1/18/26 Sermon

Before we hear this morning’s Gospel reading, a little context helps.

We’re still right at the beginning of John. People in the story are only just starting to ask who Jesus is, and nobody has the full picture yet. John the Baptist has been speaking publicly, gathering attention, and now Jesus enters the scene in a very simple way—walking by, being noticed, being named.

John’s Gospel is different from the other Gospels in how it tells this part of the story. It doesn’t start with a birth story or a long account of Jesus’ early years. It starts with claims about who Jesus is, and then it drops us right into a moment where people have to respond—without a lot of explanation, without all the details filled in. That’s part of how John works: it’s not just telling us what happened back then; it’s asking what we do with Jesus now.

So as we listen, pay attention to the questions that get asked, and the small actions people take in response. This is one of those passages where the meaning isn’t handed to us in a speech. It unfolds through witness, through movement, and through the first steps of relationship.

Let us listen for the Word of God as we find it in John 1: 29-42.

The next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and said, “Look! The Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! This is the one about whom I said, ‘He who comes after me is really greater than me because he existed before me.’ Even I didn’t recognize him, but I came baptizing with water so that he might be made known to Israel.” John testified, “I saw the Spirit coming down from heaven like a dove, and it rested on him. Even I didn’t recognize him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water said to me, ‘The one on whom you see the Spirit coming down and resting is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.’ I have seen and testified that this one is God’s Son.”

The next day John was standing again with two of his disciples. When he saw Jesus walking along he said, “Look! The Lamb of God!” The two disciples heard what he said, and they followed Jesus.

When Jesus turned and saw them following, he asked, “What are you looking for?”

They said, “Rabbi (which is translated Teacher), where are you staying?”

He replied, “Come and see.” So they went and saw where he was staying, and they remained with him that day. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon.

One of the two disciples who heard what John said and followed Jesus was Andrew, the brother of Simon Peter. He first found his own brother Simon and said to him, “We have found the Messiah” (which is translated Christ ). He led him to Jesus.

Jesus looked at him and said, “You are Simon, son of John. You will be called Cephas” (which is translated Peter).

WORD OF LORD

This piece of scripture is kind of boring.  Seriously.  It’s anticlimactic.  John gives us this big, cosmically beautiful opening that’s just pure poetry in every way.  And right after this we have Jesus’ first miracle at the wedding in Cana. But here? Here it feels like housekeeping. Almost like an administrative report on how the disciples become disciples.

Jesus walks by. John points. Jesus walks by again. John points again. And that’s… kind of it.

I have to think it’s intentional.  We know John is a beautiful and profound writer. So, for him to slow us way down and give us this kind of ordinary account of disciples becoming disciples… there has to be a reason, right?

And so I’ve thought about this. One of the hot topics people always ask about and ministers trade war stories around is our own call stories.  They’re like pastoral fishing tales.  Every time someone tells one, it gets bigger and grander than the last.  Next thing you know, the heavens are being torn open and the dove scene in Jesus’ baptism looks pretty mundane compared to Pastor so-and-so’s call story.  I’ve gotten my call story down to one sentence I’m pretty satisfied with: I took a shower.  I can bore you with what that means if you stick around for Faith Matters today.

I think John slows us down here to show us what a calling actually looks like most of the time.  It’s normally not flashy - no burning bush, No voices booming down from Heaven telling us God is well pleased with us, no blinding light on the road telling us to stop being jerks.  Yes.  Sometimes - SOMETIMES God uses spectacle.  I’m not denying that. But most often from what I’ve seen and what scripture testifies to, is that God calls in the mundane ordinariness of life.  Through repeated witness.  Through steps so small they’re sometimes hard to measure. Through everyday conversations.  There the quiet decision to stay close enough for our life to be changed.

So let’s actually look at what John gives us here, because once you slow down enough to notice it, a pattern starts to emerge.

First, notice John the Baptist. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t build a case. He doesn’t even seem all that interested in convincing anyone. He just points. And then he points again.
“Look. There he is.”

That’s it.

And I think that matters, because it tells us something about how calling often begins. Not with certainty. Not with airtight theology. But with witness. With someone risking a sentence out loud. Someone saying, I don’t have this all figured out, but I need to tell you what I’ve seen.

Then notice what the disciples do with that witness. The text doesn’t say they believe. It doesn’t say they understand. It doesn’t say they have a sudden spiritual breakthrough.
It just says they follow.

They move their bodies. They take a few steps. That’s the first act of discipleship in John’s Gospel—not belief, not commitment, not confession, but movement. A small re-orientation of their lives that probably didn’t feel dramatic at the time.

And then Jesus turns around and speaks his first words in this Gospel. And they’re not what we might expect. He doesn’t say, “Follow me.” He doesn’t say, “Here’s who I am.” He asks a question:
“What are you looking for?”

Not, What do you believe?
Not, What do you know?
But, What are you after?

It’s a question about desire. About direction. About what’s driving you.

