When a Man Comes In the Night – Stuart Segall

There are seasons in my life when I’ve come to Jesus the same way Nicodemus did, quietly, cautiously, carrying more questions than answers. Not because I didn’t believe, but because belief alone didn’t settle the ache. I’ve known what it is to move through the dark with a heart that’s curious, conflicted, and still somehow reaching for God.

I’ve spent years trying to make sense of things by effort, by discipline, by holding myself together. But there comes a point when the old frameworks don’t have the hold anymore, when the soul starts whispering for something deeper, something truer, something that can’t be earned or managed.

“There was a man of the Pharisees, named Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews: The same came to Jesus by night, and said unto him, Rabbi, we know that thou art a teacher come from God…” (John 3:1–2)

Nicodemus comes in the dark. A teacher of Israel, a man whose name carries weight in the daylight, but here he is moving through shadows. He is careful. He is curious. He is conflicted. And he is honest enough to come.

There is something almost holy about that. Most awakenings begin this way—not with trumpets, but with a whisper. A question we are afraid to ask out loud, which so defines a part of my past, a stirring we cannot ignore. A quiet step toward a light we do not yet understand.

The lesson: Spiritual awakening often begins in the dark, in private questions we’re afraid to ask out loud. Nicodemus shows that sincere seeking—even hesitant, even hidden—is honored by Jesus.

So, Jesus answers with something deeper, something that cuts straight through the night: “Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” (John 3:3)

Nicodemus hears it with the ears of a man who has spent his life mastering the rules. I, too, came from such a place. Jesus speaks to the deeper place—the place where effort cannot reach, where the Spirit breathes new life into what has grown tired and thin.

This is not about adding more religion. This is about becoming new. Not polished. Not improved. New.

The lesson: Transformation isn’t about adding more religion, rules, or knowledge—something I have striven for in the past. It’s about receiving a new kind of life, one born of the Spirit, not effort. This is the shift from human striving to divine renewal.

Nicodemus struggles to understand. “How can a man be born when he is old?” (John 3:4)

Jesus keeps drawing him into mystery: “Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God.” (John 3:5)

And then the image that loosens the grip of control: “The wind blows where it wishes… so is every one that is born of the Spirit.” (John 3:8)

For a man who has built his world on structure, this is disorienting. But it is also freeing. The life of God is not a system to master. It is a wind that moves through the open places of the heart—uncontrollable, mysterious, life-giving.

The lesson: The life of God cannot be managed, predicted, or earned. It must be received. Nicodemus, a master of religious structure, is invited into a relationship that moves with the freedom of the wind.

Then Jesus speaks the words that expose the truth beneath all Nicodemus’s learning: “Jesus answered and said to him, ‘Are you the teacher of Israel, and do not know these things?’” (John 3:10)

Not a condemnation. A gentle unveiling. Knowledge is not the same as sight. Mastery is not the same as openness. Sometimes the first step toward wisdom is unlearning what we thought we knew. This was my journey too—one that unfolded slowly in my later adult years.

And then Jesus reaches back into the wilderness: “As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up.” (John 3:14)

A picture of healing that comes not from effort but from looking. A picture of salvation that is received, not achieved.

And then the heartbeat of the Father, spoken into the night: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son…” (John 3:16) Love that gives. Love that saves. Love that invites. “For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.” (John 3:17)

My life often reflected a performance—a sincere one, but a performance nonetheless. Jesus taught here that the kingdom is not entered through fear or performance. It opens through love.

Nicodemus fades from the scene, but he does not disappear. He shows up again, defending Jesus when the council turns hostile. He shows up once more at the

tomb, carrying spices that cost a small fortune, stepping into the light at last. A slow awakening. A quiet courage. A costly allegiance.

His story asks something of us. What old frameworks need to be reborn? Where have I tried to control the wind instead of receiving it? And am I willing to lift my eyes to the One who heals?

Nicodemus’s story has felt like a mirror to me in these latter years of my life. A man who knew the Scriptures but still felt the pull of a new kind of life. A man who came with questions and left with an invitation. A man who didn’t transform all at once, but slowly—quiet step by quiet step—until the night gave way to courage.

This reflection is for anyone like me who has ever come to Jesus in the dark, carrying questions you don’t know how to voice. For anyone who feels the wind of the Spirit stirring in places you thought were settled. For anyone learning slowly, that rebirth isn’t about trying harder.

Nicodemus reminds us to look up and let God make us new.

Contributing to many of the resources offered by Plain Truth Ministries, including the CWR blog, Stuart Segall writes from the state of Washington.  He has spent most of his adult life counseling, encouraging, inspiring and uplifting others.