Living Water, Risky Encounters, and the Shape of Witness

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

1 February 2026

John 4.1–42

If you wanted to design a scene
            that disrupted every expectation of how religious life is supposed to work,
            you could do worse than John chapter 4.

A Jewish man speaks publicly with a Samaritan woman.
            A rabbi asks to receive, not to give.
A woman with no recognised authority
            becomes the first evangelist to her community.
A conversation begins with water
            and ends with transformed relationships.

And all of this takes place not in a synagogue, not in Jerusalem,
            not on a mountain charged with holiness, but beside a well.
An ordinary place. A necessary place.
            A place people go because they need to survive.

John’s gospel, more than any other, invites us to slow down and linger.
            This is not a story that can be rushed.
It unfolds in layers, with misunderstandings, interruptions, silences,
            and moments where what matters most is not what is said,
            but who stays present to whom.

At Bloomsbury, we are used to complexity.
            We are used to faith that does not come neatly packaged,
            to lives that do not conform to religious scripts,
            to questions that remain open longer than some traditions find comfortable.
And this story, I think, speaks precisely into that space.

Because this is not a story about getting it right.
            It is not a story about repentance before welcome.
            It is not a story about moral reform as the price of encounter.

Rather, it is a story about what happens
            when Jesus meets someone where they actually are,
            and what that encounter sets in motion.

Crossing the wrong boundaries

John tells us that Jesus “had to go through Samaria”.
            That line can sound deceptively neutral,
            as though it were simply the shortest route.

But every first-century listener would know
            that this is not straightforward geography.

Many Jews avoided Samaria entirely,
            even if it meant a longer and more difficult journey.

Samaria was a contested place,
            marked by ethnic hostility, theological dispute, and historical trauma.
Jews and Samaritans shared scriptures but not interpretations.
            They shared ancestry but not trust.
            They shared land but not table fellowship.

So when John says that Jesus “had to go through Samaria”,
            we are already being alerted that necessity here is not about convenience.
            It is about vocation.

Jesus stops at Jacob’s well, a site heavy with ancestral memory.
            Wells in scripture are places where stories turn.
            They are sites of betrothal, revelation, and unexpected meeting.
Think of Rebecca, Rachel, Zipporah.
            Wells are places where survival and relationship meet.

Jesus is tired. John makes a point of telling us that.
            And this isn’t incidental.
The Word made flesh doesn’t float above the body.
            He is thirsty. He needs water. He sits.

And then comes the encounter that should not happen.

A Samaritan woman comes to draw water,
            and Jesus asks her for a drink.

The request itself is already transgressive.
            Jewish purity codes, ethnic hostility, and gender conventions
            all say that this interaction is inappropriate.
But John doesn’t treat this as a dramatic shock moment.
            He allows it to unfold with almost quiet insistence.

Jesus does not open with theology.
            He doesn’t begin with judgement.
He begins with vulnerability.

            “Give me a drink.” He says to her.

The one through whom all things came into being
            asks to receive something from someone
            whose society tells her she should not even be addressed.

This is where the story begins,
            and this is where we need to linger.

Because Christian faith has often been framed as something we dispense,
            rather than something we receive.
As certainty we offer,
            rather than encounter we risk.
As answers we possess,
            rather than thirst we acknowledge.

But here, Jesus begins not with authority, but with need.

Misunderstanding as invitation

The conversation that follows is full of misunderstanding.
            Jesus speaks of living water,
                        and the woman hears a promise of running water.
            Jesus speaks symbolically,
                        and she responds practically.

This pattern recurs throughout John’s gospel.
            Nicodemus misunderstands being born from above.
            The crowds misunderstand the bread of life.
            Martha misunderstands resurrection.
John is not mocking these misunderstandings.
            Rather, he uses them as doorways.

Misunderstanding is not failure.
            It is often the first step of engagement.

The Samaritan woman is not slow or obtuse.
            She is sharp, perceptive, and quick to respond.
She notices the boundary crossing.
            “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a Samaritan woman?” she says.

She names what is usually left unspoken.
            And Jesus doesn’t correct her.
He doesn’t deny the reality of the boundary.
            He simply steps across it.

When Jesus speaks of living water,
            he’s not offering a spiritual upgrade.
            He’s not dismissing her material need.
Rather, he is speaking of a different kind of life,
            a life that doesn’t run dry,
            a life that isn’t dependent on constant return to the same sources
                        that never quite satisfy.

