Monthly Archives: March 2026

Nicodemus gets a bad rap: A Sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent, 2026

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March 1, 2026

We are gathered today on this Second Sunday in Lent, full of fear, anxiety, and anger. On top of all else that has happened over the last year as we have watched the institutions and values we held dear collapse; the unbearable burdens of it all weighing us down, and now this, war on Iran, a school with 85 schoolchildren bombed; the leader of their nation killed, chaos and further violence and pain await.

We gather today, distracted and mortified, seeking solace and comfort. Many of us may also have been hoping to use this season of Lent to deepen our faith, to grow in discipleship, to draw nearer to Christ as he and we all draw near to the cross. And yet it may be that for you, as well as for me, the words of today’s gospel offer no solace or comfort, but evoke trauma of past religious experiences—born again, or the weaponization of John 3:16. Words meant to offer life instead have offered condemnation in the culture of American Evangelical Christianity.

Although in this, the first year of our three year lectionary cycle, we spend most Sundays in the gospel of Matthew, for the next four Sundays, and during Eastertide, we will be reading from the Gospel of John. For today and the next three Sundays we will be spending time with three fascinating stories from that gospel, each of them detailing encounters with Jesus. This week, there’s Nicodemus; next it’s the Samaritan woman at the well; then there’s the man who was born blind; and finally, the story of the raising of Lazarus.

Each story is also a story of transformation; most obviously in the case of Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the dead. In today’s story, there seems to be no transformation but Nicodemus will make two other appearances in the gospel, most notably at Jesus’ death when he assists Joseph of Arimathea in burying Jesus’ body where he is identified as a follower of Jesus. But all that comes later.

For now, let’s focus on the story in front of us. Nicodemus is identified as a Pharisee, a leader of the Jews. So we’re meant to imagine a prominent figure in the community. We’re told he comes to Jesus by night, an image that evokes both darkness—the binary of light and darkness is prominent throughout John’s gospel, and secrecy. We might conclude that Nicodemus doesn’t want others to know that he sought out Jesus.

In any case, Nicodemus says something a bit puzzling to Jesus: “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” What’s interesting is that Nicodemus approaches him with a term of respect. Not yet an official role in Judaism, that would come a century or two later, but he calls Jesus Rabbi—teacher and goes on to say that Jesus performs signs—a reference in the gospel of John to Jesus’ miracles, which ability is a sign of God’s presence in and with Jesus.

On the surface, it seems fairly straightforward, an acknowledgement of Jesus’ power, but it is also probing: it’s not a direct challenge to Jesus’ authority as we will see later in the gospel, but it seems to imply that Nicodemus isn’t quite sure what to make of Jesus.

Not surprisingly, Jesus isn’t about to give him any help in his quest for information. As happens so often in the gospel, Jesus’ reply to him seems to be something of a non sequitur, perhaps even nonsensical: “I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born from above.” Nicodemus after all has made no mention of the kingdom of God.

And then comes another puzzle. Our translation reads “unless they are born from above.” The traditional translation is: “born again.” Same word, two completely different possible translations. Instead of asking Jesus to clarify what he meant, Nicodemus assumes Jesus means born again and asks how it is possible to enter one’s mother’s womb again. 

I see this as a pivotal moment in their encounter and it’s one that many of us have experienced. When we meet someone or something new, we want to fit into our categories of understanding, to make it make sense on our terms. Nicodemus seems to assume Jesus means one thing, even if it’s nonsensical or absurd, while Jesus is using words that are opening up whole new universes of possible meaning. That becomes clear as Jesus continues, speaking of the spirit blowing where it wills.

In addition to the confusing language that we have here, it’s not clear when Nicodemus leaves the scene. Are the last verses addressed to him, to other bystanders? Or given that Greek texts of the day lacked most punctuation not to mention spaces between words, it’s not even clear whether Jesus speaks the last few verses, or whether it’s the gospel writer addressing us as the text’s readers.  

In any case, I should point out that however John 3:16 has been used or interpreted in the past, it’s rarely coupled with the following verse: “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” In other words, it is not a statement of exclusivity or exclusion, but rather one of openness and invitation. Christ came into the world that the world—everyone, in fact, everything, the cosmos, might be saved through him.

