Let the Mystery Be

Kathy Douglass

Scriptures: Genesis 12:1-4a; John 3:1-17

No one knows for certain and so it’s all the same to me
I think I’ll just let the mystery be

From the song Let the Mystery By by Iris DeMent

My early childhood spiritual formation was largely shaped by my near perfect attendance at Sunday School. I don’t really hold the bragging rights to the perfect attendance, I was just hustled into the backseat of the car along with my 3 siblings pretty much every time the church doors were open. My mom began volunteering as a Sunday School teacher at the little Baptist church in Port Angeles when she was 15 years old, and she was determined that her children would grow up hearing the same Bible stories she spent so many years telling. Well into my adult life, shelves in her garage remained stacked with misshapen cardboard boxes full of faded flannelgraph backgrounds and figures. Do you remember flannelgraph? I’m not sure what the kiddos are using these days in Children’s ministries, but this kiddo loved flannelgraph. I’d sit alongside my little pals in a semi-circle of uncomfortable wooden chairs, my patent leather shoes not quite touching the tile floor, wide-eyed and captivated as teacher would carefully place the crudely drawn and painted cutouts with the fuzzy backing on the easel. The serpents, the angels, the giants. The sheep, the coat of many colors, the fishermen.

My Sunday School memories were stirred while revisiting the story of Nicodemus from today’s Gospel. My patent leather shoe days are way back in the rearview mirror. But I do remember how this story of Nicodemus was told to me: a dark gray flannel background with a bright moon to depict nighttime; a small stone dwelling with a crooked opening in the side that revealed a wooden table that held a glowing candle; a solitary figure in stately garments, looking over his shoulder as he tip-toed his way toward the dwelling. Teacher would then swap some cutouts so the next scene revealed this same man now sitting inside the dwelling at that small table, in the glow of that candlelight, across from a gentle faced man with a brown beard, a flowing white gown and a bright red sash. The red sash was always a give-away that this was Jesus.

Teacher told us that Nicodemus was a Pharisee, a renowned teacher who held great authority, a man of exceptional knowledge, steeped in Jewish law, the rules, the musts, the expectations, the behaviors, the thinking.

He came to Jesus in the night with some curiosity, with some questions. Teacher told us that Jesus addressed his questions, in part, with words that have become iconic in the Christian tradition. “You must (at least per the King James Version read to us) be born again”. You must be born again.

Teacher would go on to provide some specifics as to what this meant: the exact words to say to make sure I was indeed born again, the rules to follow so my born again status was credible, a checklist to make sure I believed and lived my life accordingly.

This checklist planted seeds that were reiterated and reinforced for years. In my own Nicodemus fashion, I became steeped in the rules, the musts, the expectations, the behaviors, the thinking that shaped this ethos of certainty. And to be fair, some of these absolutes were put on me, but some of them I imposed on myself. And this all worked just fine, until it didn’t work anymore.

Until I found my heart and mind in contortions, wrestling with all I had been taught that was not aligning with the life I was experiencing, the life I was expecting. Until I found that my best ‘born again’ behavior could not soothe some of the gnawing aches, speak to the nagging doubts or answer the thorny questions that I secretly harbored. Until all that held me threatened to undo me as I desperately bore witness to heartbreak and cruelty and disarray. Until the longings woven through our Psalm began resonating with me: “where is my helper? Has God fallen asleep? Does the Maker of heaven and earth not see that I’m stumbling here?”

My certainty held me, until it could hold me no longer. Have you ever felt that way?

I wonder if it was a similar realization for Nicodemus? In their nighttime encounter, the narrative tells us that he acknowledged Jesus was from God, given all he was hearing and witnessing of Jesus’ miracles, his interactions, his teachings.

To risk that nighttime visit, it seems Nicodemus set aside well-earned prestige and took on humility. It seems to me that Nicodemus fostered a curiosity that begged for understanding, a wondering about something beyond, something more spacious than all the law could fully satisfy. You can hear it in his plea: “how can a man be born when he is old? Can he enter a second time into his mother’s womb and be born?” Jesus engages his curiosity as he disentangles some of the absolutes from Nicodemus’ thoughts and speaks of a new kind of birth, a birth grounded in water, in wind, in Spirit. A birth grounded in mystery. A birth leading to a new way of being and living, a life that death cannot destroy, and a belief in the One who oƯers this life.

“Believe” is a tricky word, especially when it has been weaponized, made exclusionary, defined to its most molecular detail, leaving no room for nuance or individuality of expression. My 20 minutes in online seminary this past week taught me that anytime I encounter the word “believe” in the New Testament, it comes from the Greek word pisteuo, which means much more than arriving at a mental conclusion. It means to entrust myself to, to rely upon, to hold fast to. That does not sound like a checklist of rules and expectations to me. That sounds like relationship. That sounds like love.

Entrust. Rely. Hold fast. That sounds like faith. The kind of faith that compelled Abram to set out from his homeland and kin and follow after an audacious promise made by God, and in taking this leap into the mystery of what only God could accomplish for and through him, find himself considered righteous. I love that in the Genesis reading, these words are included, almost as an aside: “and Lot went with him.” We are not made or meant to walk this journey of faith on our own. Entrust. Rely. Hold fast. The kind of faith that prompted the Psalmist to sing, “my help comes from the Lord, who watches over me. The Lord, who does not slumber or sleep, the Lord, who will not let me stumble.” The kind of faith, that we, surrounded by heartbreak, cruelty, and disarray, might ground ourselves in.

I have shared with some that I have felt more held in mystery than I ever felt held in certainty. This realization did not come overnight, it has been decades in the making and involves an ongoing practice of noticing when the hollow claims of certainty, expectations and behaviors insist that I construct something self-made, something beyond the love and promises of God to ensure I am held. Spiritual practice is just that – practice, meaning that I don’t always notice. I can get a little grabby sometimes and reach back for those old, cold comforts. This usually happens when I am tired, when I am sad, when I am afraid. When I’m disappointed in myself. When I feel unable, or unwilling, to let the mystery be. Then I remember that certainty worked for awhile, but it doesn’t work anymore.

My penitence, my return to God, comes when I allow Jesus to disentangle me from the absolutes and welcome me back, again and again into the mystery of letting myself be carried, by the water, the wind, the Spirit. He invites me to entrust myself to his love, rely on his mercy, and hold fast to his grace.

It isn’t recorded how Nicodemus felt as he left Jesus that night. We don’t know for certain. Perhaps he felt the refreshment of the water, the movement of the wind, the companionship of Spirit that Jesus spoke of. Perhaps he wrestled with Jesus’ words. Perhaps he let the mystery be. What we do read, later in John’s gospel, is that Nicodemus was present when Jesus died, and along with Joseph of Arimathea, took his lifeless body from the cross, bathed him in aloe and myrrh to prepare him for burial. He returned, loving and holding the very one who invited him into a new way of being loved and held.

In these Lenten days, I wonder what certainties simply cannot hold us any longer? I wonder what questions we carry that beg for understanding? I wonder what nighttime conversations we might want to have with Jesus? I wonder if we might be ready, be willing, to entrust ourselves, rely on, and hold fast to the mystery of love expressed in God’s only Son.

If we took Iris’ poem and crafted it into a simple prayer, perhaps we might pray:

May we believe in love and live our lives accordingly. And may we choose to let the mystery be.

Amen.