3:16: The Numbers of Hope

by Max Lucado

None comes. Jesus makes no mention of Nicodemus’s VIP status, good intentions, or academic credentials, not because they don’t exist, but because, in Jesus’s algorithm, they don’t matter. He simply issues this proclamation: “Unless one is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God” (v. 3 NKJV).

Nicodemus inhabits a land of good efforts, sincere gestures, and hard work. Give God your best, his philosophy says, and God does the rest.

Jesus’ response? Your best won’t do. Your works don’t work. Your finest efforts don’t mean squat. Unless you are born again, you can’t even see what God is up to.

Not works born of men and women, but a work done by God.

Spiritual rebirthing requires a capable parent, not an able infant.

He who did it first must do it again. The original creator re-creates his creation. This is the act that Jesus describes.

Born: God exerts the effort. Again: God restores the beauty.

We don’t try again. We need, not the muscle of self, but...

“There is something deep within [humanity] that echoes God’s yes and no, right and wrong” (Rom. 2:15 MSG). When atheists decry injustice, they can thank God for the ability to discern it. The conscience is God’s fingerprint, proof of his existence.

will not let you go. He has handcuffed himself to you in love. And he owns the only key. You need not win his love. You already have it. And since you can’t win it, you can’t lose

Mark it down: God loves you with an unearthly love. You can’t win it by being winsome. You can’t lose it by being a loser. But you can be blind enough to resist it. Don’t. For heaven’s sake, don’t. For your sake, don’t.

Christ, in like manner, weaves his story. Every person is a thread, every moment a color, every era a pass of the shuttle. Jesus steadily interweaves the embroidery of humankind. “‘My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,’ says the LORD. ‘And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine’” (Isa. 55:8 NLT). A root meaning of the word translated thoughts is “artistic craftsmanship.”2 As if God says, “My artistry is far beyond anything you could imagine.”

“You must not lie” (v. 16 TLB). Those who say they haven’t just did.

It is the “pure in heart” who will “see God” (Matt. 5:8). So where does that leave us? It leaves us drawing hope from a five-letter Greek word. Hyper means “in place of” or “on behalf of.”3 New Testament writers repeatedly turned to this preposition to describe the work of Christ:

We bring to the spiritual race what Rick Hoyt brings to the physical one. Our spiritual legs have no strength. Our morality has no muscle. Our good deeds cannot carry us across the finish line, but Christ can. “To the one who does not work, but believes in Him who justifies the ungodly, his faith is credited as righteousness” (Rom. 4:5 NASB).

Worriers will fret and never find peace. Thieves

What we hope will bring life brings limited amounts . . . three fifty worth. We connect with a career, find meaning in family, yet long for something more.

God’s children, by the droves, have been kidnapped—taken by Satan. The devil has cut them off from their origin. They do not know their Father. But their Father knows

them. He will not rest until the lost are found.

Jesus had dirty hands, sweat-stained shirts, and—this may surprise you—common looks. “No stately form or majesty that we should look upon Him, nor appearance that we should be attracted to Him” (Isa. 53:2 NASB).

Why would heaven’s finest Son endure earth’s toughest pain? So you would know that he knows how you feel.

John’s reluctance is understandable. A baptismal ceremony is an odd place to find the Son of God. He should be the baptizer not the baptizee. Why would Christ want to be baptized? Why would he need to be baptized? Here’s why: Since you and I cannot pay, Christ did. We’ve broken commandments, promises, and, worst of all, we’ve broken God’s heart.

But Christ sees our plight. We owe God a perfect life. Perfect obedience to every command. Not just the command of baptism, but the commands of humility, honesty, integrity. We can’t deliver. Might as well charge us for the property of Manhattan. But Christ can and he did. His plunge into the Jordan is a picture of his plunge into our sin. His baptism announces, “Let me pay.” Your baptism responds, “You bet I will.”

Like Jesus we are tempted. Like Jesus we are accused. But unlike Jesus, we give up. We give out. We sit down. How can our hearts have the endurance Jesus had? By focusing where Jesus focused: on “the joy that God put before him” (Heb. 12:2 NCV). He lifted his eyes beyond the horizon and saw the table. He focused on the feast. And what he saw gave him strength to finish—and finish strong.

A little rain can straighten a flower stem. A little love can change a life. Who knew the last time this woman had been entrusted with anything, much less the biggest news in history!

Listen. You have not been sprinkled with forgiveness. You have not been spattered with grace. You are submerged in mercy. Let it change you! See if God’s love doesn’t do for you what it did for the woman in Samaria. He found her full of trash and left her full of grace.

How remarkable that Jesus felt such fear. But how kind that he told us about it. We tend to do the opposite. Gloss over our fears. Cover them up. Keep our sweaty palms in our pockets, our nausea and dry mouths a secret. Not so with Jesus. We see no mask of strength. But we do hear a request for strength.

“Father, if you are willing, take away this cup of suffering.” The first one to hear his fear is his Father. He could have gone to his mother. He could have confided in his disciples. He could have assembled a prayer meeting. All would have been appropriate, but none was his priority. How did Jesus endure the terror of the crucifixion? He went first to the Father with his fears. He modeled the words of Psalm 56:3: “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you” (NLT).

Do the same with yours. Don’t avoid life’s gardens of Gethsemane. Enter them. Just don’t enter them alone. And while there, be honest. Pounding the ground is permitted. Tears are allowed. And if you sweat blood, y...

Jesus never knew the fruits of sin . . . until he became sin for us. And when he did, all the emotions of sin tumbled in on him like shadows in a forest. He felt anxious, guilty, and alone. Can’t you hear the emotion in his prayer? “My God, my God, why have you rejected me?” (Matt. 27:46 NCV). These are not the words of a saint. This is the cry of a sinner.

While on the cross, Jesus felt the indignity and disgrace of a criminal. No, he was not guilty. No, he had not committed a sin. And, no, he did not deserve to be sentenced. But you and I were, we had, and we did. “He changed places with us” (Gal. 3:13 NCV).

With hands nailed open, he invited God, “Treat me as you would treat them!” And God did. In an act that broke the heart of the Father, yet honored the holiness of heaven, sin-purging judgment flowed over the sinless Son of the ages.

“My God, my God, why did you abandon me?” Why did Christ scream those words? So you’ll never have to.

Jesus’ heart was peaceful. The disciples fretted over the need to feed the thousands, but not Jesus. He thanked God for the problem. The disciples shouted for fear in the storm, but not Jesus. He slept through

He also refused to be guided by anything other than his high call. His heart was purposeful. Most lives aim at nothing in particular and achieve it. Jesus aimed at one goal—to save humanity from its sin. He could summarize his life with one sentence: “The Son of man came to seek and to save the lost” (Luke 19:10 RSV).

The same one who saved your soul longs to remake your heart. God is willing to change us into the likeness of the Savior. Shall we accept his offer?