“The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound,
but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.
So, it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
One
of the most hauntingly beautiful lines in Scripture appears in an evening
conversation between Jesus and a man named Nicodemus. A Pharisee. A teacher of
Israel. A man of reason, rank, and ritual. Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night,
perhaps because it's easier to ask questions when the world is quiet. But what
he receives isn't an answer in any conventional sense. It's a riddle wrapped in
mystery:
“The
wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where
it comes from or where it goes. So, it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”
I’ve
returned to this verse often. Especially on long walks near the sea, where the
wind has a voice of its own—restless, invisible, alive. It rushes over the
hills and through the marram grass without explanation or apology. It moves in
sudden gusts or gentle whispers. Sometimes it comes from the south, warm and coaxing,
sometimes from the north, sharp and cold. I hear it. I feel it. But I don’t
control it. I never have.
And
that, I believe, is what Jesus wanted Nicodemus to understand. That the Spirit
doesn’t fit neatly into doctrine or prediction. That new life is not the
product of lineage or learning or ticking off the correct theological boxes. It
is a divine mystery—like wind, like breath—impossible to contain or anticipate.
Yet unmistakable in its effect.
There
have been moments in my life when I’ve felt something shift in me. Not loudly.
Not dramatically. But like a breeze brushing the soul—quietly turning me away
from something bitter or drawing me closer to something beautiful. Often it
hasn’t come from a sermon or a sacred text, but from the kindness of a
stranger, a line in a book, a morning sky, or the simple honesty of my wife’s
voice. These moments don’t arrive with credentials. They don’t come
pre-approved by human authority. But they feel real. They leave something
changed in their wake.
That’s
the challenge and the comfort of John 3:8. It reminds me that faith is not a
formula. That I cannot chart the Spirit’s movements like a weather map. I
cannot predict whom God will touch or where renewal might begin. The Spirit may
stir in the heart of someone I once dismissed. Or pass over me when I think
I’ve earned its presence.
And
so I’ve come to believe that the truest mark of a life born of the Spirit is
not knowledge, or certainty, or impressive religious activity. It’s humility.
It's the quiet courage to let go of control. To admit we do not know where this
is going, only that something beyond us is breathing life into us still.
Nicodemus came
seeking a system. He left with a Divine metaphor regarding the Spirit of God.
The Most Enlightening Conversation Ever
“The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound,
but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.
So, it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
One of the most hauntingly beautiful lines in Scripture appears in an evening conversation between Jesus and a man named Nicodemus. A Pharisee. A teacher of Israel. A man of reason, rank, and ritual. Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night, perhaps because it's easier to ask questions when the world is quiet. But what he receives isn't an answer in any conventional sense. It's a riddle wrapped in mystery:“The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So, it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”
I’ve returned to this verse often. Especially on long walks near the sea, where the wind has a voice of its own—restless, invisible, alive. It rushes over the hills and through the marram grass without explanation or apology. It moves in sudden gusts or gentle whispers. Sometimes it comes from the south, warm and coaxing, sometimes from the north, sharp and cold. I hear it. I feel it. But I don’t control it. I never have.
And that, I believe, is what Jesus wanted Nicodemus to understand. That the Spirit doesn’t fit neatly into doctrine or prediction. That new life is not the product of lineage or learning or ticking off the correct theological boxes. It is a divine mystery—like wind, like breath—impossible to contain or anticipate. Yet unmistakable in its effect.
There have been moments in my life when I’ve felt something shift in me. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But like a breeze brushing the soul—quietly turning me away from something bitter or drawing me closer to something beautiful. Often it hasn’t come from a sermon or a sacred text, but from the kindness of a stranger, a line in a book, a morning sky, or the simple honesty of my wife’s voice. These moments don’t arrive with credentials. They don’t come pre-approved by human authority. But they feel real. They leave something changed in their wake.
That’s the challenge and the comfort of John 3:8. It reminds me that faith is not a formula. That I cannot chart the Spirit’s movements like a weather map. I cannot predict whom God will touch or where renewal might begin. The Spirit may stir in the heart of someone I once dismissed. Or pass over me when I think I’ve earned its presence.
And so I’ve come to believe that the truest mark of a life born of the Spirit is not knowledge, or certainty, or impressive religious activity. It’s humility. It's the quiet courage to let go of control. To admit we do not know where this is going, only that something beyond us is breathing life into us still.
Nicodemus came seeking a system. He left with a Divine metaphor regarding the Spirit of God.