From Fear to Trust in the Night

Lent has a way of bringing us face to face with the things we would rather manage quietly. Not just our sins in the obvious sense, but our fears. The fears we’ve learned to live around. The fears we call “being realistic.” The fears that shape how we see God, other people, and even ourselves.

That is part of why Nicodemus is such a compelling figure for the Second Sunday of Lent. He comes to Jesus at night. People have long noticed that detail, and for good reason. Night can mean uncertainty. Night can mean caution. Night can mean he is not yet ready to be seen. But night is also where honest questions often surface. It is where the soul stops performing. It is where we finally admit what we cannot fix on our own.

Nicodemus comes with questions, and Jesus does not shut him down. That matters. There is good news in that alone: Christ receives people who come with questions. Christ receives people who come uncertain. Christ receives people who are not ready to speak in bright, confident language. In other words, Christ receives people like us.

John 3 is often reduced to a single verse pulled out of the conversation, but the conversation itself is worth staying with. Jesus is speaking to a man who knows the religious tradition, who has status, who is not careless or unserious—and yet something in him is still unsettled. He can see that something is happening in Jesus, but he cannot yet fully make sense of it. That feels deeply human.

Many of us know what it is like to carry faith and fear at the same time. To believe, and still hesitate. To want to trust God, and still keep one hand on control. To long for new life, while also resisting whatever change new life may require. Lent does not shame that struggle. It exposes it so grace can meet it. And maybe that is one of the gifts of this Gospel passage: it reminds us that transformation does not begin with pretending we are fearless. It begins with coming to Jesus as we are.

Fear is not only personal, of course. It also shapes communities. It can narrow compassion. It can make us suspicious. It can make harshness feel like wisdom and indifference feel like strength. We live in a time when fear is constantly trying to disciple us—through noise, outrage, and the steady pressure to harden ourselves. But the Gospel does not form us that way.

Jesus speaks of new birth, of Spirit, of a life that cannot be reduced to control or managed into existence. He speaks of the kind of life God gives—life that opens us, reorients us, and teaches us to trust again. And then there is that line so many people know by heart: “For God so loved the world…”

Not just the polished world. Not just the world we approve of. Not just the people who seem easy to love. The world. This wounded, beautiful, divided world. In Lent, that word “world” lands differently. It reminds us that God’s movement toward us is not driven by contempt, but by love. Not by denial of what is broken, but by a refusal to abandon what is broken. It is the kind of love that tells the truth and still does not let go.

So perhaps this week’s invitation is simple:

Notice where fear has been shaping your imagination. Notice where it has made you guarded, reactive, or tired. Notice where it has made trust feel dangerous. And then bring that to Christ. Even if it still feels like night. Even if your prayer sounds more like a question than a declaration. Even if you are not sure what comes next.

Nicodemus came at night. And Jesus met him there. That is good news for all of us.