I remember a night many years ago when I was sitting in my study on the Saturday before Palm Sunday. Tomorrow would be a major gathering of the church. It was not only Palm Sunday, but also the day when we celebrated the Rite of Confirmation. The sanctuary would be packed with worshippers, with both the curious and the committed. It promised to be a big day, and so I was alone in my study, preparing and praying.
From down the darkened corridor, I heard the distinct rattle of someone tugging at the locked entry doors. Someone had seen the light and was wanting to come in. I walked to the door, pushed the panic bar to open it, and saw a young man that I knew from our town. He was walking away toward his car into the night. Calling after him, I invited the man to my study where he sank into one of the chairs. I thought to myself, "Well, so much for my preparation time. Even on Saturday night folks find me." I felt frustration and resentment when the visitor asked, "So what does this church think about homosexuality?" So, here comes another hypothetical conversation--another opportunity for an endless argument about whether God accepts all people--especially LGBTQ people. And, it's Saturday night before Palm Sunday!
I drew a deep breath that ended in a silent sigh . . . and during that pastoral pause my visitor said, "I'm gay." Suddenly the conversation was no longer hypothetical. This was not going to be another debate about conservative or progressive theology. This was real. My guest inquired, "Would I be welcome here?" This was his only question: "Would I be welcome here?" Would this church be safe space for him?
We discussed that question for nearly an hour in the dimness of my study. The United Church of Christ has declared that, yes, all are welcome; but the churches of our community, including the one where I was serving, were not really open and certainly not affirming. "Yes, you would be welcome, but . . ." And my visitor--my Nicodemus--thanked me for opening the door and listening. As he stepped back into the night, I wondered whether I had been helpful, whether he had been heard, whether he might come to worship.
Well, Nicodemus did not appear in the light of that Palm Sunday amid the throng of people who came for service the next morning. But in the dimness of Maundy Thursday--sixth row from the front on the lectern side--Nicodemus took his place in a bench as we remembered Jesus' mandate, "Love one another as I have loved you." And he was there during the Tenebrae, as the lights were extinguished and we remembered Christ's death. We left that service in silence, dispersing into the night.
I never saw him again, but I've never forgotten him. I keep watching for Nicodemus even now, many years later. I pray that he has found a community of faith where he is known, and accepted, and loved as a beloved child of God. I pray that he has found a congregation where he can worship in the light of day, as well as in the dimness and darkness of the night. I pray that he has found his way to Easter Sunday--to the Risen One, to new life, to joy.
So, if you see Nicodemus, tell him that I remember. Tell him that he is welcome in the daylight, welcome in the pew, and--if called by Christ--welcome in the pulpit too. Let him know that he is loved. If you happen to see him on a Saturday night when you are busy preparing for something that seems important, I hope you will open the door and open your heart. We need him, her, them in God's church as much as Nicodemus needs us.
O Jesus Christ, who was open to those who came seeking in the night, thank you for the questioning spirit, the deep conversation, and the presence of Nicodemus in both the study and in the sanctuary. Be with everyone who seeks, that they may find your grace, your hospitality, and your joy--now and forever. Help us to watch for and to welcome our friend Nicodemus home. Amen.
From down the darkened corridor, I heard the distinct rattle of someone tugging at the locked entry doors. Someone had seen the light and was wanting to come in. I walked to the door, pushed the panic bar to open it, and saw a young man that I knew from our town. He was walking away toward his car into the night. Calling after him, I invited the man to my study where he sank into one of the chairs. I thought to myself, "Well, so much for my preparation time. Even on Saturday night folks find me." I felt frustration and resentment when the visitor asked, "So what does this church think about homosexuality?" So, here comes another hypothetical conversation--another opportunity for an endless argument about whether God accepts all people--especially LGBTQ people. And, it's Saturday night before Palm Sunday!
I drew a deep breath that ended in a silent sigh . . . and during that pastoral pause my visitor said, "I'm gay." Suddenly the conversation was no longer hypothetical. This was not going to be another debate about conservative or progressive theology. This was real. My guest inquired, "Would I be welcome here?" This was his only question: "Would I be welcome here?" Would this church be safe space for him?
We discussed that question for nearly an hour in the dimness of my study. The United Church of Christ has declared that, yes, all are welcome; but the churches of our community, including the one where I was serving, were not really open and certainly not affirming. "Yes, you would be welcome, but . . ." And my visitor--my Nicodemus--thanked me for opening the door and listening. As he stepped back into the night, I wondered whether I had been helpful, whether he had been heard, whether he might come to worship.
Well, Nicodemus did not appear in the light of that Palm Sunday amid the throng of people who came for service the next morning. But in the dimness of Maundy Thursday--sixth row from the front on the lectern side--Nicodemus took his place in a bench as we remembered Jesus' mandate, "Love one another as I have loved you." And he was there during the Tenebrae, as the lights were extinguished and we remembered Christ's death. We left that service in silence, dispersing into the night.
I never saw him again, but I've never forgotten him. I keep watching for Nicodemus even now, many years later. I pray that he has found a community of faith where he is known, and accepted, and loved as a beloved child of God. I pray that he has found a congregation where he can worship in the light of day, as well as in the dimness and darkness of the night. I pray that he has found his way to Easter Sunday--to the Risen One, to new life, to joy.
So, if you see Nicodemus, tell him that I remember. Tell him that he is welcome in the daylight, welcome in the pew, and--if called by Christ--welcome in the pulpit too. Let him know that he is loved. If you happen to see him on a Saturday night when you are busy preparing for something that seems important, I hope you will open the door and open your heart. We need him, her, them in God's church as much as Nicodemus needs us.
O Jesus Christ, who was open to those who came seeking in the night, thank you for the questioning spirit, the deep conversation, and the presence of Nicodemus in both the study and in the sanctuary. Be with everyone who seeks, that they may find your grace, your hospitality, and your joy--now and forever. Help us to watch for and to welcome our friend Nicodemus home. Amen.