In John’s gospel, eternal life is not a future reward.
            It is a present quality of life rooted in relationship with God.
It is life lived in the light, life that flows,
            life that doesn’t need to be hoarded.

And this is important,
            because the woman’s life
            has clearly required careful management of resources.
Water must be drawn daily.
            Relationships have been complex.
            Security hasn’t been guaranteed.

One detail in this story that is easy to pass over too quickly is the time of day.
            John tells us that it is about noon, the hottest part of the day.

Preachers have often used this to suggest
            that the woman comes to the well at an unusual hour to avoid other people,
            implying shame or social exclusion.

But once again, the text doesn’t require that conclusion.
            What it does insist upon is the exposure of the moment.

This isn’t a conversation that takes place under cover of darkness,
            like Nicodemus’ visit earlier in the gospel.
This isn’t a private, protected, night-time exchange
            where questions can be asked without being seen.

This encounter happens in full light,
            when the sun is high and shadows are short.

Nothing is hidden here.
            Nothing is softened by anonymity.

John is careful with such details,
            and here the contrast matters.

Nicodemus, a respected male religious leader, came to Jesus by night.
            This unnamed Samaritan woman, without status or protection,
            meets Jesus in the full glare of day.

If John is inviting comparison, then the implication is unsettling.
            Those with social power often seek the safety of darkness,
            while those without it conduct their lives in full visibility.

And yet, it is in the brightness of noon
            that recognition and transformation take place.

The living water Jesus offers is not something dispensed in secret.
            It isn’t reserved for those who can manage their reputation.
Rather, it’s given in the open, where life is actually lived.

For a church like ours, this matters.
            Much harm has been done by forms of faith that operate in shadows,
            that demand secrecy, denial, or silence in order to belong.

This story insists that encounter with God doesn’t require concealment.
            It happens in the light, with lives as they really are.

Living water is not about escape from exposure,
            but about sustaining life within it.
It is the gift of being able to stand in the open,
            known and unhidden,
            and still discover that God is present there.

And so we return to the woman,
            and we find that Jesus doesn’t romanticise her situation.
But neither does he reduce her to it.

“Go, call your husband”, he says

Few lines in scripture have generated as much damage as this one.

            “Go, call your husband, and come back.”

So often this moment has been treated as a dramatic unmasking,
            a revelation of hidden sin,
            a turning point where the woman’s moral failure is exposed.

And as I have preached before,
            the text simply does not support that reading.

There is no accusation.
            There is no call to repentance.
            There is no offer of forgiveness.

What there is, is recognition.

Jesus acknowledges the reality of her life without commentary.
            He names it accurately, without judgement or rescue.
And the woman doesn’t collapse in shame.
            She doesn’t apologise. She doesn’t defend herself.

She simply recognises that she has been seen.

“He told me everything I have ever done.”

Not everything she has ever done wrong.
            But everything she has ever done.

In a world where women’s lives were often rendered invisible
            unless they transgressed,
to be fully seen was itself transformative.

We don’t know the story behind her marriages, and we don’t need to.
            The gospel isn’t interested in satisfying our curiosity.
Rather it’s interested in showing us what it looks like
            when someone’s whole life is acknowledged
            as the context for encounter with God.

This isn’t a story about moral correction.
            It’s a story about relational truth.

And that matters deeply in a church context,
            because too many people have been taught
            that they must explain, justify, or repair themselves
            before they are eligible for divine encounter.

But this story says otherwise.

Worship beyond the right place

The conversation shifts, as conversations often do
            when something vulnerable has been named.

The woman raises a theological question about worship.
            Which mountain is the right one?

This isn’t deflection. It’s discernment.
            She is testing whether this encounter can hold the weight of real difference.

Jesus’ response is one of the most radical statements in the gospel.
            Worship is no longer anchored to geography.
            It’s no longer confined to sacred sites.
            Rather, it is re-located in relationship.

God is not accessed through the correct location,
            but through truth and spirit.

And truth here is not doctrinal precision.
            It is openness. It is alignment.
            It is life lived without duplicity.

This is not an argument against tradition or embodied practice.
            It is a refusal to allow any system to monopolise access to God.

And for a congregation like Bloomsbury,
            rooted in a tradition that has always questioned established power,
            this matters.
It reminds us that God is not contained by our structures,
            even the ones we cherish.

