Sermon – Come and See

(I preached this sermon on Sunday, January 4, 2026 at Christ Lutheran Church in Harrisburg, PA. It is based on John 1:35-51. You can find the audio here.)

I brought something with me this morning.

It’s a safe.

Not a symbolic one. A real one.

People buy safes for good reasons. To protect what matters. To keep things secure. To feel a little more in control in a world that often feels out of control.

And that’s where safes start to get interesting.

Because safes aren’t just about protection. They’re about certainty.

A safe says: I know where this belongs. I know who gets access and who gets kept out. I know how this works. I know what’s inside.  

Knowing is a form of certainty.  And certainty can feel comforting.

But certainty has also caused incredible damage.

We actually hear this pattern right at the beginning of Scripture.

In the story of the Fall in Genesis 3.

That story has been twisted in all kinds of strange ways—often reduced to something about sexual impurity or moral failure.

But that’s not what the story is about.

It’s a story about the desire to know. To be in control. To be like gods.

That is the temptation the serpent offers.

And to be like gods doesn’t mean wisdom or maturity. It means ultimate control. It means deciding for ourselves, and others, what is good and evil. It means replacing God with ourselves.

It is the oldest temptation humanity keeps falling for.

And like every story worth telling, Genesis 3 is honest about the consequences.

When we reach for certainty—when we try to control what was never ours to control—relationships fracture. Fear enters. Shame grows. We hide.

That’s why the story is there.

And it’s why certainty keeps doing damage.

Christians were certain they knew who witches were in the 1600’s—and people were imprisoned and executed.

Christians were certain God demanded purity—and the Spanish Inquisition left countless people tortured and dead.

Christians were certain Scripture condemned LGBTQ+ people—and lives, families, and faith were shattered.

Christians were certain the Bible supported chattel slavery in this country. Certain that immigrants were a threat. Certain that some people were more human than others.

Here in our own region, certainty continues to show up in school boards banning books. In policies that shame rather than protect.

In the Dover School District, not far away in York County, certainty showed up when leaders decided to install windows in school bathrooms— not for safety, but out of fear.

Fear of transgender kids. Fear of bodies they didn’t understand. Fear dressed up as moral certainty.

Those windows didn’t make anyone safer. They made vulnerable kids feel watched, exposed, and unwelcome.

Certainty always sounds confident. But underneath it is fear.

Certainty is often a projection of control by people whose own lives feel out of control.

And here’s the deeper problem.

Certainty doesn’t just block debate. It doesn’t just silence questions.

It blocks God.  Certainty puts God in a safe.  

And when God is put in a safe—locked up, controlled, predictable, certain—there is no room left for encounter.  There is only using God as a prop when it’s convenient.  

And that is not the God we meet in John’s Gospel.

Because Jesus doesn’t answer their question with certainty.

He answers it with an invitation.

“Come and see.”

That phrase shows up again and again in this text.

The disciples ask, “Where are you staying?” Jesus says, “Come and see.”

Andrew goes and tells Simon, “We have found the Messiah.” And he brings him to Jesus.

Philip finds Nathanael and says, “We have found him.” Nathanael is skeptical—understandably so. And Philip doesn’t argue. He doesn’t shame him. He doesn’t try to convince him.

He just says, “Come and see.”

Notice what Jesus does not do here.

He doesn’t recruit. He doesn’t pressure. He doesn’t chase people down. He doesn’t beg for buy-in.

Jesus is not desperate.

He invites.

And that’s important for us, because we live in an age obsessed with convincing.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot recently, watching something unfold in our own time.

Right now, Buddhist monks are walking across this country on a walk for peace. No weapons. No threats. No demands.

Just presence. Just bodies moving through communities. Just an invitation to slow down and notice.  And people are responding.  People meet them along the road with food, a place to stay, and conversation.  Local police units are offering escorts for their safety and the spiritual leader of the monks is thanking them by wearing a sash of honorary pins and badges from these departments.  

Those monks aren’t trying to dominate. They aren’t trying to control. They aren’t even trying to convince anyone to become Buddhist.  They are walking for peace and people of all types are responding with support.  

They are simply saying, with their walk and with their lives: Come and see.

