You’re Invited to Come and See

When Penny was 2, we started reading stories about Jesus from a large picture book that narrated events from the Gospels in simple language with colorful graphics. Every day for months, we flipped through the pages until she had memorized parts of the stories of Zacchaeus and Bartimaeus and the good Samaritan. But one day, she put her hand on top of the page, as if to stop me from reading further. “See Jesus, Mama. See Jesus.”

I pointed him out in the picture. His back was to us.

She shook her head. “See Jesus. See Jesus.”

We flipped through every Jesus story, only to discover that the illustrator never portrayed Jesus’s face. Penny wasn’t satisfied until I went online and produced a portrait of Jesus. She smiled. We could go back to reading the book now.

William never fixated on seeing Jesus, but he enjoyed stories about Jesus just as much as his sister did. Once, when I was scheduled to read to his preschool class, I asked him to select a book. He raced into the playroom. When he returned, he said, “Mom, I picked the Jesus book. Because I don’t think my friends have learned about Jesus yet.”

It was such a simple statement. He didn’t want his friends to convert to Christianity. He wasn’t thinking about evangelism or sin and salvation. He just wanted to share some stories about this person named Jesus whom he was getting to know. But I worried that the book would put his teachers in an uncomfortable position. Truth be told, I worried it would put me in an uncomfortable position. I convinced him to select something else instead.

But there it was again, a child’s perspective on Jesus as someone attractive. Someone to tell your friends about. Someone who talks to the ones who will listen.

***

I assume one day my kids will ask me the questions that used to plague me—whether their friends who aren’t Christians will go to heaven, what happens when babies die before they can profess faith, what happens to people in other countries who have never heard of Jesus. I will do the best I can to respond, but my answer will mostly come through an invitation, not from theological arguments. I will point them back to Jesus, the one who is “the image of the invisible God,” the one who hates injustice yet loves sinners, the one who welcomes the adulteress and the righteous leaders, the one who held little children and healed the sick, the one who told jokes and riddles and taught us to think about God as our Daddy. The one Matthew’s Gospel calls “God with us.”

I will point them to the shepherds that first night in Bethlehem, common laborers on the outskirts of town, charged with bearing witness to the grandeur of God. I will point them to the disciples, a motley crew of tax collectors and fishermen who bickered with each other about power and status as often as they displayed devotion or piety. And to the women who came to the empty tomb, who held the responsibility of proclaiming the resurrection, even though back then their word would not count in a court of law. I will remind my children, and myself, that we are just as ordinary, and just as treasured, as they were.

I will also remind them that though we can try to relate what God has done in Jesus, like the shepherds, like the women at the tomb, we cannot convince others that it is true. We can only invite them to come and see.

***

Not long after William tells me that Jesus sneaks into his room at night, I am praying with Penny before I turn out her light. After I conclude the prayer, Penny asks, “What in Jesus’s name mean, Mom?”

It has been a long day. We have friends over for dinner, and I want to get downstairs to some adult company as quickly as possible. I’ve already fallen for three other stalling tactics (water, socks, and prayer), so I say, “Um, it’s just the way we pray, Pen. Okay?” I give her a kiss and walk out the door.

But her question lingers. What does it mean to offer a prayer to God—to converse with God and believe that God hears and responds—in the name of Jesus?

A few days later, Penny and I are sitting on the living room sofa, looking out the picture window at Peter and William building a snowman. I say, “Pen, I didn’t answer your question very well the other night.”

“That’s okay, Mom.”

“I know, but I’m going to try to do better. You asked me what it means to pray in Jesus’s name. And I’ve been thinking about your question. I think it means we aren’t just praying on our own. We are praying as a part of Jesus’s family, in Jesus’s name.” I open my arms to indicate her brother and her dad in front of us. “Just like our family all has the name Becker, God’s family all has Jesus’s name. So when we say, in Jesus’s name, we’re saying that we’re excited to be a part of God’s family.”

As I say it, I realize that I have become more and more like my children. I want to tell my friends about Jesus in the same way I want to talk about the novel I just finished reading or the new restaurant we enjoyed, not out of obligation, but out of delight. There is so much I do not understand, and so many questions that have remained unanswered. But after all these years of trying to nail down the specifics, trying to hold on to the arguments that will convince others, convince myself, of Jesus’s divinity, I am ready to simply be with him.