Passage 📖: John 3:1–15

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👋 Introduction to Today’s Lesson

Most of us assume change happens by effort.
Grow a little. Learn a little. Try harder next time.
But Jesus introduces a completely different idea.
Not improvement.
Not behavior modification.
Not starting over with better habits.
He calls it being born again.
Whatever that means, it’s not gradual — and it’s not something you can control.
In today’s passage, Jesus tells a deeply religious, highly respected man that none of his credentials are enough… and that life with God begins somewhere entirely different.
And the question is simple — and unsettling:
What if real life doesn’t come from becoming better… but from becoming new?

Last week, we saw Jesus step into the heart of religious power during Passover and do something no one expected — He overturned the Temple tables. What was meant to be a place of prayer had become a system of profit, control, and exclusion, and Jesus confronted it head-on. When questioned about His authority, Jesus made it clear that God would no longer be encountered through structures or systems, but through His own life, death, and resurrection. The lesson reminded us that Jesus still confronts anything — even sacred or familiar things — that stand between us and real relationship with God, not to leave us empty, but to make room for something better: Himself.

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Now there was a man of the Pharisees named Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews. This man came to Jesus by night and said to him, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher come from God, for no one can do these signs that you do unless God is with him.” Jesus answered him, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born again[b] he cannot see the kingdom of God.” Nicodemus said to him, “How can a man be born when he is old? Can he enter a second time into his mother's womb and be born?” Jesus answered, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God. That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not marvel that I said to you, ‘You must be born again.’ The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”
Nicodemus said to him, “How can these things be?” Jesus answered him, “Are you the teacher of Israel and yet you do not understand these things? Truly, truly, I say to you, we speak of what we know, and bear witness to what we have seen, but you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except he who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.

This conversation takes place in Jerusalem, likely shortly after Passover, during the early months of Jesus’ public ministry. The city is still buzzing from what just happened in the Temple. Jesus has overturned tables, disrupted commerce, and publicly confronted the religious system at its very center. Signs have been performed. Authority has been questioned. Tension is rising.

This is not the end of Jesus’ ministry — it’s the beginning.

But already, lines are being drawn.

Some are amazed.

Some are offended.

Some are quietly unsettled.

And one man comes to Jesus under the cover of night.

Nicodemus is not a skeptic. He is not an outsider. He is not spiritually lazy.

He is:

By every visible measure, Nicodemus represents the best of Israel’s religious life. If anyone should understand God, it should be him.

And yet — he comes at night.

In John’s Gospel, night often signals more than time. It suggests:

Nicodemus is drawn to Jesus, but not ready to be seen with Him. He acknowledges the signs, but tries to place Jesus within familiar categories: teacher… from God… approved through miracles.

Jesus refuses the framing.

Instead of affirming Nicodemus’ credentials, Jesus diagnoses his condition.

Jesus says something that dismantles Nicodemus’ entire framework:

“Unless one is born again, he cannot see the Kingdom of God.”

The phrase Jesus uses carries two meanings:

Both matter.

Jesus is not calling for reform.

He is calling for a new origin.

Nicodemus believes closeness to God comes through:

Jesus says the Kingdom cannot even be seen without new birth — a life that comes from God, not from human effort.

Birth is not something you achieve.

It is something that happens to you.

This reframes faith entirely. The problem is not intelligence or morality — it is vision. Without new life from above, the Kingdom remains invisible, no matter how religious you are.

To explain this new birth, Jesus uses an image Nicodemus would immediately understand:

“The wind blows where it wishes…”

In Hebrew and Greek thought, the same word is used for wind, breath, and spirit. Wind was understood as:

Jesus’ point is clear:

Life in God’s Kingdom cannot be managed, predicted, or controlled.

Nicodemus’ world is built on structure, mastery, and certainty. Jesus introduces a life led by the Spirit — responsive rather than regulated.

You cannot see where the Spirit comes from.

You cannot dictate where it goes.

But you can recognize when it has moved.

This is unsettling — especially for someone trained to control outcomes.

Jesus ends this section by reaching back into Israel’s wilderness story.

In Numbers 21, the people are dying from snake bites after rebellion. There is no solution they can manufacture. God gives an unexpected instruction: Moses lifts a bronze serpent on a pole. Those who look at it live.

Healing does not come through striving.

Not through penance.

Not through effort.

It comes through trust — by looking at what God has provided.

Jesus says:

“So must the Son of Man be lifted up…”

This is the first clear hint of the cross in John’s Gospel.

Life will come not through climbing toward God — but through God descending and being lifted up for us. Salvation will not be achieved. It will be received.

Jesus says something that completely reframes how faith works: “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born again, he cannot see the Kingdom of God.” This is not poetic language — it is a diagnosis. Jesus is not saying people refuse to see the Kingdom; He is saying they cannot see it. The problem is not intelligence, education, effort, or morality. It is vision. The Kingdom of God is not something you discover by studying harder or trying better; it is something that must be revealed to you, and that revelation only comes through new birth. To be “born again” does not mean becoming more religious — it means becoming a different kind of person. Jesus is telling Nicodemus, and us, that the old way of seeing the world is insufficient. You can read Scripture and still miss the Kingdom. You can know theology and still miss the Kingdom. You can live morally and remain blind to what God is doing, because the Kingdom is not entered by improvement but by transformation.

