Man of the Pharisees
As he stepped out into the dark, he felt the night chill and pulled his cloak tightly about him. He moved off down the street into the shadows. Here and there a beam of light from the crack in a door or shutter lit his path, but mostly all was gray and black. But he pressed on winding his way through the dim lanes and cluttered defiles toward the house to which he had been given directions.
For several reasons it was never advisable to travel the streets of Jerusalem at night, but this was no time for the advisable. This was too important. He had to find out. The words of this man were wisdom and truth, and the signs he did were unquestionable and marvelous. Could he be the One? The Messiah?
At last he reached the door of the house. He knocked, softly at first. No response. Then louder. Still nothing. Perhaps this was not the right place. Maybe they were just sound asleep. Perhaps he should come back another time. “No, too much is at stake. I need to know.” He pounded hard.
“Who’s there?” came a voice from behind the door.
“Nicodemus.” He hesitated. “I’m a member of...”
“Yes, yes, we know who you are.” The voice had cut him off.
“And who else is with you?” The voice sounded agitated.
“No one. I’m alone.”
“Who walks the streets of Jerusalem alone at night?” Then a noticeable pause. “What do you want at this late hour?”
“I must speak with the Teacher Jesus of Nazareth.”
“You and half of Jerusalem...” The voice tailed off.
He waited in the dark. A chilly breeze had sprung up which kept grabbing at his cloak, but his thoughts were on neither the possible terrors lurking in the darkness nor the nip of the wind.
At last the door swung inward. “Come in.” It was a different voice.
And Nicodemus stepped into a room bathed in soft light and looked into a face with an “I’ve been expecting you” smile.