Come and see, he said, and the gospel confirms they
went, but acts as though both coming
and seeing were only for that single day. No,
he still invites to come see, without cessation, meaning
both the invitation and the life that follows its hearing.
In motion, flux, change, transition, hear his voice again;
Feel him in the energy that moves you, in the familiar and the new;
fail to see him, hidden in the unknown, in the struggles and the movements
of hearts. Stand amidst all the people new to you, apparently stable themselves,
but each one in truth an ongoing story, a chapter incomplete, a song in mid-stanza,
the first violinist’s elbow in constant motion from and towards.
The music is in the motion, through the change, sliding along the transition.
There too is his voice again, going on yet about coming and seeing;
Have you come yet, and what have you seen?
You’re like Nicodemus come to him by night, to meet him in a new way
“As part of something established,” you say,
“I’ve seen you there; can I see you here, now,
with new eyes? Can you see me with loving expectation?”
You are the woman at the well, thirsting, searching, coming to see for life
ever blinded; seeing some things as through a glass darkly;
misunderstanding most in ignorance, and suddenly
he comes and he sees; he is the invitation in himself,
The light shines through the glass that she is (you are);
there is change, and for the first time, in a way, she sees.
John P McGinty