Birth is not something you accomplish; it is something that happens to you. You don’t earn it — you receive it. Jesus is saying that until God gives you new life, you will keep interpreting the Kingdom through old categories like power, control, performance, and certainty — and you will miss it. But when you are born again, your vision changes. You begin to see what you could not see before: grace instead of earning, surrender instead of control, relationship instead of religion, life instead of effort. This is why Jesus doesn’t offer Nicodemus better answers — He offers him a new beginning. And this matters for us today, because faith is not about trying harder to see God; it’s about letting God give you new life so you can finally see what has been there all along.

Jesus continues with an image Nicodemus would instinctively understand: “The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” In the original language, the same word is used for wind and Spirit, and Jesus is intentionally blurring the line. He is teaching Nicodemus that life in God’s Kingdom moves the same way the wind does. You cannot see the wind, but you can see its effects. You cannot control it, but you can feel its power. You cannot predict it, but you know when it has passed by. This is Jesus’ point: the Spirit of God does not move according to human systems — not religious schedules, not institutional approval, not personal timelines, and not our need for certainty.

Nicodemus lived in a world where faith was controlled: rules defined righteousness, systems defined access, and leaders defined authority. But Jesus says new birth doesn’t work that way. The Spirit is not managed, possessed, or engineered. The Spirit moves freely, and life in the Kingdom begins when we stop trying to control God and learn how to respond to Him. That’s why being “born of the Spirit” can feel unsettling. You don’t always know what God is doing or where He’s leading. You don’t get a map before you move — you get an invitation. Yet unpredictable does not mean unsafe. The wind may be mysterious, but it is not random. It has direction even when we can’t see it, and purpose even when we don’t understand it. The evidence that the Spirit is at work is not control, but change — lives reshaped, courage where fear once lived, humility replacing pride, love growing where bitterness ruled. This verse frees us from the lie that faith must always feel stable, explainable, and manageable. Jesus shows us instead that life with God is responsive, not rigid; relational, not regulated; alive, not engineered. And if your journey with God feels less controlled, less predictable, or less orderly than you hoped, that may not be failure — it may be evidence that the Spirit is moving, because those born of the Spirit are not led by certainty, but by trust.

Jesus tells Nicodemus something that reframes authority, access, and salvation all at once: “No one has ascended into heaven except He who descended from heaven, the Son of Man… As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in Him may have eternal life.” This is not abstract theology; it is a clear declaration of where salvation comes from and how it works. Jesus draws a firm boundary: human effort cannot climb its way to God. No amount of morality, knowledge, status, or spiritual discipline can ascend into heaven. If heaven is going to be reached, it will not be because we went up, but because God came down.

Jesus alone speaks with authority because He alone has descended from heaven. He is not speculating about God; He is revealing God. He does not point toward heaven as a destination to be achieved; He brings heaven into reach through Himself. To make this unmistakable, Jesus reaches back into Israel’s story. In the wilderness, after rebellion and failure, the people are bitten by serpents and begin to die. God does not remove the wilderness or erase the consequences. Instead, He gives an unexpected instruction: Moses lifts a bronze serpent on a pole, and those who look at it live. Healing does not come through striving, penance, or proving worthiness. It comes through trust — through looking — through believing that what God has provided is enough.

Jesus says that moment was never just about a snake; it was about Him. Just as the serpent was lifted up, so the Son of Man must be lifted up. John is already pointing us toward the cross, where Jesus will be lifted not as a symbol of shame, but as the source of life; not as a defeated victim, but as the means by which death is undone. The cross becomes the place where heaven and earth meet, where the One who descended is lifted up so that we might live. And here is the heart of the promise: “Whoever believes in Him may have eternal life.” Belief here is not mental agreement, but trust — reliance — fixing your gaze on the One who was lifted up. Eternal life is not just life after death; in John’s Gospel, it is life from God, beginning now, rooted in relationship, and restored from the inside out.

Nicodemus comes to Jesus at night — not because he is hostile or insincere, but because he is unsettled. He has the knowledge, the status, the training, and the respect, and still something in him knows that what he has is not life. So Jesus does not give him better information or sharper insight. He offers him a deeper invitation: “You must be born again.” Not improved. Not refined. Not more disciplined. But made new.

This is the quiet yet radical truth at the heart of the Gospel. The Kingdom of God is not accessed through effort, clarity, or control; it is entered through surrender. Life with God begins the moment we stop trying to climb our way upward and instead trust the One who came down. The Spirit will not always make sense, the path will not always feel predictable, and understanding may come later — sometimes much later. But God is not asking you to manage Him; He is asking you to trust Him.

And the promise Jesus leaves us with is simple and freeing: you don’t have to ascend, you don’t have to prove, and you don’t have to fix yourself first. You only have to look, to trust, to believe. Because the Son of Man has already been lifted up, and life — real life — flows from Him. So if you feel restless, if your faith feels uncertain, if you’ve done everything “right” and still sense there must be more, you’re not behind and you’re not disqualified. You may be standing at the very place new life begins — not by trying harder, but by letting go and allowing God to make you new.

Blessings,

Michael