The Spirit blows where it will.
            Grace refuses to stay put.
And encounter happens in places we didn’t plan.

The interruption of discipleship

And then, just as the conversation reaches its depth,
            the disciples return. And their reaction is telling.

They are astonished that Jesus is speaking with a woman.
            But they don’t say anything.

John often uses silence as commentary.
            And their silence reveals discomfort.
They don’t yet have the language for what they are witnessing.

The woman, meanwhile, leaves her water jar and goes back to the city.

This detail is easy to overlook, but it’s significant.
            She leaves behind the very thing she came for.
Not because water no longer matters,
            but because something else has claimed her attention.

She becomes a witness, not because she has everything figured out,
            but because she has encountered something she cannot keep to herself.

“Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done.
            He cannot be the Messiah, can he?”

Her testimony is tentative. It is invitational.
            It leaves room for others to discover for themselves.

This is not evangelism as persuasion.
            It is evangelism as overflow.

The woman’s witness contrasts with the disciples’ misunderstanding.
            While they are concerned with food and status,
            she is attentive to transformation.

She becomes the bridge through which her community encounters Jesus.

Abundance redefined

When the Samaritans come to Jesus,
            they ask him to stay. And he does. For two days.

This is remarkable.
            Jesus doesn’t rush on.
He doesn’t treat Samaria as a brief stopover.
            Rather he stays in a place that religious convention told him to avoid.

And many come to believe,
            not because of the woman’s testimony alone,
            but because of their own encounter with Jesus.

This is how faith spreads in John’s gospel.
            Not through coercion, not through argument,
            but through relationship.

The story ends with a declaration that Jesus is the Saviour of the world.
            Not the saviour of the righteous.
            Not the saviour of those who get it right.
But the saviour of the world.

And that is a profoundly political claim.
            It relativises every boundary, every hierarchy,
            every claim to exclusive access.

It says that no one’s life is outside the scope of divine concern.
            It says that no one’s story is too complex for encounter.
It says that abundant life begins not in the future, but here.

Living water today

So what does this story ask of us?

It asks whether we are willing to meet people where they actually are,
            rather than where we think they should be.

It asks whether we can allow misunderstanding to be part of the journey,
            rather than a reason to withdraw.

It asks whether we trust that God is already at work
            beyond our boundaries.

And perhaps most searchingly,
            it asks whether we are willing to recognise our own thirst.

Because this is not just a story about the Samaritan woman.
            It is a story about Jesus, tired and thirsty, sitting at a well.

It is a story about a God who does not wait for us to get it right,
            but meets us in the heat of the day,
            in the ordinary places of survival, and offers life that flows.

Life that does not depend on constant self-justification.
            Life that is not exhausted by complexity.
Life that is sustained by relationship.

And that, surely, is good news worth sharing.

Not as certainty.
Not as control.
But as an invitation.

As the woman says, “Come and see.”

 

Peace from the Margins

A Sermon for Metropolitan Community Church North London

Sunday 25 January 2026

Image: Brother Klaus, the Swiss peace-making saint.

Matthew 4.12–23

Good evening, it’s wonderful to be with you again this evening,

            as we continue to follow the story of Jesus as told in Matthew’s Gospel.

Let’s begin by remembering where we are in the story.

Jesus has just been baptised.
            He has just heard a voice say, “You are my beloved.”
He has just faced temptation in the wilderness,
            where power was offered to him in exchange for obedience to empire.

And then, almost immediately, the story turns dark.

John the Baptist is arrested.

John, the truth-teller.
            John, the one who spoke plainly.
John, the one who named injustice and paid the price.

And Matthew tells us that when Jesus hears this news, he withdraws to Galilee.

That word, “withdraws”, can sound like retreat.
            It can sound like fear.
            It can sound like hiding.

But Matthew wants us to understand something much deeper.

This is not Jesus stepping back from danger.
            This is Jesus stepping directly into it.

Jesus goes to Galilee.
            Not to Jerusalem.
Not to the centre of religious power.
            Not to safety.

He goes to Galilee of the Gentiles.

Or, more accurately, Galilee under the Gentiles.
            Galilee under the Romans, to put it another way!

Occupied land.
            Watched land.
            Controlled land.

A place marked by military presence, political suspicion,
            economic exploitation, and cultural marginalisation.

