Nick had actually considered sunglasses before he left the house. He'd dismissed the idea as overkill in the darkness, but as he drove deeper into the East End, he found himself slouching subconsciously in the driver's seat. The last thing he needed was to be seen tonight.

He had the wrong color skin for this side of town, not to mention the wrong car and the wrong agenda. He could see the headlines: "Pastor arrested at East End home of former prostitute." If anything went wrong, it wouldn't be pretty. He'd be out of work and headed for divorce court.

But Nick took comfort in the busyness of the street and the dearth of streetlights. He tried to keep his eyes on the road, ignoring the glowing triple-X signs on either side.

He'd led the protest when the city rezoned Brookpark Road for these "adult" businesses. He'd picketed City Council and railed from the pulpit on Immorality. One Sunday, Nick cautioned his congregants against driving down this road at all — "courting sin," he said.

Now here he was, cruising it in the wrong direction, praying no one would notice his fish bumper sticker in the dark.

Finally, the GPS's ever-friendly voice told him to turn left. He pulled cautiously into an alley between a "gentleman's club" and a liquor store; cruised past rat-infested dumpsters. Then as the glare of his headlights shone off the crumbling brick of the dead-end alleyway, he saw him: the person he'd come to meet.

The Man was standing casually next to a rusting fire escape, hands in his faded jean pockets. He made no sign as the SUV approached, but casually stepped backwards to give Nick room to park.

Nick rolled down his window, smiled awkwardly. "Hey, uh ... do you think we could go someplace for coffee? I'll drive."

"This is where I'm staying tonight — with Mary and her husband," the Man said.

"Well, it's a little ... awkward. The alley and all?"

"Come upstairs then."

That would definitely be a step in the wrong direction. Nick was not about to enter a hooker's den, "reformed" or not. What if somebody saw him?

He shook his head and turned off the motor. "We can stay here."

"I could've come to your office, you know," offered the Man.

"Sure, but ... you know, I have to guard my time during the day," stammered Nick.

The Man nodded sympathetically. "Can't have a guy like me coming to your church," he said. "They might get the wrong idea about you."

Nick started to protest — then decided not to bother. Clearly, the Man knew far more about Nick than was good for him.

The Man probably knew every time Nick walked by a panhandler downtown, he averted his eyes and quickened his step. Perhaps he could see that lately, Nick had been preaching a series on gay marriage and cultural decadence because frankly, his own marriage was on the rocks, and it was easier to rail against sins he didn't commit. Maybe the Man even knew Nick was wondering if he ran his church the right way. Calling out sinners; correcting people when they got it wrong; putting a little fear of God into them ... it used to make him feel "Spiritual." Lately, it just made him sick.

But of course, Nick couldn't say any of this out loud; he could barely admit it in his thoughts. So he tried to smile at the Man as he used the opening line he'd been rehearsing on the long drive down Brookpark. "We know God must've sent you," he said. "Nobody could do this stuff unless God was on his side."

The Man just shook his head; fixed Nick with a piercing stare as he answered his thoughts rather than his words. "Good morals don't get you to heaven, my friend. By themselves, they don't even mean you're doing God's work. Bottom line: You need to climb back in the cradle to get it right."

Nick was confused; completely taken aback. Was he supposed to come out of his mother again, crying and pooping? "What are you talking about?"

"Nick, you need a new start — a spiritual start. A gift from God."

"I'm don't understand —"

"You're a pastor, and you don't get it?" said the Man in mock surprise. "Let me put it this way: My father loved the world so much he sent me into this mess. Now, anybody who believes in me can live forever. I didn't come into the world to condemn it, but so that people could get a new beginning that lasts through eternity.

"People can condemn themselves, though — when they don't believe in God's own son. They're sinning, but they're so concerned with pride and image they hide in the darkness. Know anybody like that?" The Man penetrated Nick with his eyes again.

Nick couldn't meet his gaze, but focused on the broken pavement at his feet. He had a sudden urge to climb back in his SUV and put the pedal to the floor.¹

* * *

The church were I grew up boasted 30 people on a good Sunday — and a pastor who was very fond of altar calls. There was one every week, whether we needed it or not. Personally, I "got saved" in first grade, but still appreciated the weekly pleas for sinners to find Jesus. They signaled that Brother Walker was almost done preaching.

It's no surprise that the first Bible verse I learned was John 3:16 — an altar call in a nutshell, you might say. John 3:16 was followed by 3:17, then by a punch-and-cookies reward for being a good Sunday School student. Those verses didn't have any more relevance than altar calls, but I enjoyed the sugar rush.

