Come and See
Pr. Jaz Bowen-Waring |
Epiphany 2 January 18, 2026
“Who are you looking for?” This is the first question Jesus asks in the Gospel of John (John 1:38). Before he calls disciples, before he performs signs, before he offers teaching or healing, Jesus asks a question about desire. Not What do you believe? Not What do you know? But What are you seeking? It’s a question that assumes we are all already searching. It invites honesty. Because the truth is, we never come to Jesus empty-handed—we come carrying hopes, expectations, disappointments, and longings shaped by our lives and the world around us. The two disciples respond by calling him Rabbi, which means teacher. This tells us something important: they are looking for guidance, for wisdom, for someone whose life they can study and imitate. In the ancient world, to follow a rabbi meant more than listening to lectures. It meant watching how he prayed, how he ate, how he treated people, how he suffered. They are searching for a way of life. But what they find is more than a teacher. John tells us that Jesus is the Word made flesh—God dwelling among us (John 1:14). They come seeking instruction, and they leave having encountered incarnation. They come hoping to learn, and they find themselves standing in the presence of God. That tension still lives with us. We, too, come searching—but what we’re searching for often reveals more about us than about Jesus. Some of us are looking for a Jesus who will fix things quickly. A Jesus who functions like a divine superhero—stronger than us, braver than us, capable of swooping in to solve the world’s problems in a single episode. Others are looking for a healer, a doctor who can restore our bodies, soothe our minds, and make us whole again. And sometimes, honestly, we’re looking for a Jesus who will affirm our comfort and leave our lives mostly unchanged. But again and again, scripture tells us that Christ refuses to conform to our expectations. We look for a conquering lion, but John points and says, “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” (John 1:29). We expect domination, but God chooses self-giving love. We imagine power that crushes enemies, yet Philippians tells us Christ empties himself, taking the form of a servant (Philippians 2:6–7). We look for glory, and instead we are shown a cross. We look for strength, and Paul reminds us that God’s power is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9). Even the Spirit arrives not in fire and spectacle here, but as a dove—gentle, vulnerable, easily overlooked (John 1:32). So Jesus’ question presses us still: Who are you looking for? Because the Christ we seek is often not the Christ who comes. And yet, the Christ who comes is always the Christ we need. When the disciples ask Jesus, “Where are you staying?” or “Where are you abiding?” (John 1:38), they are asking more than for an address. The word abide echoes throughout John’s Gospel. It is the same word used when we are told that the Word dwelt among us (John 1:14), and later when Jesus says, “Abide in me as I abide in you” (John 15:4). To ask where Jesus abides is to ask where God has chosen to make a home. Where does Christ put down roots? Where does divine life take shape in the world? Scripture gives us a consistent answer. Jesus abides where suffering is present. He abides with those pushed to the edges. He abides with the poor, the sick, the imprisoned, the grieving, and the forgotten. When Jesus describes the final judgment in Matthew 25, he does not point to correct belief, but to presence: I was hungry, I was a stranger, I was in prison—and you visited me. Wherever the least are found, Christ is already there. That means Christ is not distant from the pain of our world today. He is dwelling with refugees searching for safety. He is abiding with families shattered by gun violence. He is present with immigrants living under constant fear, with communities crushed by poverty, with those whose grief never makes the news. And for those of us who live with relative comfort and privilege, the call of discipleship is not simply to admire Jesus from afar, but to follow him—to go where he abides and to stay there. To dwell long enough to be changed. Not all of us can be on the front lines of protest. But all of us can practice presence. We can share meals. Learn names. Build relationships. Create spaces of safety and belonging. The kingdom of God does not descend only through grand gestures—it takes root in ordinary acts of love that resist isolation and dehumanization. And still Jesus says, “Come and see” (John 1:39). This is not an argument—it’s an invitation. Some truths cannot be explained; they must be witnessed. Like love. Like grief. Like grace. You don’t explain the birth of a child— you show up and see. You don’t theologize your way through loss—you sit beside one another in silence. John is not interested in proving Jesus. He is interested in testimony. John the Baptist doesn’t analyze the Spirit; he points and says, Look. Behold. Come and see. And that is still our calling. Not to have all the answers, but to bear witness. To notice Christ in our shared life together—in joy and in sorrow, in righteous anger at injustice, in quiet acts of care, in the fragile beauty of human connection. So once more, Jesus asks: Who are you looking for? And once more, he answers our searching with grace: Come and see. Come and abide. Come and discover that God is already here—dwelling among us, making all things new.