This is where Jesus chooses to live.
This is where Jesus chooses to begin.

And Matthew reaches back into the book of Isaiah
            to help us see why this matters:

“The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light,
            and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death,
            light has dawned.”

This is not poetic decoration.
            It is political theology.

Because in the Bible, darkness is not about ignorance or lack of faith.
            Darkness is about what happens to people
            when power is used against them.

Darkness is what happens
            when empires decide who belongs and who does not.
Darkness is what happens
            when bodies are controlled, voices silenced, lives made unsafe.

Galilee was dark not because its people were sinful,
            but because they were occupied.

And it is precisely there that the light appears.
            It is to the people who sit in darkness
            that the light of Christ appears

That matters deeply for a church like this one.

Many here today know what it means to live in occupied space.
            Not always with soldiers on the streets,
            but with systems watching, judging, excluding.

Some of you know what it is
            to live with the constant fear of detention or deportation.
Some of you know what it is
            to have your love, your gender, your body declared illegal or immoral.
Some of you know what it is
            to be told, by church or by state, that you are the problem.

And to you, Matthew’s gospel says something very clear:
            God does not wait for people to escape those places before showing up.

Jesus does not bring light after people are safe.
            Jesus brings light into the danger.

And what does Jesus say when he arrives?

Not “Submit.”
            Not “Keep your head down.”
            Not “Wait patiently for heaven.”

Rather, Jesus says,
            “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

This word “repent” has been used violently against LGBTQ people.
            It has been used to shame, threaten, and exclude.

But in the Bible, repentance does not mean hating yourself.
            It does not mean denying who you are.

It means changing direction.
            It means turning away from systems of death
            and turning towards life.

Jesus is not telling the oppressed to repent.
            Jesus is announcing that the world itself must change.

And he continues, telling them
            that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

That phrase doesn’t mean something spiritual, far away, or later.
            It means God’s way of being in the world is breaking into this one.

Jesus brings a different way of ordering power.
            A different way of relating to bodies.
            A different way of deciding who matters.

And notice this:
            Jesus announces the kingdom of heaven
            in a place controlled by the kingdom of Rome.

This is not neutral language.

Rome had its own gospel.
            Rome had its own good news.
            Rome claimed to bring its own particular kind of peace.

The famous Roman slogan was Pax Romana, the peace of Rome.

But Roman peace was built on violence.
            It was peace enforced by swords.
It was peace that required silence.
            Peace that depended on knowing your place.

And yet Jesus stands in Galilee under Roman control
            and says, in effect, this is not peace.

The peace of God
            is not the absence of conflict created by fear.
Rather the peace of God
            is the presence of justice that makes life possible.

This is why Jesus doesn’t begin by building an army.
            But instead begins by calling people,
            ordinary people, like you, and me…!

And there is something else we need to notice
            about the kind of peace Jesus is bringing.

Jesus doesn’t respond to John’s arrest by organising a protest,
            gathering weapons,
            or trying to overthrow Herod directly.
But neither does he accept the situation as unchangeable.

Instead, Jesus practises a dangerous peace.

A peace that refuses violence,
            but also refuses silence.
A peace that does not imitate the empire,
            but steadily undermines it.

This matters, because many people hear the word “peace”
            and think it means keeping your head down,
            not causing trouble, not drawing attention to yourself.

For people who are already vulnerable,
            that kind of peace can sound attractive.

If I am quiet enough,
            maybe I will not be noticed.
If I am careful enough,
            maybe I will be allowed to stay.

But that is not the peace Jesus proclaims.

The peace of Rome was built on fear.
            It depended on people knowing what would happen
                        if they stepped out of line.
            It rewarded obedience and punished difference.

But Jesus offers a peace that is built on truthful presence.

He goes where the harm is happening.
            He lives among those who are watched.
            He makes himself visible.

This is why Matthew is so careful
            to locate Jesus in Galilee under the Gentiles.

Jesus doesn’t float above politics.
            He doesn’t spiritualise suffering.

Rather he stands in occupied territory
            and says, “God’s reign is near.”

That is a deeply unsettling thing to say.

For those in power, it sounds like a threat.
            For those who are suffering, it sounds like hope.

But hope like this can be risky.

For many LGBTQ people,
            especially those who have fled their home countries,
            survival has often depended on hiding.
On not being seen.
            On not naming the truth too clearly.

