Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Bernard Delcourt, OHC
The Second Sunday after the Epiphany, January 18, 2026
In the name of God, the Lover, the Liberator and the Life giver. Amen.
"Come and see."
With these three simple words, Jesus extends an invitation that echoes through the centuries and reverberates in this church today. It is an invitation not merely to observe, but to experience; not simply to learn about God, but to encounter the living presence of the Divine in our midst.
In today's gospel, John the Baptist stands at the Jordan, and as Jesus approaches, John proclaims, "Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!" This is no ordinary introduction. John recognizes something in Jesus that others might miss—the fullness of God dwelling in the fullness of a human person. This is the great mystery of the Incarnation that we contemplate during this Epiphany season: that God has chosen to make the divine presence known not in distant thunder or burning bushes alone, but in human flesh, in a person who walks dusty roads, who gets tired, who seeks out the company of friends.
Jesus is the ultimate manifestation of God. In him, the invisible becomes visible, the infinite becomes intimate, the eternal enters time. As John testifies, "I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him." The Spirit that hovered over the waters at creation now rests upon this man from Nazareth. In Jesus, we encounter not a messenger from God, not merely a prophet speaking about God, but God's own self, present and active in the world.
This is the scandal and the glory of our faith: that God would choose to be so vulnerable, so accessible, so completely present in human form. The fullness of God—all that is holy, all that is love, all that is creative and redeeming power—dwelling in the fullness of a human person. Not partially human. Not pretending to be human. Fully God and fully human, without division or separation. In Jesus' joy and sorrow, in his compassion and righteous anger, in his prayer and his silence, in his teaching and his touch, God is made manifest.
But here is where our gospel passage takes a remarkable turn, one that speaks directly to those of us who have dedicated our lives to seeking God in intentional community. After John points to Jesus, two of his disciples begin to follow. Jesus turns to them and asks, "What are you looking for?" In typical Hebrew fashion they respond with their own question: "Rabbi, where are you staying?"
"Come and see," Jesus replies.
"Come and see," Jesus replies.
This invitation is at the heart of the monastic vocation, isn't it? We come to places like this not because we have all the answers, but because we are looking for something. We come with questions in our hearts; with longings we can barely articulate. And Jesus' response is not to hand us a doctrine or simply a rulebook, but to invite us into relationship, into presence, into the experience of staying with him.
The text tells us they remained with him that day. The Greek word used here is meno—to abide, to dwell, to stay. It's the same word Jesus will use later in John's gospel when he tells his disciples, "Abide in me as I abide in you." This is not a brief visit or a casual encounter. This is the beginning of a transformed life, rooted in staying close to the source of all life and love.
What happens when we accept Jesus' invitation to come and see, to stay and abide? Andrew discovers something so extraordinary that he cannot keep it to himself. He rushes to find his brother Simon and announces, "We have found the Messiah!" Notice that Andrew doesn't say, "I have found the Messiah." He says "We have found." Already, in these first hours of discipleship, there is a recognition that the experience of encountering Christ is communal. We discover God together.
This brings us to a profound truth that we embody here in our life together: we are often manifestations of God to one another. Andrew was a manifestation of God to Peter, bringing him to Jesus. John the Baptist was a manifestation of God to his disciples, pointing beyond himself to the Lamb of God. In our monastic community, in our worship, in our work, in our moments of recreation and rest, we are called to be Christ to one another, to reveal the divine presence through our words and actions, our listening and our love.
But this manifestation of the divine extends even beyond the human community. The more-than-human creation speaks of God's presence as well. John saw the Spirit descending like a dove — the natural world bearing witness to the holy. In this monastery, surrounded by wildlife and natural beauty, we know this truth intimately. The rhythm of the seasons, the persistence of growing things, the songs of birds at dawn, the silence of snow — all of creation is shot through with divine presence, reflecting back to us the glory of the Creator.
God is present everywhere. This is the radical claim of our faith. There is nowhere we can go to escape God's presence, as the psalmist reminds us. If we ascend to heaven, God is there. If we make our bed in the depths, God is there. If we dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there God's hand leads us.
But more than this—and here is the mystery that can sustain us through all of life's challenges—God is present deep in our heart and soul. We cannot be separate from God and Jesus, no matter how far we wander, no matter how lost we feel. The same Spirit that descended upon Jesus at his baptism dwells within us through our baptism. We are temples of the living God, sacred spaces where the divine presence abides.
This is why contemplative practice is so central to our life together. In silence and stillness, we descend into the heart where God already dwells. We don't create God's presence through our prayer; we simply become aware of the presence that has been there all along. As St. Augustine prayed, "You were within me, but I was outside, and it was there that I searched for you."
When Jesus looked at Simon and said, "You are to be called Cephas"—Peter, the rock—he was seeing not just who Simon was in that moment, but who he would become through the transforming power of God's presence. Jesus sees us with the same penetrating love. He knows our deepest identity, the self we are becoming, the image of God being revealed in us day by day.
"Come and see," Jesus says to us still. Come and see what God wants to teach you. Come and see what God wants to gift you. The invitation is open, always. It is an invitation to experience rather than simply to understand, to abide rather than simply to visit, to be transformed rather than simply to be informed.
In our life here, in this community dedicated to prayer and presence, we are responding to that ancient invitation. We have come. We are seeing. We are staying. And in our staying, in our faithfulness to the rhythm of prayer and work, in our openness to being Christ to one another, we become part of the great chain of witnesses that stretches back to Andrew and Peter, to John the Baptist, to all who have pointed beyond themselves and said, "Look, here is the Lamb of God."
May we continue to accept Jesus' invitation to come and see. May we recognize him in one another and in all of creation. May we abide in his presence, knowing that we can never be separated from his love. And may we, like Andrew, be so transformed by our encounter with Christ that we cannot help but share the good news: We have found the one for whom our hearts have been searching all along.
Amen.
Amen.
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