“Shalom.”
“And peace to you, my brother.”
Nicodemus stepped hurriedly
through the doorway, glad to be off the street at this time of night in the
lower city. “Is he here?”
“Yes.” His friend glanced toward
the ceiling, re-opened the door and stepped back. “Go up and see him. I think
he expects you.”
Nicodemus’s eyes widened, but he retained
his dignified demeanor. “Thank you, my friend.” His hand clasped the other
man’s arm and secretly he wished his friend lived in a safer part of the city. Nodding,
he stepped back into the evening.
At his left, a rough, narrow
staircase led to the roof, and he lifted his robe to spare it from dragging against
the plastered steps. He had heard much of the man he was about to question—too
much, really. From a distance he had listened to the words of this Galilean
carpenter’s son, and had planned to wait him out as he had all the others,
watch for his demise, observe from afar as one more zealot fell either to the
destruction of self-importance or a Roman sword.
Yet the incident at the temple during
Pesach could not be ignored. This one had braided hemp cords together and
whipped about the moneychangers and dove keepers until they fled from the outer
courts. The man’s wrath was fearful. His voice had roared above the cackle of
bartering merchants and lowing animals as he shouted that the temple was meant for
prayer, not for profit.
Nicodemus shook his head again at
the memory. How obvious the remark, yet how few had uttered it.
He slowed as he neared the top,
and over the low wall bordering the roof saw the man standing near the northern
edge, looking out over Jerusalem. His expression was indiscernible in profile,
but Nicodemus suspected that his thoughts were not filled with joy.
His sandaled foot scraped against
the last step and the object of his visit turned in his direction. For a moment
he met those dark eyes, deep beyond the man’s thirty or so years, full of much more
than one that young should have opportunity to learn.
Nicodemus dropped his gaze,
though he was the elder to whom respect was due. But no disrespect was given.
It was something else: a knowing. A shiver rushed over his body, though the
night was not yet cold but only cooler by degree than the day had been.
“Rabbi,” he said. As a Pharisee,
he himself was a teacher. He had studied most of his life and enjoyed at last a
place on the Sanhedrin, his nation’s ruling council. His fellow Pharisees
envied this young, uneducated Galilean. No, they feared him, for they could not
successfully argue with his wisdom. Nicodemus swallowed his pride, knowing that
he stood before one who could teach even him.
“Rabbi,” he repeated.
The Galilean nodded in reply, and
gestured toward a low wooden bench where Nicodemus seated himself. The man
joined him on a similar bench set at a right angle, and a slight smile teased
the corners of his mouth.
It was indeed as Nicodemus’s
friend had said: the man expected this visit.
“We know you are a teacher who has come from
God,” Nicodemus began. “For no one could perform the miraculous signs you are
doing if God were not with him.”
The younger man returned his gaze
to the sleeping city. He rested both hands on his knees and breathed deeply as
though considering his first words to his visitor.
“I tell you the truth, no one can
see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.”
A slight gasp escaped Nicodemus’s
mouth, but he quickly gathered himself. How could the man have known the hidden
question of his heart? Nicodemus had carefully rehearsed his first words to the
popular teacher, yet it was as if they had not been spoken, as if the man saw
through to his very thoughts. Did he read minds? Was this how he gained such a
following?
Indeed, the teacher spoke in
riddles, for man does not shrink to the form of a child, an infant, and retrace
his entry to this world.
“How can a man be born when he is
old?” Nicodemus said, struggling to disguise his frustration. He did not want
to appear rude, but this was unthinkable. He shifted on the bench and decided
upon a more tactical approach. “Surely he cannot enter a second time into his
mother’s womb to be born!”
The dark eyes met his, so full of
light though the night closed its hand upon them and only a small lamp
flickered nearby. “I tell you the truth, no one can enter the kingdom of God
unless he is born of water and the Spirit.”
Ah, yes, the kingdom of God.
Well, if the carpenter hadn’t noticed, the city struggled to stay alive in the
kingdom of Rome! Nicodemus composed himself once more and studied the Galilean’s
face, sensing he had more to say.
“Flesh gives birth to flesh, but
the Spirit gives birth to spirit. You should not be surprised at my saying,
‘You must be born again.’”
Nicodemus moved uneasily on the
hard wooden seat, scrutinized, as it were, by one who could detect his masked
astonishment. Oh, for a cushion upon which to rest his aging bones! How could this
man speak of two things at once—the flesh and the spirit? Surely, a Sadducee
would laugh him to scorn.