So when we talk about peacemaking, we must be honest.
            Peacemaking is not always safe.

It asks: what would it mean to live
            as though God’s peace is already closer than fear?
What would it mean to trust that your life, your body, your love,
            are not mistakes to be concealed,
            but gifts to be honoured?

Jesus doesm’t force anyone to answer those questions.
            He simply says, “Follow me.”

And following him does not mean everyone does the same thing,
            at the same speed, or in the same way.

Some follow loudly.
            Some follow quietly.
            Some follow by staying alive another day.

But together, they form a community
            that begins to look like the kingdom of heaven.

A community where people are fed.
            Where bodies are healed.
Where no one is disposable.
            Where peace is not imposed from above, but built from below.

Matthew tells us that Jesus calls fishermen:

            Ordinary people.
            Working people.
            People without status.
            People whose lives were shaped by uncertainty.

And to these ordinary people, he simply says, “Follow me.”

And that is what these fishermen do, leaving their nets.

But those nets were not just tools.
            They were survival.
They were income.
            They were identity.

To ‘leave your nets’ is not a spiritual metaphor here.
            It is an economic risk.

Jesus is forming a community that will live differently in the middle of empire.

This is where peace becomes concrete.

Peace, in Matthew’s gospel, is not passive.
            It is not silence.
            It is not compliance.

Peace is the work of building alternative ways of living together.

But if peace is something we practise together in public,
            it is also something we need to be rooted in deeply within ourselves.

Because living in occupied places,
            whether political, social, or emotional,
            does something to the inside of a person.

Fear does not only come from outside.
            It settles in the body.
It shapes the breath.
            It tightens the chest.
It whispers, again and again, that danger is always near.

Many of you know this from lived experience.

The uncertainty of asylum processes.
            The long waiting.
The interviews.
            The paperwork.
The feeling that your life is always being assessed.

Even when nothing is happening, the body remembers.

This is why Jesus’ work is never only about changing structures,
            important though that is.
It is also about restoring the inner life.

Matthew tells us that Jesus goes through Galilee
            teaching, proclaiming, and healing.

Healing here is not only physical.
            It is the healing of wounded spirits.
The easing of fear.
            The restoring of trust.

This is where prayer matters.

Prayer is not an escape from the world.
            Prayer is where we learn to breathe again
            in a world that takes our breath away.

When we pray, we place ourselves in the presence of Jesus.

Not the distant Jesus of rules and judgement,
            but the Jesus who chose to live in Galilee under the Gentiles.
The Jesus who knows what it is to live under threat.
            The Jesus who knows what it is to be watched.

Encountering Jesus in prayer is not about having the right words.
            Especially for those whose English is limited,
            this is important to say clearly.

Prayer does not depend on perfect language.
            It doesn’t depend on speaking the language of power fluently.
It doesn’t depend on having your theology sorted.
            It doesn’t depend on having enough confidence.

Sometimes prayer is simply sitting quietly
            and saying, “I am here.”
Sometimes it is holding fear before God
            without trying to explain it.
Sometimes it is allowing yourself, for a moment,
            to be seen without judgement.

This kind of prayer creates inner peace
            not by denying reality,
            but by grounding us more deeply in it.

Jesus does not promise that fear will disappear.
            But he offers presence within fear.

And inner peace matters because peacemaking is costly.

If we are always giving, always resisting, always caring,
            without returning to the source of life, we burn out.
We become exhausted.
            We become numb.
We lose hope.

Prayer is how peacemakers stay human.

It is how we remember
            that our worth does not depend on outcomes.
It is how we remember that our lives are held
            by love deeper than any system of power.

For LGBTQ people who have been told that God is against them,
            prayer can be painful.
It can reopen wounds.

So it is important to say this clearly.

The Jesus you meet in prayer is not checking whether you are acceptable.
            Jesus is not measuring your faith.
            Jesus is not waiting for you to change.

Jesus meets you as you are.
            Jesus loves you, as you are.

Inner peace, in the Christian tradition,
            is not self-control or emotional suppression.
It is the quiet assurance that you are not alone,
            that you are deeply, completely, loved and accepted.

And from that place, slowly, gently, peace-making becomes possible.

Not as heroism.
Not as pressure.
But as a life rooted in love.

Later in this gospel, Jesus will say, “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

Not peace-lovers.
            Not peace-wishers.

