Because you can’t know everything first-hand. You can’t experience everything. You can’t go everywhere. Or see everything. Or hear everything. Or touch everything. Or taste everything.

You can’t talk to everyone. Or read every book. Or attend every class. Or listen to every podcast. Or watch every documentary.

Until you are born again of the Spirit.

The thing about a womb is that it doesn’t seem like anything abnormal. Certainly not anywhere you’d choose to leave—if you could even understand that leaving was a possibility.

Imagine for a moment that you’re a fetus: The womb is your total reality. It’s nearly impossible to conceive of what it’s like “outside,” or that there even is an “outside,” let alone that this supposed “outside” is where you are meant to be.

A messy, painful, shocking, beautiful, paradigm-altering process. It’s a movement from comfort through discomfort into a new life. It’s a shift from one source of nourishment to another. It’s a relocation from a familiar, enclosed environment to a wider and wildly more expansive environment. It’s a transition from one state of existence into a fuller state of existence. It’s a graduation from being alive to being able to truly live. Nothing is ever quite the same afterward.

So it is with rebirth.

Sometimes that’s your only option. Sometimes that’s all you can muster up the courage to do. Sometimes that’s the only time that’s quiet enough. Sometimes that’s the only time you’re left alone and free. Sometimes the risks of daylight are just too high.

What will someone say if they see me? What will Jesus say if he sees me too clearly? What will I see in myself that I can’t bear to see?

We often give people like Nicodemus a bad rap. I think that’s unfair. At least he came to Jesus. I’m not sure how many other guys were on the Jewish ruling council, but none of them showed up. Whether they were uninterested or afraid or obstinate doesn’t matter: they didn’t show up. Nicodemus did.

We talk an awful lot about faith being about us trusting Jesus. Which it is. How much I truly find Jesus trustworthy and responsible enough to be entrusted with my life matters a lot.

But maybe we also ought to talk about Jesus trusting us. How much Jesus us finds me trustworthy and responsible also matters.

Christianity is all about relationship. I really do believe that. It’s much more than some church catch-phrase to me. And if it’s true, then trust must be a two-way street, just like in any other intimate relationship. Any married person can testify.

He’s not angry. He’s not offended. He’s not sad. He’s not disappointed. Frankly, he’s not even surprised.

He won’t scold you. He won’t give you the cold shoulder. He won’t play hard to get. He won’t write you off. He won’t report you to the local Faithfulness Police.

Is trying too hard to make someone understand you.

Sometimes it’s just not possible. Sometimes you don’t have the words. Sometimes the differences in perspective run too deep. Sometimes someone is just too damn stubborn to listen. Sometimes it’s more trouble than it’s worth.

Sometimes an explanation brings on more misunderstandings that you just don’t feel like dealing with. Sometimes an explanation isn’t really what the other person needs. Sometimes an explanation spoils the punchline.

Is to be a place where heaven can touch earth, and where earth can reach back.

Where the Creator can enter into creation, and where creation can welcome the Creator.

Where the eternal can uphold the temporal, and where the temporal can rest upon the eternal.

Where the invisible can fill the visible, and where the visible can manifest the invisible.

Where the Divine can come into contact with humanity, and where humanity can respond to the Divine.

Two houses. Two groups of people in need. Two groups of people providing services. Two revelations of Christ’s glory.

The first time we see Jesus in a house it’s at a wedding, in the house of an unnamed host who is likely a relative of either the bride or groom. The guests are common people—family, friends, neighbors—in need of wine. The host and the servants do their best to provide for the guests, but, whether out of poor preparation or limited resources, they don’t have enough. Christ’s glory is seen in his miraculous provision, as well as his protection of the host’s reputation and everyone’s joy.

A wedding in Cana.

A private getaway in Capernaum.

The temple in Jerusalem.

Three distinct revelations of Christ’s glory packed closely together in the second chapter of John. They’re written back-to-back for a reason: John wants us to understand that glory has a surprisingly broad definition.