OK here’s a cool revelation about being born of spirit and water, which is like being born again of water and air. There is a glaring absence from those two, which is the land. The thing that stays still or remains; the something we walk on. It is also that out of which man was created. The thing Jesus left out in John's third chapter was the clay in the middle into which God breathed, animating it.
God’s breath, his expiration, was our inspiration. His breath was His last act on His creation. His first act was on water. And in the middle was Adam. My whole cool point in saying this is somehow I realized something must remain unchanged for change to be noticed, or remembered, as in memory, regardless how small or cracked or obsolete that unchanged something might be. Otherwise the changed person might be like Nicodemus’ man who went in the womb a second time to be born again. That man is at risk of being so changed, that he never existed; his clay not merely reformed by water and the potter's hands, then breathed into a second time, but tossed out; so new he has no memory of old. Hence, no memory of his transformation or redemption. Entire galaxies turn on the infinitesimally small, but they do indeed turn on them.
Therefore, something must remain. Something must remain unchanged to notice change. Or the human being will simply become inhuman; a freakish, blank-faced automaton; a lesser thing, not greater; not a man with a clean conscience, but a man with no conscience. Such a completely different person that no one would recognize him; no one would care, in a sense, to know him now, who knew him before. It is before that is necessary for after. Yet strangely, the only time it is necessary for it, is right now. Otherwise even something as beautifully human, in the divine sense, as an act of courage would merely be stupidity or luck or fate or bravado or a mistake—or anything. It would be anything but actually courageous.
Therefore, there needs to be a memory of nothing to understand anything, much less everything. Because if a person is completely erased each night and reawakens into everything, he will have no memory or context of anything, and everything will be as nothing to him. That person would be like a robot whose memory was wiped and rebooted. It is one thing to see with brand new eyes for the first time with no memory of what one sees, like an amnesiac, who might see a bird and say, “What is that?” But is another thing altogether to see with brand new eyes, as if for the first time, but with a deep memory of birds seen and unseen, ignored and attended, seen, but only through a veil, and then to see with the veil pulled back a bird and say, for the second time, a truer time, “What is that?” Because the bird isn’t just being considered, it is being reconsidered; more than that, its being is being reconsidered. It isn’t just cognition of what was unknown, but recognition of what was forgotten.
A person who has been redeemed or set free would in some sense render it meaningless—his former slavery—had he no memory of it. The part of him that was a slave must in some important sense remain, so the part of him that is free can leave. The freed slave must know of his chains, he must know something about his slavery for his freedom to mean anything at all.
The obedient soldier must know he can be disobedient for his obedience to matter to himself and others. In other words, for his obedience to be any good, it must be done in the face of a better offer by evil. Jesus, in the same way, must know that he could’ve given into temptations. Paul must know what he was before, he must know and remember himself as Saul checking robes at Stephen's stoning. He must remember he is the chief of sinners to run as champion of saints. Otherwise, if the clay of Saul of Tarsus was completely washed away on the road to Damascus, then the man that remained would be a monstrosity; a cruel and heartless spectre, and a denigration to Stephen and his stoning, forgetting where stood Saul with the Devil praising man’s trial of God while mocking God’s trial of man. He would be a new man, but a blind man, false to himself; refusing to notice in this life the verdicts, both of mercy and of punishment, from the great judge and jury. Instead, out stumbled Paul from Damascus, eyes opened to how much he would suffer, the lawyer that once spewed hatred who became the apostle of love.
But Christ also seems to be saying something else about what it means to be born of water and spirit. The wind is always there yet it’s always fresh. Christ says we don’t know where it comes from nor where it’s going. The wind has no beginning and no end because it IS the beginning and the end. It is whole as the seamless robe.
But what’s missing is important because it is not there as well. The land I mean. That place in between is only a border between air and sea, like the horizon which is something, but not actually. It’s important that Jesus left the middle, the man, the land, the border out, because it is only there to reflect, something like that.
Wind and Sea are also the highest and the lowest. On the surface, that microscopically thin surface, there can be a boat which lives on both, could fit into both, a vessel borne on the wind and Sea.
To appreciate anything you must be other than the thing. And you cannot be that anything or you cannot appreciate it. In the same sense as worship. For you to be from the wind and the sea, to be of the spirit and the water, means the you that is born again must be other than your parents to appreciate them.