Year A: Lent 2 | John 3:1-17
St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church
March 1, 2026
the Rev. Jonathan Hanneman
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We’re spending most of this year looking at Matthew, which is quite long, so I was surprised to realize all our Gospel readings for the rest of Lent come from John. John is something of an outlier among the Gospels. While Matthew, Mark, and Luke are clearly involved in the same game, John is more playground-adjacent, recording scenes that don’t appear in any of the others and often switching up the order of the events it does share with the rest. John is sort of the weird little kid in the outfield spinning around and chasing butterflies—yet still somehow aware enough to catch the ball when it flies their way.
Read properly, the Gospel of John is, in large part, a tale of three brothers. Those of us outside the family have a history of lumping them all together as “Jews,” but for the siblings themselves, there was a clear-cut distinction. In the 1st Century, what we think of as Israel consisted of three Roman provinces: Galilee in the north; Samaria in the southwest; and Judea in the southeast. Think of Judea, where Jerusalem sits, as the uptight older brother. Samaria was sort of a half-brother, the black sheep largely estranged from the rest of the family. Galilee—where Jesus and many of the apostles were from—would be Judea’s well-intentioned, full-blood younger brother that tends to be dismissed as awkward and incompetent.
References to Samaria and Galilee are clear throughout John, but Judea’s role is often masked. That’s because our word “Jew” and its offshoots derive from that region’s name. There’s minimal to no linguistic distinction in New Testament Greek between people born in that territory, those following the religious tradition, or the broader ethnic group. That flexibility, partnered with Western hubris and willful ignorance of the family dynamics, has left the Church with a genuinely horrific history. By conflating these related but distinct concepts—and attempting to ignore our own foolishness, prejudice, and pride—we’ve spent centuries abusing, persecuting, and even murdering innocent people. And that’s despite what Paul was trying to tell us in our Romans reading today: Christianity and Judaism ought not be at odds—God has, in fact, included us as part of that existing family!
Despite the ease of appropriating words and phrases from both John and Paul, the Bible doesn’t exist to promote antisemitism, superiority complexes, nationalism, or violence, no matter what people try to make it say. When we read John, we need to remember that nearly every mention of “the Jews” should be translated as “the Judeans,” a distinction that can be helpful throughout the Gospels. Only if it’s impossible to read it as a geographic distinction should we understand it as referring to an ethnic group or people who follow the religious tradition known as Judaism.
But back to our brothers.
Today’s scene reveals what appears to be a clandestine meeting between Judea, in the person of Nicodemus, and Jesus, our representative from Galilee. Why so secretive? We’re still early in John, so we don’t actually know a whole lot about Jesus yet. A small group of apprentices began to gather around this unusual teacher in the first chapter. In chapter two, Jesus turned water into wine at a wedding and visited Jerusalem for Passover, at which point he cleansed the Temple and performed unspecified “signs.” Likely fresh off that event, chances are he wasn’t the most popular person with authorities, leading his uptight older brother to visit this younger sibling when no one can observe the family resemblance.
John loves wordplay and social discomfort, finding frequent delight in people misunderstanding each other. With Nicodemus, we run into confusion right from Jesus’ first response. The elder addresses the younger respectfully with no obvious agenda in what he says. Jesus immediately dives into a discussion of God’s reign, saying “no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” Nicodemus, attempting to catch up to this new topic, hears Jesus saying, “born again,” an alternate, far less usual translation of the “from above” term. But there’s more happening in that quick exchange. “From above” can also mean “from the interior” of an area or, essentially, “up north.” Recognizing the underlying tale of the geographic brothers, Jesus appears to be teasing Nicodemus here. Basically, Galilee’s poking fun at Judea, telling him it’s impossible to recognize God’s kingdom unless you’re from God’s country—which, of course, happens to be where the little brother calls home.
