03.03.2026
Saint Francis
The Rev. Christian Jennert, Bridge Pastor
Second Sunday in Lent
March 1, 2026
Genesis 12:1-4a; Psalm 121; Romans 4:1-5; 13-17; John 31-17
He was a faithfu man. Studying the Scriptures and reading them daily. Each week he went to worship, prayed, and spoke with God. He even taught Bible classes in the schul. He was respected in the community, known for reflecting on God's mighty acts. Some say he may have been inspired. I don't know that for sure. But one night, Nicodemus had to do it. He went out to speak with this new teacher in town.
He had heard about this Jesus. A Galiliean. From the margins. There were stories -- healings, signs unsettling teachings. Some of Nicodemus' colleagues were skeptical. "Too radical," they said.
Still, one question burned in his heart:
What must I do to live life abundantly?
Not that his life was bad. It wasn't. But beneath the compentence and reputation, there was a void. A restlessness. Something missing.
Nicodemus did not want to be seen. What would the others think? So he went at night. Under the cover of darkness. And when he arrived, Jesus was ready.
"All your knowledge," Jesus suggests, "all your theology and teaching -- it will not give you what you seek unless you are born from above. Born of water and Spirit."
Nicodemus is puzzled. "How can someone be born again? How can this be?"
[pause]
The evangelist John leaves much in the dark about Nicodemus. But we know enough. He is devout. Learned. Sincere. And still -- restless. I suspect we recognize him.
We, too, live competent lives. Responsible lives. Faithful lives. And yet -- in quiet moments -- there can be that same ache. We carry anxiety about the world: immigration debates, wars withut end, political fracture, climate instability, economic pressure, communities struggling with trust and truth. We scroll through more information than any generation before us -- and still we feel uncertain.
And close to home? Health disgnoses. Aging parents. Strained relationships. Vocational treansitions. Sleepless nights. Like Nicodemus, we move through our lives in the shadows -- thoughtful, faithful, yet yearning.
And Jesus says: "No one can see the kin-dom of God without being born from above." Two things matter here.
First, Jesus speaks of the basileia tou theou -- the reign, the kin-dom of God. Not a distant heaven, but God's active, healing rule breaking into the present. The reign of God is the rule of love and justice. The rule of mercy and forgiveness. The rule of dignity and peace. The rule of life -- fullness of life -- for all.
That reign is for everyone.
Second: entrance into God's kin-dom is not achieved. It is received. To be born from above is not a spiritual accomplishment. It is not decision theology or "trying harder". It is God's work.
The Spirit moves. The Spirit churns. The Spirit disturbs our carefully managed darkness and calls us into something new. Birth is not something we cause. It happens to us. Water marks it. Jesus' imagery is earthy and embodied. When water breaks, new life emerges. In baptism, water is poured generously -- not sparingly -- because grace is not rationed. In water and Word, the spirit makes us citizens of God's reign.
This is why we pray every week: "Your kin-dom come."
The kin-dom both is -- and is not yet. It has begun in Jesus. It unfolds wherever forgiveness interrupts resentment, wherever generosity interrupts fear, wherever courage interrupts despair. And yet -- the world is still a mess. So when we pray, "Your kin-dom come," we are asking God to finish what God has begun. To clean up what we have broken.
But we are also praying something daring: That God's reign would come through us. That we would live under that rule. This is being born from above is ongoing. It is not a one-time event. It is a pattern. Daily dying. Daily rising. Daily letting go of control. Daily receiving mercy. Lent especially is the season for that pattern. Not self-improvement. Not religious performance. But transformation.
The late Alan Jones once described Christianity as "a romance, a pilgrimage into the unknown, a process of continual conversion." This is Nicodemus' journey. And it is ours. Like Abraham and Sarah, we are drawn toward a dwelling shaped by trust rather than unknown. Peace rather than domination. Responsibility rather than indifference.
At St. Francis, we know something of that journey. We are in a season of discernment -- entering a call process, listening for where God is leading us and who will walk with us as our next settled pastor. Perhaps the deeper question here is not simply who that person will be, but who we are becoming as God's people in this place -- how we are learning to trust, to listen, and to follow.
When we live in the vision of God's reign, something shifts. We begin to see differently. Darkness does not disappear -- but it is no longer ultimate. Restlessness becomes invitation. Anxiety becomes prayer. Void becomes space for the Spirit. And slowly, sometimes imperceptibly, we find ourselves living not by fear but by grace. Not by sarcity but by promise. Not by self-protection but by love. And that love is what gives us courage to be born from above. And that love is what gives us courage to be born from above.
For God so loved the world.
Amen.