As I mentioned, Nicodemus will appear again in the gospel, first in chapter 7, where Jesus is again in Jerusalem and is caught up in a dispute over the nature and origin of his authority. While Nicodemus does not defend him in front of the Pharisees, he does point out that Jesus deserves a fair hearing. This may suggest that the earlier encounter with Jesus opened Nicodemus to the possibility that Jesus’ message was life-giving and transformative. 

We see that transformation has taken place in Nicodemus’ final appearance in the gospel where he assists Joseph of Arimathea with Jesus’ burial and provides an extravagant amount of embalming spices. Now, we can conclude that Nicodemus is a disciple of Jesus though a secret one, like Joseph.

Over the past few weeks and months, I have had a number of conversations with people who are relatively new to the church; some are coming back to church after years or decades away, some are experiencing Christian community for the first time. Their journeys are unique, as are all of ours. Sometimes there’s a precipitating event; sometimes, a growing sense that there is something more to life than what they have been experiencing.

I think of Nicodemus, who was first drawn to Jesus because of the signs—miracles he performed but turned away when Jesus didn’t meet his expectations or provide easy answers. But over time, he kept wondering. Maybe he thought about what Jesus said, ruminated over it, tried to figure it out, and kept coming back to it. Maybe Jesus’ words began to make sense, or opened up to him new possibilities of life and faith. In the end, we see him ministering to Jesus at his death, performing intimate acts of devotion and care.

The chaos, violence, and disruption in the world that surrounds us can overwhelm us, immobilize us. It can make it difficult to find space or time to focus on what really matters, to explore our relationship with Jesus. It may make it difficult to process our feelings, to explore the questions that concern us. A chance encounter, words of life, the spirit blowing where it will, may plant seeds that take time to germinate in us. To nurture them, to allow them to grow and blossom may lead to new life in us. I hope you take time this season of Lent, to notice those seeds in yourself, to nurture and sustain them, that your life in Christ may grow to its full stature.

Coffee Hour Temptations: A Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent, 2026

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Many years ago, there was a much-feared section of the GOE’s, the General Ordination Exams required of all candidates for the priesthood in the Episcopal Church, called “coffee hour questions.” They were the sorts of questions parishioners might ask of priests, like “where did Cain’s wife come from?” or “Do dogs go to heaven?” The section was intended to test how well candidates could respond to random questions pastorally as well as theologically. Back in the day, I had lots of experience answering such questions posed by cheeky undergraduates, but I’ll admit those skills have become a bit rusty over time.

         I recently got such a question from a parishioner, and it was at coffee hour. She stopped me and said something like: “I’m really struggling with the Lord’s Prayer. Why do we say ‘and lead us not into temptation’? Why would God lead us into temptation?”

I get it, we don’t need God’s help to be tempted, or Satan’s for that matter, we’ve got our own egos and desires, not to mention billions of dollars in advertising campaigns, and conspicuous consumption, media, that offer us more than enough temptation.

I’ll admit I was a bit taken aback by the question and didn’t have a ready response. So this week, as I began working on today’s lessons for this sermon, I went back and reminded myself of the translation behind our version of the Lord’s Prayer. Some of you may recall that the contemporary version of the Lord’s Prayer that we were using this summer offers a different translation: “Save us from the time of trial” it reads. Most commentators assert that what is meant here is not ordinary temptation like a second helping of dessert but the end-time struggle between good and evil imagined by first-century apocalyptic thinking, the same kind of thinking behind the earlier petition “Thy kingdom come…” But to answer that question, I would respond that the petition should be understood as something like: “keep us away from temptation…”

Temptation…

Two of our readings focus on temptation—first the familiar, archetypical story of the temptation in the garden of Eden, and second, the story of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness after his baptism and before the beginning of his public ministry.

As the reading from Romans suggests, these few verses from Genesis provide the scriptural basis for the traditional doctrine of Original Sin. To point out several obvious things, however: Nowhere is sin mentioned; neither is Satan, nor fall, nor even temptation. Even the decision by the editors of the lectionary to read it today, on the first Sunday of Lent, in conjunction with the gospel story of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness, contributes to our mis-reading of this foundational story of Judaism, Christianity, and western culture. Is it about original sin? If by original sin, one means the human condition, then yes.

