. He had too much seen the disregard for human life at the hands of his Roman conquerors. He had seen a gang of unruly soldiers rape his sister. He was fourteen at the time. Repeatedly, one after the other. Again and again. Afterwards, no man wanted her as a wife. She became a hater of men. If they were going to have her body, it would not be without a price. She became a whore. Dear Ruthie! Good God! He had also visited too often the leper colony where his mother lay dying. Visited as in going to the location, not walking among them. That was unclean. He spoke to his mother by shouting to her across a dividing valley. As a child, he had seen too much pain. After the loss of his mother to that terrible disease, his father's brother took him under his care and educated him. Yet, he knew too deeply the hypocrisy of his own life. He could not answer these enigmatic, morbidly profound questions. Though a respected teacher, an admired scholar, he did not know what to do with the injustice of human torment. And so he waited. Perhaps this young warrior knew. Perhaps this man was of God? Perhaps? Voices. People at the door. Goodbyes. Good wishes. Thank you's. The Pharisee waited in the darkness. As luck would have it, Jesus came his way. They would pass so close they could touch. The moment came. Jesus was alone. A rare moment indeed.
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