Deacon Jude Tam Tran

NICODEMUS

“Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil” - (John 3:19)
“The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?” - (Psalm 27:1)

Jerusalem had finally gone quiet. The marketplace noises faded, sandals stopped scraping stone, and the city settled into that soft nighttime hum where secrets feel safer. That was when Nicodemus stepped outside.

He pulled his cloak a little tighter—not because it was cold, but because being seen mattered.
Nicodemus wasn’t just anyone. He was a Pharisee. A teacher of Israel. A man whose opinions carried weight, whose reputation had been carefully built brick by brick. And yet, his heart had become unbearably restless.

Jesus.

Everyone was talking about Him. Miracles. Authority. Words that landed like lightning. Nicodemus had listened from a distance, nodding silently, arguing with himself late into the night. No one could do these signs unless God were with him. That thought wouldn’t leave him alone.

So, Nicodemus did what many thoughtful, cautious people do—he went looking for truth, but quietly. Carefully. After dark.

Jesus didn’t act surprised when Nicodemus arrived. No raised eyebrow. No “What are you doing here?” Just a calm presence, as if He had been expecting him all along.

Nicodemus cleared his throat. “Rabbi,” he said, choosing his words with professional care, “we know that you are a teacher who has come from God. No one could perform the signs you are doing if God were not with him.”

It was a respectful opening. A compliment. A safe starting point.

Jesus, however, skipped the pleasantries.

“Very truly I tell you,” He said, looking straight at Nicodemus, “no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.”

Nicodemus blinked.

Born… again?

He frowned, gears grinding. “How can someone be born when they are old?” he asked, half-serious, half-bewildered. “Surely they cannot enter a second time into their mother’s womb to be born!”

This was the sound of a brilliant mind trying desperately to keep God manageable.

Jesus smiled—not mockingly, but knowingly. “Very truly I tell you,” He said, “no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit. Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit.”

Nicodemus stood still. This wasn’t a debate he could win with logic. Jesus wasn’t talking about improving behavior or polishing theology. He was talking about transformation—deep, invisible, uncontrollable.

“Do not be surprised,” Jesus continued, “that I say, ‘You must be born again.’ The wind blows where it wishes. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So, it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”

The wind. Unseen, undeniable. Impossible to schedule.

Nicodemus exhaled slowly. “How can this be?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Jesus didn’t scold him. But He did challenge him. “You are Israel’s teacher,” He said gently, “and do you not understand these things?”

Then Jesus went deeper—beyond theology, beyond Nicodemus’s titles, straight into history and prophecy. He spoke of heavenly things and earthly things, of belief and testimony. And finally, He reached for an image Nicodemus knew well.

“Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness,” Jesus said, “so the Son of Man must be lifted up, that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him.”

It was an unexpected ending. Not rules. Not rituals. Belief. Trust. Looking up.

The conversation ended quietly. No dramatic conversion. No bold declaration. Nicodemus slipped back into the night the same way he came—thoughtful, conflicted, carrying words that refused to stay silent.

And that night explains more than just Nicodemus. It explains many people.

Nicodemus came at night not because he lacked faith, but because faith threatened his comfort. Daylight meant questions. Judgment. Risk. Night allowed curiosity without consequence. Belief without visibility.

Many people today live the same way.

They believe God—in their minds. They respect Jesus. They admire His wisdom. They pray privately, quietly, cautiously. But church? Community? Public faith? That feels dangerous. Too exposing. Too costly.

Jesus once said, “Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil” (John 3:19). That doesn’t always mean evil actions—it often means hidden fears. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of losing control. Fear of standing out.

Nicodemus wasn’t condemned for coming at night. Jesus welcomed him. Met him there. Spoke patiently. But the story doesn’t end in the dark.

Later, Nicodemus would speak up—timidly at first—defending Jesus before his peers (John 7:50–51). And later still, he would step fully into the light, helping to bury Jesus openly, publicly, at great personal cost (John 19:39).

The night was a beginning, not a destination.

That’s the wisdom of the story. God will meet you where you are—even in the shadows. But He never intends for you to stay there.

As Scripture says, “The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?” (Psalm 27:1).

Faith that stays only in the mind eventually withers. Faith that steps into the light—even trembling—begins to live.

Nicodemus teaches us this: it’s okay to come with questions. It’s okay to come quietly. But when the Spirit begins to move like wind in your soul, don’t close the door.

The night is safe—but the light is where life begins.