READING: John 1:29–42

“Come and See”

It is one thing to read about devastation; it is another to stand within it.

When Cornwall was recently battered by storms of almost unimaginable force, the headlines told part of the story. We read of winds close to 100 miles an hour, of ancient trees torn from the earth on St Michael’s Mount, of homes damaged by falling trunks and broken roofs, of the Isles of Scilly cut off without food, water, or power for days. On the page, these facts registered as information — important, certainly — but still at a distance.

Standing alongside people who had lived through it was different. Hearing the exhaustion in their voices. Seeing kitchens without light, homes without heat, gardens changed beyond recognition. Listening as they spoke not only of loss, but of fear, uncertainty, and the slow wearing down that comes when the basics of daily life disappear. In those moments, understanding deepened. What had been “news” became human. What had been statistics became stories. Empathy grew not from explanation, but from presence.

This is the difference between knowing about something and truly knowing it. And it is this difference that lies at the heart of today’s Gospel, where Jesus does not offer answers from a distance, but invites those who are curious, uncertain, searching, to come and see.

The first invitation Jesus ever speaks in John’s Gospel is not a command, not a doctrine, not even a promise. It is an invitation shaped like curiosity and trust: “Come and see.” These words set the tone for everything that follows. Christianity, in this telling, does not begin with certainty or clarity, but with movement — with the willingness to step closer and stay long enough for something to be revealed.

John the Baptist stands at the river pointing, not explaining. Twice he says the same thing: “Look.” He does not argue Jesus into faith; he directs attention. “Here is the Lamb of God.” The work of faith begins not in clever speech but in learning how to see. John himself admits his limits: “I myself did not know him.” Recognition comes not through mastery, but through watching where the Spirit rests and remains. Faith, it seems, is not about knowing everything in advance, but about being attentive enough to notice where God is already present.

When the disciples hear John speak, they do not rush forward with confidence. They follow at a distance. Jesus notices and turns. His question is simple and disarming: “What are you looking for?” Not, What do you believe? Not, What do you want from me? But What are you looking for? It is a question that reaches beneath religious language and touches desire. What are you really seeking? Meaning? Belonging? Healing? A life that feels whole?
The disciples answer awkwardly: “Rabbi… where are you staying?” It is not a polished response. Perhaps they do not yet know how to name what they want. But Jesus does not correct them or push them further. He simply says, “Come and see.” Come and see where I dwell. Come and see how I live. Come and see what happens when you stay close.

The Gospel lingers on a small but telling detail: “They remained with him that day. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon.” Faith is located in time — in ordinary hours. It happens in afternoons, not just in moments of revelation. To come and see is also to remain: to linger, to be present, to resist the urge to rush to conclusions. Discipleship is not a single dramatic decision; it is the slow practice of staying.

From this staying flows witness. Andrew goes to find his brother Simon. He does not offer an argument or a proof. He simply says, “We have found the Messiah.” Faith spreads not because it is airtight, but because it is shared. Someone has been somewhere, seen something, encountered someone — and cannot keep it to themselves. Andrew brings Simon to Jesus, and Jesus looks at him. Truly looks. And in that look, Simon is named not only for who he is, but for who he will become. Encounter leads to transformation, not through pressure or persuasion, but through being seen and held in possibility.

This pattern — encounter before explanation — is echoed in other stories that have shaped our cultural imagination. In Babette’s Feast by Karen Blixen, an austere religious community believes it already understands faith, sacrifice, and devotion. Their spirituality is disciplined, restrained, suspicious of pleasure. Babette never argues with them about theology. She does not correct their beliefs. Instead, she invites them to come and see — or more precisely, to come and eat.

The meal itself becomes revelation. As the guests taste the food, something changes that no sermon could have achieved. Old resentments soften. Words of blessing begin to flow. Joy and gratitude emerge where fear and suspicion once ruled. No one is told what the meal means. Meaning arrives through participation. Grace is recognised only afterwards.

Or consider The Shawshank Redemption written by Stephen King where Andy Dufresne never lectures his fellow prisoners about hope or freedom. Instead, he invites them to see it — briefly, dangerously, and profoundly. On the prison rooftop, the men sit in the sun drinking beer, silent and astonished. For a moment, they are not prisoners. No one explains what freedom feels like. They simply feel it. Hope becomes credible because it has been glimpsed.

These stories matter because they echo the wisdom of John’s Gospel. Deep truth is not transmitted; it is received. Understanding follows encounter. Transformation comes through hospitality, shared presence, and time spent within an experience that cannot be reduced to explanation.

This is also a deeply pastoral truth about God. The God revealed in Jesus does not stand above the world issuing answers. God stands with us — in flood and storm, in darkness and loss, in kitchens without power and communities cut off from what they need. God does not say, “Here is why this happened.” God says, “Come and see. Come and stay. I am here.”

Perhaps this is the quiet grace of the passage: that Jesus does not say, “Come and understand,” but “Come and see.” Not certainty, but companionship. Not mastery, but presence. And in a fragile, shaken world, that invitation may be the most hopeful word we are given.

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