A sudden gust swept across the
rooftop and the lamp’s flame danced and winked out, only to reappear, standing
steady at the lip of the clay bowl.
“The wind blows wherever it
pleases,” the carpenter said, his eyes on the lamp.
Of course, Nicodemus mused. The
freedom for which Israel yearns,
“You hear its sound, but you
cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going.” The preacher paused and
looked at his visitor. “So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”
Nicodemus brooded over the
remark. How quickly this man grasped that which lay nearby to teach his lesson.
Yes, the people were right. His words carried an unspoken authority.
“How can this be?” Nicodemus finally
whispered, as if too loud a word would whip across the lamp and extinguish the
flame.
At this the carpenter stood and
walked again to the low northern wall of the rooftop. From the back he looked
as any other poor Galilean in homespun garments and colorless leather sandals.
No gray yet tinged his light hair, and Nicodemus wondered if, with his rash
sayings, he would live long enough for his beard to whiten.
“You are Israel’s teacher,” the man
said to the rooftops of the neighboring homes, “and you do not understand these
things?” He turned then and sat on the wall, pressing his hands on its
plastered surface as he leaned forward, emphasizing his words. “I tell you the
truth, we speak of what we know, and we testify to what we have seen, but still
you people do not accept our testimony.”
Nicodemus shifted his robed
weight to his right hip, wondering what the Galilean meant by we.
The younger man’s demeanor softened
and he regarded Nicodemus as a parent would a child who is slow to understand.
“I have spoken to you of earthly things and you do not believe; how then will
you believe if I speak of heavenly things?”
Yes, heavenly things. That is
what I came to discuss, Nicodemus thought, yet he does not answer me plainly.
At that moment the deep eyes flashed
as if in response to the unspoken complaint. “No one has ever gone into heaven
except the one who came from heaven—the Son of Man.”
Nicodemus knew the reference, but
why the lowly epithet?
“Just as Moses lifted up the
snake in the desert, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, that everyone who
believes in him may have eternal life.”
The carpenter returned to the
bench, leaned his forearms on his legs and studied his calloused hands. “For
God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes
in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son
into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.” He
paused, settling his gaze on Nicodemus. “Whoever believes in him is not
condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because he has
not believed in the name of God’s one and only Son.”
It was in that moment, when
Nicodemus searched the carpenter’s face for the truth of his words, that a
movement in the far corner of the rooftop distracted him. There, hunched
against the wall with his legs pulled up to his chest, sat one of the man’s
followers. From appearances, he was a fisherman, though not as poor as the
carpenter. He must have stolen up the stairs as his teacher spoke; he had not been
there earlier.
A strong hand touched Nicodemus’s
arm, startling him, and he returned his attention to the Galilean.
“This is the verdict: Light has
come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light because their
deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into
the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed.” He bent down and picked up
the oil lamp, and its tiny flame cast a warm glow across his face. “But whoever
lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that
what he has done has been done through God.”
The man’s expression, seemingly intent
upon Nicodemus understanding, appeared to hold within it the very light of
which he spoke. Nicodemus laid his hand over the place where the teacher had
touched him, and warmth pulsed from beneath the sleeve of his rich garment.
Could this man be the one, the Mashiach, he of whom the prophets spoke?
I must search the scriptures, Nicodemus decided as he stood to leave.
The carpenter also stood, regarding him still, and he smiled and nodded as
Nicodemus bid him good night.
At the stairway, Nicodemus looked
back. The man stood again at the low wall, gazing over the city, the follower
at his side. Fewer lights now flickered from neighboring housetops.
The night had finally cooled, and
Nicodemus pulled his cloak over his head as he descended to the street. It
would not do for a man of his stature to be seen in this part of the city,
visiting a transient preacher. A faint light glowed through the high, narrow
window of the living quarters, and he envied the conversations his friend would
no doubt have with his guest. Stepping into the street, he headed for the upper
city, the broader streets, the safer quarter.
And though he looked the same as
when he had arrived, in his heart Nicodemus knew he would never be the same
again.
Since there’s no more surfing for
Leilani, it’s a good thing she’s a detective at heart. Someone is smashing
pineapples on a farm near her home. Leilani, Maile, and Sam used to play detective when they were younger,
but now this very real problem has them up to their board shorts in mystery and
danger. Will they figure out who’s bashing the fruit? And will they survive?
