A Spark in the Dark

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC March 1, 2026. “Ignite the Light” series. 

Text: John 3:1-17

 

Some seasons feel like one long night. Not the gentle kind with a crescent moon and a few bright stars. But the kind where you can’t quite see what’s coming next.

Where the news feels relentless. Where the future feels uncertain. Where the questions get louder than the answers.

Questions like:

What kind of God creates a world with cancer and deadly storms?

Why is there so much cruelty and violence?

Why am I so lonely?

How can I stop being so afraid?

Where is God in all of this?

Night has a way of stripping us of pretense. It quiets the noise. It makes us honest—honest about our questions, and honest about our need for Light.

And it is there, in that kind of night, that we meet Nicodemus, a Pharisee, a learned man, a scholar of the Jewish faith, a respected religious leader, a man who knew his scripture and his tradition.

And still, he comes to Jesus confused and curious, full of questions.

That alone should ignite some light for us.

Because somewhere along the way many people were taught that questions don’t belong in church. That faith means certainty. That belief means signing on the dotted line of a doctrinal checklist.

And yet here, in one of the most famous chapters in the Bible, we find a scholar and seeker stumbling through the dark saying: How can this be?

Questions are not the opposite of faith. They are often the spark where faith begins.

Nicodemus is not given answers. He is given invitation.

Invitation to trust.

Invitation to step toward Light.

“The wind blows where it chooses…”

You can feel it, even when you cannot control it.

And that is what Jesus is offering Nicodemus—not certainty, but relationship.

“For God so loved the world…”

This verse from Gospel of John 3:16 has too often been reduced to a slogan—or worse, weaponized as a boundary marker of who is in and who is out. But listen carefully. It does not say: “God so loved the worthy.”

It does not say: “God so loved the certain.”

It does not say: “God so loved those who figured it all out.”

It says: God so loved the world. The whole world.

And the word translated “believe,” pisteuo, is not primarily about intellectual agreement. It is about trust. Relational trust. Entrusting yourself to another. There is a world of difference between believing a statement and believing in a person.

To say “I believe in you” is not to claim you understand everything about a person. It is to say: I trust you. I will step toward you. Even, perhaps, I will follow your lead.

That is the spark.

Faith is not having all the answers. Faith is daring to trust the Light of God while still standing in the dark. You only need enough light to take the next step.

Not a floodlight. Just a spark.

Friends, we are not only people who talk about light. We are people who have seen it.

We saw it when neighborhoods in Minneapolis organized to care for one another in the aftermath of unrest and uncertainty. When stores were vulnerable and systems strained, neighbors brought whatever gifts they had—organizing skills, grills, baked goods, bottled water, medical supplies. Some patrolled streets to protect small businesses and vulnerable neighbors—immigrant families, people of color, anyone who felt unsafe. Some accompanied elders to the grocery store and children to school. Some simply showed up and stood watch so others could worship or sleep in peace.

No one person solved the darkness.

But together, they became light.

We have seen it in the quiet, steady witness of Buddhist monks walking for peace—a simple, embodied prayer moving through public streets. Their steps did not shout. They did not argue. They simply walked, reminding everyone watching that love does not have to be loud to be powerful.

We have seen it in the long, luminous ministry of Jesse Jackson, who reminded a weary nation again and again: it gets dark sometimes, but morning always comes. He showed up in hospital rooms, on picket lines, in forgotten neighborhoods, listening to people’s questions, dignifying their pain, calling them to embodied love. Hope, in his hands, was not naïve optimism. It was disciplined, stubborn carrying of the Light into the dark.

These are not abstract ideas.

They are sparks in real darkness.

And here is the good news: the same Spirit that moved in Nicodemus’ night, the same love that sent Jesus into the world, is moving still.

Ignite the Light does not mean we deny the darkness. It means we refuse to surrender to it.

Nicodemus does not leave Jesus with all his questions answered. But get this beautiful twist: his story doesn’t end in chapter three.

Near the end of John’s Gospel, after Jesus has been crucified, Nicodemus appears again—this time in daylight—bringing spices to help prepare Jesus’ body for burial.

He moves from academic speculation to embodied love. From confusion to courageous tenderness. From questions to action.

Not because all his questions were resolved. But because somewhere along the way, trust took root. The spark caught.

That is what trust looks like. Not certainty—but movement. The spark becomes action.

God does not wait for us to stop asking questions before God loves us.

God meets us in the questions.

God meets us in the dark.

God meets us and keeps the spark of hope and faith and life burning in us.

That is the gospel.

And that is why we come to this Table.

We do not come to Communion because we have resolved every theological tension. We come because we are hungry for light. We come because we need trust rekindled. We come because love has already moved toward us.

“For God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world…”

No condemnation here.

Only invitation.

At this table, Christ does not hand us a doctrinal list with boxes to check. He hands us bread. And in that simple act, light passes from hand to hand.

Maybe you feel strong today. Maybe you feel barely glowing. It doesn’t matter. A spark is enough.

Enough to check on a neighbor.

Enough to show up.

Enough to listen.

Enough to bake bread or walk for peace or stand beside someone who is afraid.

Enough to believe that morning will come as we keep working together for what is good.

Nicodemus came at night.

But he kept moving… all the way to the tomb. And if he was there at the tomb, then he was already on his way to resurrection morning.

And the Spirit who moved him is moving us still.

Because the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.

So come to the table.

Bring your questions.

Bring your weariness.

Bring your small, flickering hope.

Receive the love of God who believes in you.

And then go —

and be a spark in someone else’s dark.