A reflection on John 3
In the third chapter of the Gospel of John, we meet Nicodemus—a man of stature, learning, and influence. He is identified as a Pharisee, a ruler of the Jews, and a teacher of Israel. In every measurable way, Nicodemus is successful. His life has been carefully constructed around knowledge, discipline, and religious credibility. He has earned his place. He has mastered the system.
Yet he comes to Jesus at night.
That detail matters. Nicodemus does not come as a public figure seeking debate, nor as a confident leader issuing instruction. He comes quietly, privately, perhaps cautiously. Whatever confidence he carried in daylight seems to fade in the presence of Jesus. Something in him knows that his credentials are no longer sufficient.
Jesus does not flatter him. He does not affirm his status. He does not invite him to refine his theology or intensify his efforts. Instead, Jesus speaks words that would have cut straight through everything Nicodemus had built his life upon:
“You must be born again.”
Not improved.
Not corrected.
Not advanced to the next level.
Born again.
This is not a call to self-help or religious achievement. It is a declaration that the entire foundation is inadequate. Jesus looks past Nicodemus’s titles and accomplishments and sees a man who, despite all his success, still lacks life. Not information. Not morality. Life.
For Nicodemus, this would have been deeply unsettling. His identity was forged through study, obedience, and reputation. To be told that none of that could produce what was required would have felt like the ground shifting beneath his feet. Jesus is not asking him to add something to his life. He is telling him that he must become someone entirely new.
This is the scandal and the mercy of John 3. God’s kingdom is not entered through merit, pedigree, or position. It is entered through rebirth—through a work of God that cannot be controlled, earned, or managed. “The wind blows where it wishes,” Jesus says. Life with God begins not with human effort, but with divine initiative.
Nicodemus’s story confronts us with an uncomfortable question:
What happens when the things we rely on to define ourselves—our success, our knowledge, our service, even our religion—are no longer enough?
Jesus does not shame Nicodemus. He invites him. But the invitation is costly. It requires surrender. It requires letting go of the illusion that we can build our way into God’s life. It requires trusting that God can remake us from the inside out.
John does not tell us everything Nicodemus felt that night. But later in the Gospel, we see him again—first speaking cautiously in Jesus’s defense, and finally standing openly at the cross, helping to bury the crucified Christ. The man who came in the dark eventually steps into the light. New birth, it seems, is a process as much as a moment.
John 3 reminds us that faith is not about becoming better versions of ourselves. It is about becoming new. It is about allowing ourselves to be fully seen by Jesus—and trusting Him enough to let go of what we thought made us secure.
That invitation still stands.
Not “try harder.”
Not “prove yourself.”
But: be born again.
John Hargrove Seeking Truth and Reality 