Genesis 12.1-4a / John 3.1-17
There is a quiet but radical truth at the heart of the Gospel: before God teaches us something new, he often asks us to unlearn who we think we are.
Just ponder that thought for a minute.
I wonder who you think you are.
Perhaps you identify as the responsible one, the quiet one, the confident one; perhaps the invisible one, the successful one, the failure, the rebel, the achiever, the victim, the carer, the leader, the follower, the life and soul of the party, the one who dwells on the margins.
There are identities we inherit. There are identities we achieve. There are identities we defend.
And over time, these identities harden. They become scripts we live by. We curate them, protect them, and preach them to ourselves.
But they might not reflect who we really are – they are often a gathering of acquired perceptions rather than a reflection of the person we were created to be.
It is that authentic self that God calls us to embrace.
But before he can help us embrace it, he often has to invite us to unlearn who we think we are. To unravel the narratives we have built around ourselves.
This morning’s readings present us with two individuals who found themselves on that journey of unlearning – Abraham and Nicodemus. One from the beginning of Israel’s story; one from the beginning of the church’s story. Both devout. Both respected. Both secure in who they thought they were.
Let’s spend a moment with Abraham first. When we heard about him earlier, we found him settled and secure. He has land, livestock, family, cultural identity. His name is tied to a place. His future is mapped out. Then God says – “Go from your country, your people, and your father’s household to the land I will show you”.
To follow God, Abraham must unlearn identity rooted in geography, in tribe, in predictability, and inheritance. He must let go of the settled and secure story he thought he was living so that he could learn to travel beyond it – so that his identity could deepen and grow.
And then there was Nicodemus. When we met him in our Gospel reading we found his identity defined by certainty. He was a Pharisee, a ruler, a teacher, someone to be listened to and respected. He had knowledge, theology, moral discipline. His identity was built on being right.
He comes to Jesus at night, perhaps not wanting others to wonder whether the identity he had so carefully sculpted was shifting, crumbling. And Jesus tells him that he must be born again – that he must see that what he had built was insufficient: that it didn’t follow that he was righteous just because he understood the law, or that he was close to God because he was respected, or that he was spiritually alive because he appeared to be religious.
Nicodemus had to unlearn rather a lot so that he could see through new eyes. And, like Abraham, he did not change overnight. His unlearning was gradual. We see him later in the Gospel cautiously defending Jesus. And then finally publically preparing Jesus’ body for burial. The man who came in darkness stepping into the light.
We may not be patriarchs or Pharisees, but do we know what it means to construct identities.
Some of us are like Abraham – defined by what we have built and afraid to leave it.
Some of us are like Nicodemus – defined by what we think we know and afraid to question it.
And like both of these characters, we are also capable of unlearning those identities and moving beyond them.
When Abraham leaves his settled security, he learns to live as a pilgrim – listening, attentive, open to God’s call.
When Nicodemus starts to listen rather than to speak, he learns to live as a disciple – humble, eventually courageous, loving even.
In both stories, God is not merely changing circumstances. He is reshaping identity.
That unlearning can feel like loss.
Abraham loses familiarity; Nicodemus loses superiority.
We lose control, or image, or perhaps the comfort of being who we’ve always been.
But what we gain is deeper.
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We find ourselves at this moment in the midst of Lent.
Lent is a time for deep work. It is a season for unlearning, for transformation. The language of the liturgy reminds us of that time and time again – through the Lent Prose we heard sung at the beginning of our worship this morning, through the collect and Eucharistic prayer, through the words of the blessing, through the hymns we sing. The language is of repentance, of movement, of growth, of turning from and turning to.
So I leave you with a question to ponder.
Where is God asking you to unlearn?
What identity are you protecting that might be holding you back?
Abraham had to walk away from that which he clung to. Nicodemus had to kneel in the dark. And neither discovered the truest self until they had released the one they had built – the identities that felt safe, but kept them small. And both found that in unlearning themselves, they did not lose who they were – they finally became who God had always intended them to be.
Who are you really before God?
What a gift of a season this is for finding out.
Amen.