And the truth is—sometimes they look more Christlike than Christians who are addicted to certainty. More Christlike than those who claim we are a Christian nation while cheering domination, conquest, and the taking over of other countries.

Jesus never needed empire to do his work. He still doesn’t.

Convincing people we’re right. Convincing people to agree. Convincing people to fall in line.  You’ve got to be kidding.  That’s not the Jesus I know.  Jesus doesn’t need or want any of that.  

Convincing rarely if ever transforms anyone.

Invitation does though.

There’s a phrase from sales training that actually fits surprisingly well here:

Some will. Some won’t. So what? Who’s next?

Jesus doesn’t get stuck on rejection. He keeps moving. He keeps inviting. He keeps making space for encounter.

“Come and see” opens hearts. It opens minds. It opens eyes and ears and hands.

It trusts where certainty expresses distrust.  “Come and see” trusts that God is already at work. Certainty assumes that God needs our permission to act.  

And it stands in direct opposition to systems built on control.

“Come and see” is the opposite of loyalty tests—like the ones imposed on Japanese Americans during World War II.

“Come and see” is the opposite of Christian Nationalism and the Seven Mountain Mandate, which are about domination, not discipleship.

“Come and see” is the opposite of the fundamentalist impulse to impose belief by force.  

“Come and see” does not coerce. It does not shame. It does not scapegoat. It does not manipulate.

It refuses cruelty.

It simply invites.

And that is why “come and see” matters so much for who we are as a church.

When we offer tours of this church and these clinics, we’re not saying, Come and agree with us.

We’re saying, Come and see.

Come and see what God is doing here. Come and see healing happening. Come and see lives being restored. Come and see the Trinity at work in a community that refuses to give up on one another.

“Come and see” is an invitation to hear Good News that is often filtered out elsewhere.

Good News that does not bow to partisan loyalties. Good News that does not protect white supremacy. Good News that does not make peace with cruelty.

Good News that actually sets people free.

And that freedom takes shape in very real, embodied ways.

“Come and see” leads us into confession and forgiveness.

Confession is not about beating ourselves up. It’s about telling the truth.

It’s about naming the chains that bind us—individually and collectively. Chains of fear. Chains of prejudice. Chains of harm we’ve done and harm done to us.

And forgiveness is not denial. It’s liberation.

The chains were too heavy for us to break on our own. Jesus breaks them and sets us free.

In confession and forgiveness: Our eyes are cleared so we can see the image of God in others—and in ourselves. Our ears are opened so we can hear God’s Word in ordinary, daily encounters. Our hands and feet are freed so we can become the hands and feet of Jesus.

That’s why sharing the peace matters in worship.

It’s not just a greeting. It’s an act of reconciliation. A moment where broken relationships are mended enough that we can come to the table together.

“Come and see” always leads to communion.

And communion always sends us back out.

That’s the final movement in this text.

John the Baptist points to Jesus. Andrew goes to Simon. Philip goes to Nathanael.

This is not about one charismatic leader doing everything. It’s a community.

And notice how simple the message is.

They don’t have advanced degrees. They didn’t go to seminary.  They don’t use theological big words. They don’t deliver polished speeches or sermons or prayers.   

They say, “This is what we’ve experienced. Come and see.”

They talk to people they already know in everyday, normal language. And the circle widens.

It’s exactly how real transformation happens.

Transformation spreads through trusted relationships, public conversations, and shared experience.

That’s what’s happening here.

Faith spreads not through force, but through encounter. Not through certainty, but through trust. Not through control, but through invitation.  Not through knowing all the right answers, but in knowing God and each other.  

So here’s the takeaway.

This week, Jesus is not asking you to be certain.

Jesus is inviting you to notice.

Where have you seen healing—small or incomplete, but real? Where have you seen someone choose compassion over fear? Where have you sensed God at work in this community—through a clinic visit, a shared meal, a hard conversation, a moment of forgiveness?

That’s where Jesus is.

And when you see it, you don’t need the perfect words. You don’t need certainty.

You just need to say:

Come and see.

Come and see what’s happening here. Come and see how lives are being changed and how new futures are started. Come and see how God is still at work—right here, right now.

That’s how faith grows. That’s how the church lives.

Not locked in a safe.

But opened, shared, and alive.

“Come and see.”

Thanks be to God.