And they don’t answer it very well. They kind of dodge it, actually. They ask where he’s staying. Which feels like a non-answer. But Jesus doesn’t correct them. He doesn’t push. He just says, “Come and see.”

And so they do. And they stay.

That part matters. They stay.

No miracle. No sermon. No altar call. Just time spent together. Proximity. Presence. The slow work of being close enough for something to begin to change.

And then, almost immediately, it starts to ripple outward. Andrew goes and finds his brother. Philip goes and finds Nathanael. Not strangers. Not crowds. Family. Friends. Ordinary relationships.
“Come and see.”

That’s how this thing spreads. Quietly. Relationally. Almost unremarkably.

Which means that if we’re paying attention, John is showing us something here—not telling us, but showing us. He’s showing us that calling doesn’t usually arrive as an interruption. It arrives as an invitation. An invitation to follow, to stay, to see what happens if you remain close a little longer than you planned to.

And that kind of calling doesn’t announce itself with spectacle. It often feels so ordinary you could miss it entirely.

But it never leaves you unchanged.

So if that’s how God usually works. If God generally calls us in quiet, ordinary ways without spectacle, then how do we know that God is ACTUALLY calling us?  How do we recognize God’s call into our lives if there’s no burning bush or booming voice or blinding light?

I’m still trying to figure that out myself, but I think John gives us an answer here and throughout his Gospel. We may not recognize God in the moment. But what happens is we recognize it over time.  And we recognize it over time by the way it changes us.  If we’re living into God’s calling for our lives, it changes our lives.

And I want to be careful here and clarify what I mean because change can mean a lot of things and not all of them are faithful.  I want to avoid the trap I think a lot of people fall into believing.  Following God’s call and being changed doesn’t mean life suddenly gets easier.  It doesn’t mean we’ll stop suffering.  It doesn't mean we’ll become successful or secure or admired.  It doesn't mean we’ll always be happy or certain, or at peace. This notion of a prosperity gospel is a false gospel that looks more like self-help than it does actual Christianity.  And John’s Gospel certainly doesn’t promise any of that.

In fact what we see not only in John’s Gospel but all of the Gospels is that the closer people get to Jesus, the more complicated and messy their life becomes.  They misunderstand him.  They struggle. They lose status. They lose certainty. All but one of the disciples lose their lives following Christ’s calling. Answering God’s call for our lives isn’t a guarantee of comfort. In fact, it can often times mean the opposite.

So what kind of change are we talking about here?  This doesn’t sound like good news at all.

In John, calling changes our orientation before it changes anything else.  It reorders what we’re living for. It reshapes what we want.  Jesus’ first question still hangs in the air: What are you looking for? And over time, that question starts to have a different answer. We may still want success, or safety or happiness. Who doesn’t want these things?  It’s not wrong to want them. But they stop being the center and focus of our lives.  They stop being the goal and something else takes root.  Something truer. Something Deeper.   

And that deeper change doesn’t usually show up as a sudden overhaul of our lives. It doesn’t mean we wake up one morning fearless or certain or spiritually impressive. More often, it shows up quietly, almost imperceptibly, in the way our lives begin to lean.

We find ourselves leaning toward truth instead of convenience.
Leaning toward compassion instead of indifference.
Leaning toward faithfulness instead of self-protection.

Sometimes the change is so subtle we can’t even name it while it’s happening. We just realize, one day, that we’re asking different questions than we used to. That we’re staying with things we once would have walked away from. That we’re less interested in winning and more interested in being honest. That we’re less concerned with being right and more concerned with being faithful.

And for some of us—maybe many of us—the change looks even quieter than that.

It looks like still being here.

Still showing up.
Still praying, even when the prayers feel thin.
Still seeking, even when clarity hasn’t arrived.
Still staying close, even when nothing feels dramatic or resolved.

If that’s where we find ourselves, we need to hear this clearly: the absence of spectacle is not the absence of calling. Feeling unchanged doesn’t mean God has passed us by. And struggle isn’t a sign that we’ve missed our way.

In John’s Gospel, abiding—remaining—is not a consolation prize. It’s the heart of discipleship. Staying close enough for God to keep working, even when we don’t see much happening, is often the very thing that changes us most.

And the good news is this: God doesn’t ask us to recognize our calling all at once. God asks us to take the next small step. To listen to the next witness. To stay a little longer than we planned. To keep showing up to a life that is slowly, quietly being reoriented toward something truer than we could have imagined at the beginning.

“Come and see,” Jesus says.
Not, Come and understand everything.
Not, Come and have it all figured out.
Just, Come and see.

That invitation is still being offered.
In ordinary days.
In small steps.
In lives that don’t look impressive but are being gently, faithfully changed.

And sometimes the only way we know we’ve answered God’s call is that, looking back, we realize we are no longer the same people we once were.

Not because life got easier.

But because, somehow, we learned how to live it more truthfully.

Amen.