Doll Can Create

Reflections on John 1:35–51

There are seasons in life when we are not searching for answers.
We are searching for something that feels safe.

Something gentle.
Something steady.
Something that feels like light in the middle of ordinary days.

We are not always longing for explanations.
Often, we are longing for presence.

That is where this gospel meets us.

Not with thunder.
Not with certainty.
Not with pressure.

But with a quiet, holy invitation:

Come and see.

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In John’s Gospel, Jesus walks by. John the Baptist points and says, “Look — here is the Lamb of God.” Two disciples follow Jesus, not quite knowing why, only sensing that something in them needs to lean toward hope.

Jesus turns and asks them a question that still echoes into our lives today:

“What are you looking for?”

Not What do you believe?
Not Can you explain yourself?
Not Are you worthy?

Just — What are you longing for?

The disciples answer with a simple, human question:
“Where are you staying?”

They are not asking for an address.
They are asking where life happens.
Where rest is found.
Where belonging begins.

And Jesus answers with three words that change everything:

Come and see.

Not Come and prove yourself.
Not Come when you’re ready.
Not Come after you have it all figured out.

Just — come.

And they do.
And they stay.

Faith, it seems, does not begin with a moment of certainty.
It begins with time.
With staying.
With listening.
With noticing.
With being known.

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Andrew goes and finds his brother Simon. He does not bring him a speech or a set of beliefs. He brings an invitation:

“We have found the Messiah.”

Which is another way of saying:
We have found something that feels like life.
Come and see.

Philip does the same with Nathanael.

Nathanael, honest and skeptical, asks, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”
And Philip does not argue.
He does not defend.
He simply says:

Come and see.

When Nathanael arrives, Jesus does something remarkable.
He sees him.

Before Nathanael believes.
Before he understands.
Before he says the right thing.

Jesus sees him.

“I saw you,” Jesus says.

Perhaps those are the most healing words any of us could ever hear.

I see you.
I notice you.
You matter.

This story is not about perfect faith.
It is about honest faith.
Curious faith.
Tentative faith.

It is a sanctuary for the weary.
A home for the questioning.
A place for those who are still finding their way.

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This invitation — Come and see — has shaped my own life and ministry.

When I was invited to serve as your minister, I was not handed a list of expectations. I was not asked to prove myself or explain everything I believed. Instead, I was invited gently and graciously.

Come and see who we are.
Come and hear our stories.
Come and sit with us.
Come and see if this might be home.

I came with questions.
I came with hopes.
I came with prayers I didn’t yet know how to say out loud.

And somewhere in the staying — the quiet, patient staying — this stopped being a place I serve and became a place I belong.

That is what Jesus was offering the disciples, too.

Not a role.
Not a task.
Not a title.

A place to belong.

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We live in a world that tells us we must perform, produce, and prove ourselves. But Jesus does not meet us with pressure.

He meets us with presence.

He still says:
Come and see.
Come and sit.
Come and rest.
Come and belong.

Some of us come hopeful.
Some come tired.
Some come grieving.
Some come searching.

Jesus meets us all the same way.

And once we have seen — even just a little — we become the invitation for someone else.

A chair pulled out.
A light left on.
A quiet welcome.
A gentle voice that says:

Come and see.

This is how faith grows.
This is how the church lives.
Not by shouting —
but by leaving the light on in the window.

May we be that kind of people.
May our lives become doorways through which others glimpse Christ.

And may the invitation that changed everything continue to echo among us:

Come and see.