Come and See

The angels could have said many things.

They could have explained. They could have instructed. They could have announced a plan or demanded belief. Instead, they offered an invitation:

Come and see what God has done.

Not come and understand.
Not come and agree.
Just… come and see.

There is something deeply kind about that.

God doesn’t begin Christmas by asking for certainty or eloquence or fully formed faith. He begins with presence. With a baby in a manger. With something so small and tangible that it can only be encountered, not argued with.

Come and see.

It’s an invitation that honours curiosity. That makes room for wonder. That welcomes the hesitant and the hopeful alike. You don’t have to know what to think yet — only to be willing to draw near.

I notice how different that feels from how we often approach faith.

We want to have the words right. The answers lined up. The story neatly contained. But Christmas resists that. It insists on experience before explanation. On awe before articulation.

The shepherds didn’t leave with theology. They left changed.

And perhaps that’s still the way God works.

This season, maybe the invitation isn’t to resolve everything or even to feel a certain way — but simply to notice. To look again at the small mercies. The quiet kindnesses. The unexpected light breaking through ordinary days.

Come and see what God has done.

Not only in Bethlehem long ago, but here. In you. Around you. In the places you weren’t looking yet.

You don’t have to rush past the manger.

You’re allowed to linger.