But peace-makers:
            The people who actively create conditions where life can flourish.

For a community like MCC, this is not abstract theology.

Peace-making looks like creating sanctuary
                        when the state creates fear.
            It looks like believing people’s stories
                        when systems demand proof.
            It looks like bodies being honoured
                        rather than controlled.
            It looks like worship that heals
                        rather than harms.

Jesus’ ministry begins, Matthew tells us,
            with teaching, proclaiming, and healing.

Teaching:
            telling the truth about God and the world.
Proclaiming:
            naming good news where others only see threat.
Healing:
            restoring bodies and lives damaged by power.

That is what peace looks like in practice.

Not the peace of quiet compliance,
            but the peace of restored dignity.

The light that dawns in Galilee is not a spotlight from above.
            It is a lamp lit among people who have learned to live in shadow.

And here is the good news.

Jesus does not call perfect people to do this work.
            He calls people already shaped by marginal life.

The fishermen know what it is to live with uncertainty.
            They know what it is to work under taxation and control.
            They know what it is to survive.

Jesus does not ask them to become respectable first.
            He asks them to follow.

For those of you who carry fear in your bodies,
            for those of you whose English may be hesitant
                        but whose courage is deep,
            for those of you who have been told
                        that peace will come only if you change,

Matthew offers another vision.

Peace begins when light is named in dark places.
            Peace begins when people refuse the lies of empire.
Peace begins when communities choose solidarity over safety.

And in a world gone mad, we need this kind of peace,
            this kind of peace-making, as much as ever.

It is to a world like ours, indeed it is to our world,
            that Jesus proclaims that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

The Kingdom is not far away.
            It’s not later.
            It’s not only for some, who meet certain criteria.

Unlike Rome’s kingdom, the Kingdom of Jesus is here.
            It is now.
And it is found among those the world has pushed aside.

In Palestine, Ukraine, Sudan,
            in Minneapolis, and in London,
indeed wherever power seeks dominance
            and violence is threatened or enacted,
the Kingdom of Christ stands as a peaceful alternative
            to the kingdoms of domination.

But hear this: the peace of Christ is not an easy peace.
            It will cost Jesus his life.

But it is a real peace.
            A peace that cannot be deported.
            A peace that cannot be erased.

A peace that began in Galilee under the Gentiles,
            and continues wherever people dare to live
            as though God’s justice, mercy, and love
            are already breaking into the world.

Amen.

 

A Conversation After Dark

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church 

25 January 2026

John 3.1-21

What if being born from above is less about certainty, and more about surrender? Meet Nicodemus, who offers some reflections on faith that thinks deeply, and the risk of letting the Spirit work beyond the safety of our ideas.

I went to meet Jesus at night.

People remember that about me. They always do. 

As though that single detail tells the whole story.
            As though it explains everything. 

I suppose it is true that I came when the streets were quieter,
            when the crowds had thinned
            and the eyes that watched him so closely were turned elsewhere. 

But it was not only fear that brought me under cover of darkness.
            It was honesty.
Night was the only time I could admit to myself
            that something in me was restless, unsettled,
            no longer satisfied with the answers that had carried me this far.

I was a Pharisee. A teacher of Israel.
            I had devoted my life to the study of the law,
            to the careful interpretation of scripture,
            to the shaping of a faithful community under occupation and pressure.

I believed, truly believed, that faith mattered.
            That ideas mattered.
            That getting things right mattered.

And yet.

Something about him disturbed me.
            Not because he was wrong,
            but because he seemed to be right in a way I could not quite grasp.

He did not speak as one anxious to defend an argument.
            He spoke as though truth was alive.
As though God was not merely to be understood, but encountered.

I had seen the signs. Others had too.
            Acts of healing. Acts of disruption.
            Water turned into wine, abundance where there should have been scarcity.
These were not tricks. They weren’t spectacles.
            They were signs of something deeper, something breaking open.

So I came to him at night, carrying the best words I had.

“Rabbi,” I said, “we know that you are a teacher who has come from God,
            for no one can do these signs apart from the presence of God.”

I thought that was a good place to begin.
            Respectful. Accurate. Honest.

He did not take the compliment.

Instead, he looked straight at me and said,
            Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God
            without being born from above.”

I remember feeling as though the ground shifted beneath my feet.

Born from above.

Born again.

