The Courage To Begin Again

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: