The Light That Draws Us In

Why people were drawn to Jesus—and what that reveals about God

“You are the light of the world… let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”— Matthew 5:14–16

It has struck me more and more in recent years that the difficulty many people face is not so much believing in God, as recognising him.

Again and again, I find myself meeting people who are not resistant to the idea of God as such, but to the kind of God they feel they are being asked to believe in. A God who appears, at times, more judgmental, more exacting—even more severe than the very people who proclaim him—particularly when he is described in terms of wrath, punishment, and fear. And that, it seems to me, is a stumbling block worth exploring.

A question worth asking

I sometimes wonder whether this way of seeing God has deeper roots than we often acknowledge. Those of my parents’ generation—and those before them—lived through experiences that are almost beyond our capacity to imagine. Two world wars. The vast, industrial-scale destruction of human life under totalitarian regimes. Loss on a scale that reshaped not just nations, but shattered the emotional and moral landscape of an entire generation.

In such a world, it is perhaps not surprising that a vision of divine justice—firm, uncompromising, even retributive—might have carried substantial weight. A way of holding on to the conviction that evil is very real, that it will not finally have the last word, that somehow, somewhere, it will be answered. That instinct is not difficult to understand. Nor, I think, should it be dismissed.

But for many today, that same image of a God to be feared no longer reassures. It unsettles deeply. And for some, rather than becoming a doorway into faith, it is a reason to turn away from it.

Another question we carry

Then there is another question—equally pressing, and for many even more difficult.

The problem is not that God is too severe, but that he appears absent. Indifferent to suffering. Unwilling—or unable—to intervene in the face of the immense pain and injustice we see in the world.

This is not a trivial objection. It often arises from honest observation rather than cynicism: if God is able to intervene, why does he not restrain evil? Why does he not prevent suffering occurring on a scale that seems, at times, overwhelming?

And when God appears neither to judge decisively nor to intervene visibly, it is perhaps not surprising that some conclude that God is simply not there at all.

I have heard that reaction more than once—sometimes expressed bluntly, even dismissively, but often rooted in a deeper bewilderment. And yet, perhaps in moments like these, when everything feels overwhelming, we can lose our bearings—and find ourselves looking for God’s intervention in the wrong direction.

Prayer as Participation

For Christians, the central claim is not that God stands apart, periodically intervening in the world from a distance, but that he has already entered into it—most fully in the life of Jesus. Not to control events from above, but to show us, at ground level, how life might be lived differently. To reveal a way in which love, truth, and understanding begin to take root within the world itself.

The prayer Jesus teaches us is striking in this regard: “Your kingdom come… on earth as it is in heaven.”

It is a prayer we may say often, and yet perhaps we do not always notice what it implies—that the life Jesus reveals is not only something to be admired, but a life to be lived. Not only an idea to be believed in, but a way of life through which the world itself begins, slowly, to be transformed. And if that is so, then prayer is not a way of escaping the world, but of entering it more deeply.

I was reminded of this many years ago when a missionary, speaking about his work in Nepal, was asked, “How can we best pray for you?” His reply was simple, but quietly reassuring: “Pray for your people here at home; the ripples will reach us in Nepal.”

It was not the answer anyone expected. And yet it carries a quiet wisdom. It suggests that prayer is not primarily about directing God’s action elsewhere, but about allowing his life to take root here—within us, within our relationships, within the ordinary places we inhabit. And from there, in ways we cannot trace, those ripples extend far beyond what we can see.

The Ones Who Think They Don’t Matter

There is another group of people I find myself thinking about as I reflect on this. Not those who reject God, but those who quietly assume they do not matter—whose lives feel so small, so inconsequential, that they cannot imagine they would be of interest to God, or to anyone else.

That belief can take many forms. Sometimes it leads to withdrawal, or a kind of quiet despair. Sometimes it produces a restless need to prove oneself—to make a mark, to be seen. And sometimes, more troublingly, it can lead to behaviour that seeks significance in other ways: What does it matter anyway? Who will notice? Beneath these different expressions lies the same ache: a sense of being unseen.