The words landed strangely.
            I had spent my life thinking about faith as formation,
            as discipline, as obedience shaped over time.
Birth was not something you earned or mastered.
            Birth happened to you.
            Birth was messy, uncontrollable, deeply embodied.

So I did what I always did when confronted with something unsettling.
            I tried to make it manageable.

“How can anyone be born after having grown old?” I asked.
            “Surely they cannot enter the womb a second time?”

I knew how foolish it sounded even as I said it.
            But sometimes foolishness is a defence.
Sometimes it is easier to misunderstand deliberately
            than to allow yourself to be undone.

But he didn’t laugh at me.

“Very truly,” he said again,
            “no one can enter the kingdom of God
            without being born of water and Spirit.”

Water and Spirit.

I knew those words. Of course I did.

Water that cleanses.
            Water that marks beginnings.
Spirit that hovered over the deep at creation.
            Spirit breathed into dry bones.
            Spirit poured out by the prophets as a promise of renewal.

I had learned to speak of these things with care, with distance.
            As texts to be interpreted, symbols to be analysed.
But he was speaking of them as realities to be entered.

“What is born of the flesh is flesh,” he said,
            “and what is born of the Spirit is spirit.”

And then he spoke of the wind.

“You hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.
            So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

I did not like that image.

Wind does not respect boundaries.
            It does not submit to schedules or hierarchies.
It cannot be summoned or dismissed.
            It moves as it will. 

I had spent my life building structures to hold faith steady,
            to keep it faithful, to protect it from chaos.

He was telling me that God's Spirit
            could not be contained within any of them.

“How can these things be?” I asked.

I wasn’t being rhetorical. I genuinely did not know.

He looked at me, and there was sadness there, I think,
            though also something like patience.

“Are you a teacher of Israel,” he asked,
            “and yet you do not understand these things?”

I wanted to protest. To explain myself.
            To list my credentials, my years of study, my devotion.
But I knew, even then, that he was not questioning my sincerity.
            He was questioning my sight.

I knew many things.
            I could argue, interpret, debate.
But I was beginning to realise that knowing is not the same as seeing.

He spoke then of testimony,
            of earthly things and heavenly things,
            of truths that are offered and refused.
And then he reached into our shared story.

“Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness,” he said,
            “so must the Son of Man be lifted up,
            that whoever trusts in him may have eternal life.”

I remembered that story. Of course I did.
            The people bitten, dying, afraid.
The strange instruction.
            Look, and live.
            Not understand, not explain… just look. Just trust.

And then he said words that have echoed through my life ever since.

            “God so loved the world.”

Not judged. Not tolerated. Loved.

Loved the world in its mess, its violence, its contradictions.
            Loved it enough to give, not to condemn.

I had been taught to think of God's holiness as separation.
            But Jesus was speaking of holiness as self-giving love.

“God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world,” he said,
            “but so that the world might be saved.”

Saved.

Not extracted. Not escaped from.
            But healed. Restored.
            Brought back into life.

And yet he did not deny that there is judgment.

“The light has come into the world,” he said,
            “and people loved darkness rather than light.”

That was the moment I realised he was speaking directly to me.

I had come at night.

Not because I didn’t care, but because I did.
            Not because I was hostile, but because I was afraid
            of what full exposure might require of me.

Light reveals. Light shows things as they are.
            Light demands response.

There is something else I have never said out loud,
            something that is harder to explain
            than the words we exchanged. 

It was not only what he said that unsettled me.
            It was what happened inside me as he spoke. 

I felt it first as a loosening,
            as though something tightly bound
            had begun, quietly, to give way. 

I had come prepared to think, to analyse,
            to weigh his answers against my questions.

I was not prepared to feel. 

Yet as the conversation unfolded,
            I became aware of my own breathing,
            of the night air on my skin,
            of a strange vulnerability rising in me. 

It was as though the carefully ordered rooms of my inner life
            had been entered without permission,
            not violently, but gently, insistently. 

I realised then how little space I had made for God beyond my thoughts. 

My prayers had been precise, disciplined, well-formed,
            but rarely expectant.

I had spoken about God far more than I had waited for God. 

In his presence, I sensed that faith
            was not only something to be held or defended,
            but something that could be allowed to happen to me. 

There, in the darkness, I understood for the first time
            that the Spirit does not only teach or correct.
The Spirit stirs, unsettles, softens, opens. 

