Nicodemus came at night. That detail alone tells us so much.
He was a man of status, a teacher of Israel, someone who had spent his entire life studying Scripture, teaching others, and trying to live faithfully. He was respected, educated, and spiritually serious.
But something about Jesus unsettled him. Something about Jesus stirred questions he couldn’t answer. Something about Jesus made him wonder if everything he thought he understood about God might be opening into something deeper, wider, more mysterious.
And so he came in the dark. He came quietly, cautiously, hoping not to be seen. He came with uncertainty, with fear, with longing. And Jesus met him there.
(Read John 3:1–17)
This is the story we enter on the Second Sunday in Lent. It’s a story about trust...not the kind that comes easily, not the kind that comes from having everything figured out, but the kind that grows slowly in the soil of questions.
Nicodemus doesn’t arrive with bold faith. He doesn’t stride in with confidence. He arrives with cautious curiosity. He arrives with a heart that is hungry but unsure.
And Jesus doesn’t shame him for that. Jesus doesn’t say, “Come back when you understand more.”
He doesn’t say, “You should know better.”
He doesn’t say, “Why are you still confused?”
Instead, Jesus speaks to him in images...birth, wind, Spirit...images that are mysterious, uncontrollable, relational. Jesus invites Nicodemus into a way of life that cannot be mapped out in advance.
He invites him to trust the One who knows the way.
That’s the invitation of Lent. Not to have all the answers. Not to walk with perfect confidence. Not to pretend that faith is easy or that we never struggle.
Lent invites us to take the next step, even when the path ahead is unclear. To trust...not in our own understanding, not in our own strength, not in our own ability to figure things out...but in the One who sees what we cannot.
Lent invites us to loosen our grip on certainty and tighten our grip on Christ.
And that’s where Romans 4 comes in.
Paul lifts up Abraham as the model of this kind of trust. Abraham didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t have a blueprint or a guarantee. He didn’t have a five-year plan or a map with all the landmarks circled.
He had a promise. A promise spoken by a God who sees the end from the beginning. A promise spoken by a God who calls people into journeys they cannot fully understand. And Abraham trusted the One who made it.
(Read Romans 4:1–5, 13–17)
Paul is clear: Abraham’s faith wasn’t about achievement. It wasn’t about earning favor or proving himself. It wasn’t about spiritual performance.
Abraham’s faith was about trusting God’s character. Trusting that the One who called him would also guide him.
Trusting that the promise would hold, even when the evidence was thin. Trusting that God’s faithfulness was bigger than his own uncertainty.
That’s the kind of faith Lent calls us to. Not heroic certainty, but quiet trust. Not spiritual bravado, but humble dependence. Not the pressure to be perfect, but the willingness to be led.
Nicodemus and Abraham stand side by side in this story. One comes in the dark, unsure and searching. The other steps into the unknown, anchored by a promise.
Both are met by a God who knows the way. Both are invited to trust—not because they understand, but because they are known and loved.
And then we hear the words that have echoed through generations: “For God so loved the world…” These words aren’t just theological statements. They’re relational truths.
They tell us that the One who knows the way is also the One who loves us beyond measure.
The One who guides us is the One who gave himself for us.
The One who calls us to trust is the One who laid down his life to make that trust possible.
So what does it mean to trust the One who knows the way?
It means coming to Jesus with our questions, our fears, our doubts and that we don’t have everything figured out.
It means letting go of the need to control or understand everything and step forward, even when the next step feels risky.
It means believing that God’s love is enough to carry us, even when the road is steep or the night is long.
It means remembering that faith isn’t a performance—it’s a relationship.
It’s not about having it all together. It’s about being willing to come, to ask, to listen, to follow.
Nicodemus didn’t walk away from that conversation with all the answers. But he walked away with an invitation.
And later, we see him again—bringing spices for Jesus’ burial, honoring the One who had met him in the dark. His trust had grown. His steps had deepened. The journey had continued.
And Abraham? He became the father of many nations. Not because he was perfect, but because he trusted. Because he believed that God was faithful. Because he walked forward, one step at a time.
And that kind of trust isn’t just something we see in Scripture. It shows up in the lives of God’s people across generations.
One of the clearest examples comes from Corrie ten Boom, whose story many of you know.
Long before she and her family hid Jewish neighbors during the Holocaust, long before she survived the Ravensbrück concentration camp, she was just a little girl who was afraid.
After attending a funeral, she became terrified of death. One night she burst into tears and told her father she didn’t think she would ever be strong enough to face something so frightening.
Her father didn’t lecture her or try to explain everything. Instead, he asked her a simple question: ‘Corrie, when we take the train to Amsterdam, when do I give you your ticket?’
She answered, ‘Just before we get on the train.’
And he said, ‘Exactly. And God will give you what you need when you need it. Not before.’
Corrie later wrote that this moment shaped her entire understanding of trust. She didn’t need to know the whole path. She didn’t need to feel strong enough for every possible future.
She only needed to trust the One who would give her what she needed at the moment she needed it.
And years later—when she was hiding people in her home, when she was arrested, when she was in a concentration camp—she found that her father had been right.
God’s strength came like a train ticket: just in time.
That’s the kind of trust Jesus was inviting Nicodemus into. That’s the kind of trust Abraham lived.
And that’s the kind of trust we are invited to practice—not a trust built on having all the answers, but a trust built on the character of the One who knows the way.
This is the journey we’re invited into. Not a path of certainty, but a path of trust. Not a road of achievement, but a road of grace.
Lent is not about proving ourselves. It’s about returning to the One who knows the way. It’s about letting go of our maps and following the Guide. It’s about believing that even a small step of faith is enough when God is the one who leads.
And maybe that’s the hardest part for us. We like maps. We like clarity. We like knowing what’s coming next. We like to feel prepared.
But faith rarely works that way. Faith is not a GPS that gives us turn-by-turn directions.
Faith is more like walking with someone who knows the terrain intimately, someone who says, “Stay close. I’ll show you the way.”
Faith is trusting the Guide more than the map.
Nicodemus wanted clarity. Abraham wanted certainty. We want control.
But Jesus offers something better: himself. He offers presence. He offers companionship. He offers love that does not waver. He offers guidance that does not fail. He offers a way that leads to life.
And maybe you’re carrying your own nighttime questions today. Maybe you’re standing at a crossroads, unsure which way to go.
Maybe you’re facing a decision that feels heavy. Maybe you’re walking through grief or fear or change. Maybe you’re longing for a sign, a map, a clear answer. Maybe you’re wondering if you have enough faith, enough courage, enough strength.
Hear this: you don’t have to know the way. You only have to trust the One who does.
Trust doesn’t mean you won’t feel afraid.
Trust doesn’t mean you won’t have questions.
Trust doesn’t mean the path will always be easy.
Trust means you keep walking, you keep listening, you keep leaning into the One who walks beside you.
Nicodemus came in the dark, and Jesus met him there. Abraham stepped into the unknown, and God guided him.
And we—right here, right now—are invited to do the same.
Come to Me, Jesus says. Trust the One who knows the way. Trust the One who sees the whole path, even when you can’t. Trust the One who walks beside you, even in the dark. Trust the One who gave himself for you, so that you would never walk alone.
This is the heart of Lent. This is the heart of faith. This is the heart of the Gospel. And it’s enough. Amen.