Nicodemus may not be from the ideal location, but even so, Jesus recognizes this Judean can see something going on with his little brother—that he knows God is clearly at work, even though that activity remains somewhat veiled. Despite his awkward conversation starter, I think that Jesus is attempting to encourage Nicodemus to continue along his pathway here, urging him on toward the clarity and understanding that often rise through faithfulness in following God. This “leader of those Judean”[1] might not have the advantages of growing up where you can most easily see or experience God’s reign, but the hints he’s begun to notice suggest that he’s at least been breathing some of that same, clean air—aka “the Spirit.” Jesus is pointing toward commonalities—recognizing their kinship—and using that family history and comradery, strained though it may sometimes be, to help his brother let down his guard down enough to begin participating in God’s ongoing efforts at rejuvenating Creation.
This falls in line with John’s broader theme of unity and reconciliation. Nicodemus is starting to see God at work through the younger brother he’s learned to dismiss. However, the reunification Jesus has been pointing toward is bigger than just the two of them. God, the ancestral head of the family, loves “the world”—meaning all of human society. Yes, dad may care deeply about these two, but there’s another brother they’ll need to include—and, as Paul argues, many more beyond. Despite the division and condemnation the three have been projecting on one another—projection we often continue to fall prey to even today—God hasn’t sent Jesus to divide people from one another. The goal is to restore (what we read as “save”) human society—to bring the whole family back into right relationship with one another. That process begins with “Spirit”—God’s clarifying and purifying breath—and continues only through “inspiration”—the brothers gathering to inhale and exhale that same healing atmosphere through conversation, common goals, and cooperative labor.
The conversation ends without warning or any real conclusion just four verses beyond our reading without showing Nicodemus’ response. Judea might find his little brother to be an oddball, but we can assume he kept thinking about what Galilee said. That’s because Nicodemus reemerges about four chapters later, where he steps out of the shadows to defend his sibling, declaring, “Our law does not judge people without first giving them a hearing to find out what they are doing, does it?”[2] From a covert introduction infused with discomfort, Judea has gained enough courage to find a voice in defense of his family—even in the midst of the broader family’s rage.
We only encounter Nicodemus one more time, just after the crucifixion. At this point, he’s no longer hiding or even simply voicing a defense. Now he embodies what it is to be a disciple, the older brother risking shame—even harm—by honoring his brother and teacher’s dead body. This representative of Judea moves from skulking in the shadows to being the voice of reason to walking openly as one who honors and shares in this Galilean’s message, mission, and purpose.
Nicodemus displays the subtle arc of how repentance—of turning toward God more fully—might appear in an otherwise righteous person. And Nicodemus was a good person. Pharisees in general were actually good people. Yes, some were aggressive social, religious, and political enforcers, but the whole point of their sect was to live in submission to God, honoring the Divine by maintaining ancient practices designed to help them do exactly that. Nicodemus understood his religious tradition and obviously observed it well enough to become a leader in his movement. But even while honoring his heritage, he kept seeking the Living God, keeping an eye open for where he might encounter them in his own day. Discovering Jesus, he listens with a cautiously open heart and considers the import of this teacher’s words. When the situation later rises, he stands for justice, calling his peers to embody the traditions and standards they claim to uphold. And finally, he boldly steps into the light, putting his money where his mouth is, publicly walking this righteous pathway in his brother’s footsteps, no matter the consequence.
There’s a propensity in Modern American Christianity of elevating dramatic stories of conversion, like the story of the demon-possessed guy and the pigs, as the proper example of repentance. But I would argue many more just as sincerely walk Nicodemus’ path of slow and steady growth. Wherever you may be in seeking God—struggling to understand, working to apply basic principles, or openly walking Jesus’ footsteps—remember that the goal is to live as you learn, to faithfully and physically pursue the ways of God. So consider the examples of those who have walked before you, both the dramatic, like Paul, and the quietly determined, like Nicodemus; gather your strength to rise up with both humility and passion; and then bring life to your devotion—put one foot in front of the other moment after moment and day after day. Maintain the pledge of your baptismal vows. Commit yourself to love and serve those around you. When we walk with Jesus to the cross and the grave, we may just accompany him into the Resurrection life that follows.
[1] John 3:1 | my translation
[2] John 7:51 | All Bible quotations are from the NRSVue unless otherwise noted.