The inclusion of the verses from chapter 2 helps us understand the authors’ perspective on human beings and on creation. The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden, the Hebrew literally reads, “to serve it and to guard it.” Human beings were created to be in partnership with the garden, to protect it and preserve it. It’s a very different notion than that which appears in Genesis 1, when God commands the humans to have dominion, lordship, over all the animals and plants. We see here a sense of human beings cooperating with creation, given responsibility to protect it. One more point—there’s no sense here that before the fall, humans were intended to live in idleness, rather, they were placed in the garden for an end and a purpose. Created in the image and likeness of God, God intended them to flourish and to aid in the flourishing of creation.

But something happened. They met a talking serpent who gave them a different way to think about themselves and God. The serpent questioned what God had told them and promised them that by eating from the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, they would become like God. 

Everything the serpent tells them is true, if somewhat one-sided. They did not die after eating of the fruit of the tree and they did gain knowledge. And the fruit was desirable. Eve ate because the fruit was beautiful, good to eat, and would make one wise—all of these are appropriate reasons for her decision. And, I would add, of the two humans, at least the woman showed some agency: “she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate.”

What were the consequences? They gained knowledge; most immediately, of their nakedness. They were ashamed. So whatever intimacy the two beings, “bone of bone and flesh of flesh” had had was suddenly gone—they needed protection from each other. And they needed protection from God. Their nakedness and exposure broke the pair’s intimacy with each other; it also broke their intimacy with God. Instead of becoming like God, they becoming frightfully aware of their difference from God. They wanted to escape from God but God wasn’t done with them. God sought them out in their hiding place, and when God located them, God showed continuing care for them by sewing clothes for them from animal skins. Any punishment would come later. 

It may not be a story about sin and Satan but it is a story of disobedience and rebellion against God. God created the humans for a purpose, for relationship with God and to participate with God in the care of God’s creation. Rejecting that purpose, they chose to aspire to be like God and so spurned their true nature, having been created in the image and likeness of God. 

It’s the story of humanity; it’s our story. Like Eve and Adam, we grasp for the beauty and knowledge we can see; and in grasping for what we want, we turn away from God and deface the image of God in us. The knowledge we gain is knowledge of our own fallen humanity, knowledge of our shame and embarrassment. 

In the story of the temptation of Jesus, Satan asks him, “If you are the Son of God…” This story follows immediately on Jesus’ baptism, when he hears the voice telling him, “This is my Son, my Beloved.” The temptations of Jesus are temptations about what that means to be the Son of God, just as, in the garden, the temptation was about what it means to be human. The temptations of Jesus are temptations about what sort of Son of God Jesus is. Is he the Son of God in the sense that Roman Emperors were sons of God—the most powerful men on earth with all the trappings of power, wealth, and status? 

Or is he the Son of God in some other way? Satan tempts him with other ideas about what it means to be the Son of God. He also tempted Jesus to prove he was the Son of God by forcing God to act in a certain way. But Jesus rejected both of them and in the end, was the Son of God who died on the cross.

We are at the beginning of Lent. On Ash Wednesday, many of us heard those words, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.” They’re a reminder of our humanity, our frailty, and vulnerability. Today, in the Great Litany, we heard centuries-old language that confronts us with our sins and shortcomings, as individuals and as the human race. Lent confronts us with our humanity; it opens up for our reflection and inspection all of the ways we have fallen short of our human potential, all of the ways we have ruined the image of God in us. 

But that’s not all. Lent is also about a God who loves us in spite of the fact that we have turned away from God, in spite of the fact that we have defaced God’s image in us. God loves us even when we hide from God like the man and the woman in the garden. Just as God continued to care for the two who had rebelled against God, sewing clothes for them from animal skins, God continues to love and care for us. 

It’s easy to hear the language of sin in the Great Litany and throughout Lent as language of condemnation and rejection. It’s easy to recoil from that language, especially in our culture of self-help and self-actualization, our culture of gratification and enjoyment. We often want our religion on similar terms. Lent doesn’t allow that. But that’s not the end of the story or experience of Lent. It’s not the whole story of the Christian faith.

The purpose of our confession of sin, the purpose of our self-reflection in this penitential season is to receive God’s grace and love in all of its fullness. Lent is an opportunity for us to strip off our fig leaves of self-deception and self-protection, to allow others and God to see us as we are, and to let God begin to remake us in God’s image. Lent is an opportunity for forty days to experience briefly what the Christian life should be like 365 days a year, receiving God’s grace as we joyfully are remade in God’s image and fully realize the potential God has created us to become. I pray that all of us experience some of that joy and renewal in these forty days.