One of the things I most admire about Jesus is his instinct for noticing precisely such people. Again and again, he seems drawn to those who have come to believe they are nothing. Zacchaeus, hiding in a tree. Judas Iscariot, complex and conflicted. The Samaritan woman at the well. Blind Bartimaeus, calling out from the roadside. The overlooked, the compromised, the ones others had already made up their minds about. And when he sees them, he does not reinforce their insignificance. He calls them into something more. He treats them as though their lives matter—because, in his eyes, they do.

That does not mean the outcome is always straightforward. Human lives are rarely so simple. The same wounds that make someone long to be seen can also distort their responses, sometimes even sabotaging what is being offered—as perhaps we glimpse in Judas. And yet, what remains constant is the generosity of the divine gaze: a willingness to see, to understand, and to reach out.

If we are to speak of the life of God taking root in the world, it may begin here—in learning to see as Jesus sees, and to respond as he responds.

And so we find ourselves drawn back to Jesus.

Because whatever else we may say about God, the Christian claim is that in Jesus we are not guessing—we are being shown. And what we see there is, at times, profoundly disarming.

What is most striking, when we pause long enough to notice it, is not how difficult people found him to be with—but how compelling they found him. Crowds gathered around him, not because they were ‘required’ to, but because they wanted to be there. They lingered. They listened. They stayed.

The Gospels tell us, almost in passing, of people who had been with him for three days and had nothing to eat. It is such an understated detail that we can easily miss what it implies. Who, in ordinary circumstances, would remain with a spiritual teacher for that length of time, without provision, without obligation?

In my own experience, it is difficult enough to hold people’s attention for an hour. Even the best conferences rely on carefully timed breaks, conversation, food. And yet here are people who seem, quite simply, unwilling to leave.

Which raises a quiet but important question: What was it about Jesus that made people stay? What was it that led some to set aside their work, their security—even their livelihoods—in order to follow him?

At one level, it seems almost implausible. And yet, it is exactly what the Gospels describe.

The quality of his presence

If we look more closely, it is not just what Jesus says that draws people—but the quality of his presence. There is something about him that makes people feel able to come close. And not just the respectable or the curious—but those who would normally remain at a distance.

We see it in small moments: a man in a tree, Zacchaeus, hoping not to be noticed, suddenly finds himself called out by name; a woman accustomed to judgement, the Samaritan woman at the well, finding herself drawn into conversation; a son returning home in shame, the prodigal son, met not with reprimand but with a welcome that restores him before he can even speak.

And then there is that brief, easily overlooked moment in Mark’s Gospel, where a rich young man stands before Jesus—earnest, searching, yet unable to let go of what he has. And we are told simply that Jesus looked at him and loved him. It is a small detail. But one that changes everything. Whatever else is going on, this is not a moment of rejection. It is a moment of encounter—of being seen, and loved, even in the place of hesitation.

Drawn beyond all barriers

One of the most striking examples is the story in Luke’s Gospel of a meal at the house of Simon the Pharisee. Jesus has been invited as a guest. Simon seems curious—perhaps even intrigued—but remains, in some sense, an observer. He watches. He evaluates. He keeps a certain distance.

And then, unexpectedly, a woman enters the scene. We are told only that she is known in the city as a sinner. Nothing more. But enough to make her presence deeply inappropriate. She has not been invited. She does not belong there. And yet she comes. Why?

Something has drawn her—something strong enough to overcome the risk, the social cost, the certainty of disapproval. She brings with her an alabaster jar of perfume. She has come prepared. And what follows is extraordinary. She stands behind Jesus, weeping. Her tears fall on his feet—enough to wet them. She lets down her hair and wipes them dry. Then she kisses them, and anoints them with the perfume she has brought.

It is an act of such vulnerability that one almost feels uncomfortable reading it. And yet Jesus does not draw back. He does not create distance. He does not correct her behaviour. He does not protect the dignity of the room. He receives her.

At the same time, he is fully aware of what Simon is thinking. He picks up the quiet judgement forming in his host’s mind. And yet even here, he does not shame him. He simply tells a story—placing side by side the restrained hospitality of the host and the uninhibited response of the woman.

The contrast is unmistakable. But the tone is not harsh. It is revealing. Here, in one moment, we see something profound: a man wholly approachable—and yet utterly discerning. Not sentimental. Not naïve. But deeply, unmistakably real.

A wider pattern

And this is not an isolated moment. We see it again in very different ways. In Nicodemus, who first comes to Jesus under cover of darkness—tentative, cautious, perhaps unsure even of his own questions. And yet something in that encounter begins to work within him, slowly, quietly, until he finds himself, at the end, stepping forward publicly, identifying himself with the one he once approached in secret, prepared well in advance to furnish the burial of a king.

Or again, in a far more troubling moment—in the garden, where Judas comes to greet Jesus with a kiss. Jesus doesn’t collude with Judas’s betrayal, but neither does he put up any barrier: there is no recoil, no withdrawal of presence. The betrayal is real. But so too is the nearness; Jesus does not withdraw.

What do we make of this?

That there is something about Jesus that allows people to come close—not only at their best, but at their most uncertain, their most exposed, even their most conflicted. And that, perhaps, tells us something essential—not only about Jesus, but about the heart of God.

Seeing differently

This is where the language of repentance begins to take on a different tone. When John the Baptist and Jesus call people to repent, it is easy to hear it as a demand: change your behaviour, or face the consequences.

But the word they use, metanoia, carries a deeper meaning—a turning, a change of mind, a new way of seeing. Rather than simply being told what to do, we are invited to perceive something we had not previously recognised. And this is what seems to happen, again and again, in these encounters. People begin to see differently. And as they do, new possibilities open up before them—possibilities they might never have imagined before.

It is not that they invent a new way of living for themselves. It is that they glimpse, in Jesus, a way of being that is both more truthful and more alive. And having glimpsed it, they cannot quite return to life as it was.

The light that draws

Which brings us back to Jesus’ words about light. Light does not force itself upon us. It does not compel. It simply shines—and in shining, it makes things visible.

In the same way, the life that flows from Christ does not operate through pressure or fear. It is not something we use to persuade others into agreement. It is something that, when it takes root in a life, becomes quietly, but unmistakably, compelling.

To follow Jesus, then, is not simply to adopt a set of beliefs about him. It is to begin, slowly and often falteringly, to share in that same generosity of spirit. To find ourselves becoming—almost without noticing it at first—people who are a little more open, a little more attentive, a little more capable of love than we were before. Not perfectly. But recognisably.

A word of realism

None of this means that we set aside discernment. We are not called to suspend our capacity for critical thinking; nor did Jesus.

Jesus himself was neither naïve nor easily manipulated. He saw people clearly. He responded differently in different situations. There were times when he withdrew, times when he challenged, and times when his words were unsettling to hear.

The love he embodied was not weak. It was grounded, truthful, and at times demanding. And so the invitation is not to become indiscriminately accommodating, but to allow our understanding of truth—and our way of relating to others—to be shaped by his.

“Brother Saul…”

There is a moment in the early life of the church that captures something of this spirit. Saul, infamous for his persecution of Christians, is on his way to Damascus. And yet when Ananias is sent to him, his first words are:

“Brother Saul…”

Brother.

Something has shifted—not only in Saul, but in the way he is now being seen. As one writer has put it, only Jesus can make a brother out of an enemy. And Ananias, it seems, had understood that.

An invitation

Perhaps, then, the question is not so much whether we can defend the right understanding of God—whether against images of a God who is harsh and exacting, or distant and unmoved—but whether we are willing to live in such a way that others begin to glimpse that understanding for themselves.

Because the Spirit of God, as we see it in Jesus, is not mean-spirited, or defensive, or controlling. It is generous—deeply, quietly, persistently generous. It draws people in, restores what has been diminished, and awakens what is most deeply human within us.

And when that Spirit begins to shape a life, something becomes visible. Not something forced or performed, but something real—like the slow light of dawn filling a room, until, almost without noticing when it happened, everything begins to be seen differently.

It is the kind of life the psalmist described as a cup running over—not carefully measured, not tightly contained, but given with a generosity that exceeds what we might expect or even know how to ask for. And it is the life Jesus spoke of when he said he came that we might have life in all its fullness—not a diminished or anxious existence, but something richer, deeper, and more alive.

And perhaps it is in that kind of life—not through argument alone, but through what is seen and quietly felt—that others may begin to recognise something of the heart of God.

As Paul writes:

“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us…” (Ephesians 3:20)

Jeremy Marks, 23rd April 2026

Note to my readers: I’d love to know what you make of this. Does this way of looking at Jesus—and what it reveals about God—connect with your own experience?