“There was a man of the Pharisees sect, Nicodemus, a prominent leader among the Jews. Late one night he visited Jesus…” – John 3:1-2
There’s something uniquely honest about darkness.
Late at night, when distractions fade away and silence fills every corner, our truest selves begin to surface. In those quiet hours, wrapped in the anonymity of night, we often reveal to God the questions we’ve kept hidden in daylight.
Nicodemus knew something about this truth. A respected religious leader, admired and certain in his ways, Nicodemus chose the cover of night to approach Jesus—perhaps unsure of how his questions might sound in daylight, perhaps uncertain about the answers he might receive.
As I shared on Sunday, our German Shepherd, Fritz, chose Friday night, while Tom’s newest grandchild was sleeping in another room, to “patrol.”
If he wasn’t lying in the hallway, perfectly positioned in-between the two bedrooms of his newest friends, he was literally pacing the upstairs hallway.
ALL NIGHT Fritz paced through the darkness, his nails clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floors. It was irritating at times, a persistent, sleepless tap-tap-tap—but it was also comforting. Fritz stood watchful, protective, alert. Though his presence disrupted sleep, it reminded me that sometimes discomfort isn’t mere inconvenience; sometimes it’s protection disguised as restlessness, guidance cloaked in disturbance.
Spiritually, we all have our own “clicking nails” moments—those annoyances, those persistent nudges in our souls that prevent us from comfortably drifting off into spiritual complacency.
We might resist them, resent their intrusion, wishing for silence and rest. But what if those clicks are there precisely because we are loved deeply enough to be disturbed?
What if they serve as reminders that someone watches over us, guiding us gently back into awareness?
Nicodemus, with his tightly held beliefs, his ironclad certainties about faith and God—those comfortable “2+2=4” equations—found himself face-to-face with the transformative light of Christ in the cover of darkness. Jesus met him, not with condemnation, but with an invitation that would unsettle every neatly held belief: “You must be born from above.” This wasn’t about adding more facts or rules to his already full religious life. It was about stepping into an entirely new way of existing—of seeing, living, and loving.
Nicodemus’s encounter challenges us to reflect deeply: Where are we clinging tightly to ideas that limit rather than liberate? Are there parts of our spiritual lives we choose to explore only when hidden by nightfall, afraid of what daylight scrutiny might reveal? And what discomfort—what gentle, relentless clicking—might we be ignoring that is actually the Spirit’s way of protecting and guiding us toward profound transformation?
Reflection Questions:
What beliefs have I tightly gripped that might be blocking new, expansive experiences of God?
Where am I keeping my spiritual doubts and questions hidden, afraid to reveal my uncertainties?
How might the discomfort I feel spiritually right now actually be guiding me towards deeper growth?
Prayer:
Ever-watchful Presence, thank you for meeting me precisely where I am—even in the shadows and uncertainties of night. Like Fritz, pacing protectively through dark hallways, your presence remains steadfast, gentle yet persistent, guiding me even when I resist. Grant me the courage to approach you honestly, laying down my tightly held certainties in exchange for the transformative mystery of your grace. Illuminate my darkness and reshape my heart from the inside out, inviting me always toward deeper, richer life in you. Amen.
For tomorrow: Identify one belief you’ve long accepted without question. Hold it gently, examining it anew in the gracious light of God’s transforming love.