And that kind of opening is frightening,
            because once it begins, you cannot be certain what will follow. 

I wanted to step back, to reassert control, to return to safer ground.
            But something in me knew that if I did, I would remain unchanged. 

To be born from above, I began to see, is to consent to this inner exposure,
            to allow God to meet us not only at the level of belief,
            but at the depth of longing, fear, and hope we so carefully guard.

I had always thought of judgment as something God does to us.
            But he spoke of it as something that happens when light meets truth.
            When reality can no longer be avoided.

“Those who do what is true come to the light,” he said,
            “so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.”

I left that night with more questions than answers.

I didn’t suddenly abandon my role.
            I didn’t become his follower overnight.

Transformation, I have learned, rarely happens that way.
            But something had shifted.
            A crack had opened.

Later, when others spoke against him,
            I found myself speaking, cautiously at first,
            asking whether the law truly allowed us to judge without hearing.
It was a small thing, but it mattered.

And later still, when he was lifted up,
            not in glory but in shame,
executed by the empire, discarded as a threat,
            I stepped into the open at last.

I helped take down his body.
            I brought spices, far more than were necessary.
An act of grief. An act of honour.
            Perhaps an act of repentance.

People still say I came to see Jesus at night.
            But they do not always notice that I did not stay there.

I tell you this because I suspect I am not alone.

There are many like me.
            People who care deeply about faith.
People who think carefully,
            who question honestly, who resist easy answers.
People who have built a faith of the mind,
            strong and rigorous and deeply valuable.

But sometimes that very strength becomes a shelter.
            A way of staying in control.
            A way of keeping the Spirit at arm’s length.

I had to learn that faith is not only about what we think,
            but about what we are willing to receive.
Not only about interpretation, but about transformation.
            Not only about conviction, but about vulnerability.

To be born from above is not to abandon thought,
            but to allow it to be joined by trust.
To allow the Spirit to work not just on our ideas,
            but on our hearts, our bodies, our fears, and our desires.

And that is why water matters.

Baptism is not an abstract symbol.
            It is not merely a statement of belief.
It is a surrender.
            A willingness to be immersed, to be held, to be changed.
            To admit that life is received before it is chosen.

I did not understand at first why he spoke of water.
            I thought of purification, of ritual washings,
            of the careful ways we mark the boundary
                        between what is clean and what is not. 

Water, for me, had always been about control.
            About order.
            About ensuring that what entered the presence of God was properly prepared. 

But as the days passed and his words returned to me, again and again,
            I began to sense that he was speaking of a different kind of water altogether. 

Not water that we manage, but water that holds us.
            Water that overwhelms our careful distinctions. 

Water that does not ask permission
            before it touches every part of us. 

I began to realise how rarely I had allowed myself
            to be that vulnerable before God. 

I had stood ankle-deep, perhaps,
            content to feel refreshed without being undone. 

But he was speaking of immersion. Of going under.
            Of letting the old ways of securing myself be loosened,
            even washed away. 

To be born of water and Spirit, I began to see,
            is to allow God to meet us not at the level of explanation,
                        but at the level of the body,
            where control is relinquished and trust must take its place. 

There is a moment, when you are submerged,
            when you can do nothing for yourself. 

You must be held.
            You must rely on another to raise you up. 

That moment terrified me when I first imagined it.
            And yet, it also began to feel like relief. 

What if faith is not finally about standing upright and certain,
            but about allowing ourselves to be carried? 

What if new life begins not with assertion, but with surrender?
            If that is what he meant by birth from above,
            then baptism is not an ending or a conclusion, but a threshold. 

A willingness to step into water deep enough to change us,
            trusting that the Spirit who calls us there will also bring us up into life.

If I could speak to my younger self,
            standing in that dimly lit street, rehearsing careful words,
            I would say this.

Do not be afraid of the light.

It does not come to shame you, but to free you.
            It does not come to strip you of dignity, but to give you life.

God’s Spirit moves where it will.
            You cannot control it. But you can consent to it.

And when you do, you may discover that being born from above
            is not an escape from the world you know,
            but a deeper way of inhabiting it. 

Seeing it more clearly.
            Loving it more truthfully.
            Living within it with courage shaped by hope rather than fear.

I went to meet Jesus at night.

But the light kept working in me.

And it will in you, if you let it.

Amen.