Born From Above

Letting Go

This passage from John grounds us in reality. This is not a parable. Not a theory. Not a theological concept floating in the air. This is a real man. A real night. A real conversation. John names him—Nicodemus—because this matters. Naming him gives weight to the moment. And in doing so, John quietly hands us a mirror. Nicodemus becomes us. His questions are our questions. His struggle is our struggle. His confusion is our confusion. And Lent is the season where we stop pretending we don’t have questions.

Nicodemus isn’t just speaking for himself. He’s carrying the tension of an entire generation. Jesus has just turned water into wine. He has cleansed the Temple. He has disrupted what everyone thought was settled. And now the religious establishment is unsettled. Who is this man? Is He from God? Is He dangerous? Is He the Messiah? Those aren’t just first-century questions. They are Trinity questions. They are our questions. And Nicodemus is the one who goes to find out.

Nicodemus was not a spiritual lightweight. He was educated. Respected. Influential. A Pharisee. A member of the ruling council. He knew the Law. He kept the Law. He taught the Law. And yet here he is—coming to Jesus. Nicodemus had status. Jesus had authority. Nicodemus had position. Jesus had power. Nicodemus had religion. Jesus brought the Kingdom. This wasn’t just a conversation. It was a collision. Two kingdoms. Two ways of living. Two foundations to stand on. And here’s where Lent presses in on us: Bottom Line: You cannot see the Kingdom of God until you are born from above. Not improved. Not polished. Not slightly adjusted. Born from above.

We’re told Nicodemus comes at night. Yes, maybe there was caution. Maybe there was concern about being seen. But night in John’s Gospel also carries weight. Night is where confusion lives. Night is where doubt breathes. Night is where fear grows. And if we’re honest, many of us have met Jesus in the night. In hospital rooms. In quiet living rooms after hard conversations. In the silence after loss. In the questions we don’t say out loud. Nicodemus comes at night because something in him knows—what he has isn’t enough. That’s Lent.

Lent is when God gently exposes the places where what we have isn’t enough. “We Know…” Nicodemus begins with confidence: “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God…” We know. That’s the language of someone used to certainty. Used to being right. But Jesus doesn’t affirm his knowledge. He interrupts it. “Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.” Or born from above.

Jesus doesn’t debate theology. He doesn’t flatter Nicodemus. He goes straight to the heart. Nicodemus, all your learning…All your morality…All your leadership…It is not enough. You must be born from above. That is a hard word for religious people. And Trinity, hear me carefully: This was not spoken to pagans. It was spoken to a church leader. Being raised in church is not the same as being born from above. Knowing Scripture is not the same as being born from above. Serving faithfully is not the same as being born from above. You cannot see the Kingdom until you are born from above.

Jesus says no one can enter the Kingdom unless they are born of water and the Spirit. For us, we hear baptism. And rightly so. In baptism, something real happens. It is not just symbolism. It is covenant. It is promise. It is God’s claim over a life. But hear this clearly in our Wesleyan understanding: baptism is not magic. It is grace offered. Grace that must be received. Baptism marks us. The Spirit awakens us. Faith responds. Being born from above means the Spirit of God takes what is dead and makes it alive. It means our identity is no longer anchored in our performance, but in Christ. And Lent is where we ask: Am I living from that new birth? Or am I still leaning on old religion?

Nicodemus asks, “How can this be?” That’s an honest question. And Jesus answers by pointing to the cross. “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up…” In Numbers, the people were dying from snake bites. God told Moses to lift up a bronze serpent. Whoever looked at it lived. They didn’t fix themselves. They didn’t earn healing. They looked—and lived. Jesus says, “That’s me.” The Son of Man will be lifted up. Look—and live. That’s how you are born from above. Not by effort. Not by intellect. Not by status. By looking in faith to the One lifted up.

And then comes the verse we all know: “For God so loved the world…” Not because the world was lovable. Not because the world was obedient. But because God is love. He did not send His Son to condemn the world—but to save it. That includes religious leaders. That includes doubters. That includes Trinity. That includes you.

Being born from above changes how you see. You see God differently—not as distant, but as Father. You see the cross differently—not as tragedy, but as rescue. You see people differently—not as enemies, but as souls Christ died for. When you are born from above, condemnation loses its voice. Grace gets louder. And during Lent, as we move toward the cross, this question presses in on us: Have I merely admired Jesus? Or have I been made new by Him? Because you cannot see the Kingdom until you are born from above.

Nicodemus came in the night. We don’t know everything about what happened in his heart that evening. But we do know this: later, Nicodemus defends Jesus. And after the crucifixion, he helps bury Him. The man who came in darkness eventually stands in daylight. That’s what new birth does. It moves you from night to light. From religion to relationship. From fear to faith. So here’s what I want Trinity to carry home tonight: You cannot see the Kingdom until you are born from above. Not cleaned up. Not improved. Born from above. And the good news? The One lifted up on the cross is still drawing people to Himself. Maybe you’ve known church your whole life. Maybe you’ve served faithfully. Maybe you’ve done everything right. But Lent asks us all the same question: Have you been born from above?

Because when you are, night does not get the last word. The cross does. And the cross always leads to resurrection.