After all, I'd been saved for years: a born-again church brat. God gave his only begotten son (whatever "begotten" meant) so I could live in heaven instead of the other place. John 3:16 was for heathens who still needed the Sinner's Prayer; Nick had nothing to do with me.

But it's funny how things change. During Bible college, I had the uncomfortable revelation that I was more concerned with building my resume than ministering to people. Then after I did everything-but-sex with my girlfriend, I realized I couldn't look down on those evil unmarried shacker-uppers anymore. When doubts about God plagued me, I decided maybe having a superiority complex towards unbelievers was a lousy idea. The distance between myself and Nicodemus was rapidly shrinking.

Oh, I knew Bible verses by heart and spoke Christianese better than English. I didn't smoke, chew, or go with girls who do. But neither did Nicodemus. Everything that made the Pharisees Jesus' target — putting rules get ahead of mercy, erecting idols in front of God, maintaining holy appearances in the midst of sin — it was all on my resume.

* * *

One day after church, two men stayed late to pray. A member of the Elder Board raised his hands in worship and said, "Thank you, Lord, that I'm not like the common horde. Thank you for not making me an abortion doctor or a druggie or one of those homosexuals. I do daily devotions, serve your church, and tithe every week (on my six-figure salary)."

The other man's prayer, in the back pew where he hoped no one would notice him, was a bit different. A young addict who'd taken to selling his body for drug money pressed his face to the floor in abject surrender. He prayed, "God, have mercy on me, because I'm a complete mess!"

Only one of them, says Luke, went home right with God.²

So what's a Pharisee to do? When we realize "Born Again" is a lifetime process and we are, unfortunately, closer to the Pharisaical Elder than the Humble Addict, how should we respond?

Nick's colleagues became jealous of the Nazarene miracle-worker; decided to eliminate the competition. Within three years, they were accessories to the murder of God. Their descendents still live in churches across America, shutting down all attempts at ministry that could injure their sacred cows — or actually do God's work. The Iconoclast from Nazareth is too dangerous to turn loose among the pews.

Nicodemus was no different in the beginning. He would've been the pastor who railed against greed while closing on a McMansion, insisting that his minutest interpretations of Scripture were the only correct ones. Even after visiting Jesus, he didn't become St. Nick. There's no indication in John 3 that he walked the aisle to the strains of "Just As I Am."

The singular difference between Nicodemus and the other Pharisees was this: He came to listen.

Yes, he visited after dark, full of questions and an agenda. But however narrow his thinking, however filled with doubt, he listened with the slightest openness to change. He could bow just enough to accept mercy from a humble God.

So if we reluctantly acknowledge we are 21st century Pharisees, perhaps the words of Jesus to Nick can still mean something to us. "I came to save the world," he proclaimed, "even you Pharisees. I'm not here to condemn you — you do that to yourself with your unbelief."

Sometimes we look at salvation too narrowly. Yes, we pass from living death to everlasting life in an instant. But in a vital sense, salvation is a process. Jesus never said to "get people saved," he said to "make disciples" — and that includes us. So the solution to Pharisaism isn't a one-time encounter with Jesus. It's a daily trip to the cross, where we can repent of our shameful unbelief: that the Blood can't possibly be enough to save us.

Without that reckoning with the cross, we may be headed to heaven — but we're condemning ourselves to a life of futility by refusing the wonders of grace. John 3:16 rolls glibly off our tongues, but we don't believe it. Not really.

* * *

Many of us Pharisees cut our teeth in churches where they preached John 3:16 for unbelievers, but abandoned grace once we were saved. If you grew up between legalism and a hard place, no wonder you try to keep up appearances, demanding stringent rule-keeping from yourself and everybody else.

But remember, "Born Again" is not just a free pass to heaven. It's an assurance that we are treasured beyond obedience, beyond appearances, beyond life itself. It brings freedom to love and be loved, because we finally know what love means. "My father loved the world so much he sent me into this mess," explained Jesus. "Now, anybody who believes in me can live forever."

Sure, faith without works is dead. Sure, we have a duty to live as slaves to Christ, because it beats the hell out of slavery to sin (literally). But we can't start with obedience.

If I ever pastor a church, I plan to say nothing from the pulpit about Doing the Right Thing for six months. Thou-Shalt-Nots won't come into it until we all understand the reason for rule-keeping. I'll preach on grace until even my Pharisaical heart understands we were condemned criminals before Jesus, but now we're sons and daughters of God.

Yet the problem remains that coming to terms with relentless love is a frightening proposition. Embracing the cross is a humbling encounter, a surrender of everything inside us we thought was good.

For Nicodemus, abandoning the hopeless hope of legalism was the hardest thing he ever did.

* * *

Grief and anger and fear had been chasing each other all day through Nick's mind. Grief from the Man's death. Anger that every person on his elder board (save one) had been a part of the trumped-up charges, the farcical trial, the summary condemnation. Anger that his job was forfeit and his wife threatening to leave. Fear that soon enough, none of these things would matter because he'd likely join the Man in death for what he was about to do.

But numbness, the feeling of nothing worse than any harsh emotion, had come to dominate his thoughts. And with the numbness came shame.

He — a pastor — hadn't recognized who the Man was until it was too late. His excursion to the red light district, covered by darkness from the terror of wagging tongues, was just the latest highlight in a life that had been mostly a lie for as long as he could remember. He hadn't dared stick his neck out to care — for anyone. All the while, he'd dispensed easy condemnation for sinners while hiding his own infinite failure.

But now, as Nick stood outside the governor's mansion with Joseph, the one elder from the entire church who'd stood against the injustice of the Man's execution, he was determined that the shame was over. He buttoned his suit coat with shaking hands and walked up the stairs. He and Joseph had come to ask, though it ended their careers or even their lives, for the man's mangled body.

The least they could do was give him a decent burial.

The governor was surprised to see them, but with a wave of his hand, cheerfully gave the two men permission for a funeral. It would save the State from paying for a pauper's grave.

Earlier, Nick and Joseph had agreed not to order a hearse. It felt cathartic somehow, a sort of penance, to drive the Man to the funeral home themselves. So as impromptu pallbearers, Nick and Joseph reverently carried the Man's broken form out of the morgue on a stretcher, and laid him gently across Joseph's backseat.

"Did you go to the, ah, execution?" asked Nick.

"No ... I couldn't get away." Joseph looked down in shame. He didn't want to be seen with the Man any more than Nick did.

They drove in silence; pulled up at the funeral home. The funeral director came out to get the body, but Nick and Joseph once more insisted upon bearing the Man's weight themselves. They placed him reverently in the waiting casket.

Nick's numbness fled; grief returned. He bent over the casket, silent sobs wracking his body. Joseph laid a hand awkwardly on his shoulder, his own tears falling, and the two men wept for the Man — or perhaps for their own doubt, idolatry, and pride that had kept them away from him. Now, there was nothing left to offer but broken words and empty tears. It was impossible to atone for the shame.

Yet Nick wasn't hiding anymore. That was over; now and forever. Come what may, he was emerging into the sun; renouncing judgment in favor of love. As he knelt before the casket, he vowed in prayer that he was going to try, and fail, and try again, to live up to the Man's example.

But ultimately, that wasn't because of the shame.

When Nick finally believed — really believed — the Man's words to him in the alley years before, his life was shaken to its core. He'd judged others, he realized with a shudder, mostly because he, Nick, could then feel holy in comparison.

Nick knelt by the casket for a long time, the first real tears he'd shed in years on his cheeks. Doubts crept into his mind that perhaps his years of judgmental, idolatrous hiding in the shadows would disqualify him for mercy. So he repeated the Man's words as a mantra of reassurance, his lips silently forming the syllables: "My father loved the world so much he sent me into this mess. Now, anybody who believes in me can live forever."

He prayed for reassurance that mercy existed, even for a Pharisee. He prayed against doubt; against hiding; against judgment. Then he slowly rose from his knees to see Joseph standing awkwardly by the door.

"Should I take you back to your car?" Joseph asked.

Nick nodded. Neither man spoke.

"Are you OK?" asked Joseph finally.

Nick shook his head. "I'm not sure yet. It's ... the shame. That's what gets me." He paused as they walked into the hall; out the doors of the funeral home into the late afternoon light. "But I think there's something else ... haven't felt it for years."

"I'm scared out of my mind, too," said Joseph, nodding wisely. "We're sticking our heads in a noose with this funeral business."

"No," said Nick. "It's not that. I have plenty of experience with fear, Joe."

Joseph looked at him quizzically; Nicodemus tried to explain. "It's more ... I don't know ... it feels more like freedom."³

* * *

1. For the rest of the story, read John 3:1-21.
2. See Luke 18:9-14.
3. John 19:38-42 is the Biblical basis for this narrative.