John 3:1–17
“The Courage to Begin Again”
Lent often invites us into wilderness places—those inner landscapes where our assumptions loosen, our certainties wobble, and something new tries to take root.
Today’s Gospel brings us into a different kind of wilderness: not a desert, but a quiet rooftop in Jerusalem, where a respected scholar named Nicodemus comes to Jesus under cover of night.
Think of the moments in life when we, too, seek out conversations “after hours”—the late night kitchen table talks, the quiet car rides, the whispered questions we only dare to ask when the world has gone still.
Those are often the moments when truth finally has room to breathe.
And let’s be honest: not a lot happens after midnight… except existential spiritual crises and maybe a regrettable online purchase.
Nicodemus chose a healthier option.
Nicodemus is no spiritual novice.
He’s educated, devout, and deeply committed to the religious life of his community.
In many ways, he looks like us: thoughtful, curious, trying to live with integrity in a complicated world.
And yet something in him is unsettled.
Something in him knows that the way he has understood God is no longer enough.
So he comes to Jesus with a mixture of courage and caution and he comes at night—not because he is cowardly, but because he is human.
Because transformation often begins in the shadows, in the places we don’t yet know how to speak aloud.
And Jesus meets him there.
Not with judgment, not with a doctrinal quiz, but with an invitation:
“You must be born again.”
Or, as the Greek allows,
“born anew… born from above.”
The Greek word is intentionally layered.
It means “again,” but also “from above,” and even “from the very beginning.”
John loves this kind of double meaning.
Jesus is speaking in the language of mystery; and Nicodemus hears it like he’s troubleshooting a plumbing problem.
The Gospel invites us to hold the tension rather than flatten it.
“You must be born again.”
It’s a beautiful phrase that has sometimes been weaponized, reduced to a password for belonging, but Jesus isn’t talking about a one time spiritual transaction.
He’s talking about the lifelong, often uncomfortable work of allowing ourselves to be remade.
I remember a season in my own life that felt a bit like Nicodemus’ nighttime visit.
When I was in college, a close friend and I would stay up late talking about God and the meaning of life.
Those were fun and exciting talks.
We weren’t trying to be theologians; we were just two young people asking big questions in the only hours when the world felt quiet enough to hold them.
Those conversations stirred something in me—something restless, something hopeful, a eventually, they led me to make a decision to give my life to Christ.
At the time, I thought I had finally arrived.
I thought I had crossed some finish line into spiritual maturity.
What I didn’t realize was that I had only just stepped onto the path.
Now, forty years later, I’m still on that journey.
I’m still learning, still being stretched.
I’m still discovering new corners of grace, and I’m a long way from arriving, but I wouldn’t trade this winding, beautiful, and sometimes bewildering road for anything.
It has been the place where God keeps meeting me, again and again, inviting me to begin anew.
To be born again is not to erase who we’ve been; it is to open ourselves to who we might yet become.
It is to let go of the illusion that we have already arrived, and trust that God’s Spirit—like the wind Jesus describes—moves in ways we cannot predict, control, or domesticate.
The word for “Spirit” in John 3 also means “wind” and “breath.”
Jesus is saying: God’s presence is as intimate as your breathing and as wild as a gust that rearranges your hair.
You can’t pin it down.
You can only lean into it.
This morning’s Gospel Lesson offers us a powerful reminder:
Faith is not about certainty; faith is about openness.
It’s an openness to growth, to mystery, and to the possibility that God is not finished with us.
Nicodemus struggles with this.
He wants clarity.
He wants a blueprint.
He wants Jesus to explain how grown adults can climb back into their mother’s womb.
And Jesus, with a kind of gentle humor, refuses to give him the comfort of literalism.
Instead, he invites Nicodemus into wonder.
Because wonder is where transformation begins.
Scientists often describe the moment of discovery not as “Eureka!” but as “That’s strange…”
Curiosity, not certainty, is what opens the door to new understanding, and faith works the same way.
(pause)
In verse 16 we reach the heart of the passage—the verse that many of us first encountered on billboards or football stadium signs, often stripped of its depth:
“For God so loved the world…”
Not “God so loved the church.”
Not “God so loved the righteous.”
Not “God so loved the people who believe the right things,” but God so loved the world—the whole messy, beautiful, contradictory world.
The Greek word is kosmos: the entire created order which includes the ecosystems, the cultures, the people we agree with and the people we don’t, the ones we find easy to love and the ones we struggle to understand.
John uses kosmos not to describe a perfect world but a conflicted one—shot through with injustice, misunderstanding, and fear.
And that is what God loves.
Not the idealized version, the real one.
The one we inhabit.
And this is not a small love.
This is not a tribal love.
It’s not a love that draws boundaries and then congratulates itself for being generous.
Rather, this is a love that expands, disrupts and refuses to give up on anyone.
Think of the activists who keep showing up for justice even when progress is slow.
Think of the parent who keeps loving a child through addiction or estrangement.
Think of communities rebuilding after disaster.
That persistent, boundary breaking love is a glimpse of the divine heart.
And that love includes Nicodemus.
It includes us.
It includes the parts of ourselves we keep hidden in the night.
Lent is not about self punishment, it’s about clearing space for this kind of love to reach us.
It’s about noticing where we have grown rigid, where we have settled for too little, where we have mistaken familiarity for faithfulness.
To be “born again” is to allow our compassion to deepen, our imagination to widen, our courage to grow.
It’s to recognize that transformation is not a threat but a gift—a gift from God—a the most valuable gift ever given, and the most costly.
It cost Jesus his life.
A gardener knows that pruning isn’t punishment; it’s preparation.
Cutting back what is overgrown makes room for new life.
Lent is spiritual pruning—gentle, intentional, and hopeful.
And here’s the quiet miracle of this story from John 3: Nicodemus doesn’t leave with all the answers.
Instead, He leaves with better questions and heart stirred awake.
He leaves with the first glimmer of dawn—of hope, of the excitement which comes with new life!
Later in the Gospel, he will step into the light—publicly, bravely—to care for Jesus’ body after the crucifixion.
Yes, this nighttime seeker becomes a daylight witness.
Transformation takes time, but it happens.
It’s like watching someone slowly reclaim their voice after years of silence.
At first it’s a whisper, then a conversation, then a proclamation.
Nicodemus grows into his courage, and so can we.
So perhaps the invitation for us this Lent is simple and profound:
Where is God inviting you to begin again?
Where is the Spirit nudging you toward growth?
Where might you be called to step out of the shadows and into a more courageous, compassionate way of living?
The good news of John 3 is that God’s love meets us exactly where we are—curious, uncertain, hopeful—and then it gently and persistently invites us forward.
Not to become someone else, but to become more fully ourselves.
We will never be the same, and we will definitely struggle on the journey, but nothing compares to living this life with our Spirit’s awakened to God’s transforming love.
Nicodemus learning this, experienced it.
Have you?
Will you pray with me?
Holy One,
You meet us in our questions and in our hopes.
As Nicodemus sought You in the night,
help us seek You with open hearts.
Breathe Your Spirit into us.
Renew what has grown tired.
Stir what needs awakening and give us courage to begin again.
May Your wide, generous love guide our steps
as we walk this Lenten journey together.
In Jesus’ name and for his sake we pray. Amen.
