In our community group, we read Isaiah 1:18, “Come, let us reason together.” Then on Sunday, our pastor pointed us to 1 Peter 2:4, “As you come to him…” My interest was piqued. How often does God invite us to come? And then the Spirit pressed a different question on my heart: How am I responding to God’s invitation to come?

“Come” is a simple and powerful word. We hear it in the voice of a mother bending down with open arms to a child taking wobbly steps. We receive it in a friend’s warm welcome after a long absence: “Come in, sit down, stay awhile.” We recognize it in the gentle call of Jesus Christ, echoing through the centuries: “Come to me.”

I still remember when our grandson took his first steps. His legs wobbled, his eyes fixed on me, and then he toppled forward into my arms. What gave him courage wasn’t his balance; it was the certainty that someone was waiting for him. That’s what “Come” feels like in Scripture: a Father stooping low, arms open, waiting.

The Bible is full of invitations. God does not remain distant, waiting for us to figure out how to reach him. Instead, he calls, he beckons, he draws near. Again and again, the invitation is summed up in one word: Come.

But not all invitations carry the same purpose. God beckons us in three ways: to be forgiven, to find rest and relationship, and to follow him in active discipleship and mission. Together, these invitations form a threefold chord that is woven throughout the story of Scripture, pulling us closer to God’s heart.

Come For Grace and Forgiveness

The first and most fundamental call of God is an invitation to come for mercy. We must be reconciled to God before we can rest in his presence or walk in his ways. Through Isaiah, God pleads, “Come now, let us reason together,” promising that crimson guilt can become white as snow (Isa. 1:18). It is the language of grace—justice meeting compassion.

This same gracious call resounds later: “Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters . . . without money and without price” (Isa. 55:1). The imagery here is compelling, highlighting deep themes of thirst and hunger, emptiness, and fulfillment. God invites everyone to experience his abundant love and grace, especially those who feel lost or in despair. This invitation reminds us that his mercy is extended to us freely, even before we prove ourselves. Embracing this divine nourishment fills our hearts and helps us rise above shortcomings, offering hope and joy to all who seek it.

During the Civil War, President Lincoln often took a personal interest in matters of military justice. He specifically reviewed letters of execution, and in 1863, several of those letters came to his attention. Six soldiers were sentenced to die for desertion, yet Lincoln reviewed their cases, noted the extenuating circumstances, and pardoned them. Imagine their relief when the firing squad was replaced with freedom. That’s the shock of God’s invitation in Isaiah 55:3, “Incline your ear, and come to me; hear, that your soul may live.”

Jesus picks up the same language in the Gospels. He laments in John 5:40, “You refuse to come to me that you may have life.” Eternal life is there for the taking, but many will not come.

At the very close of the Bible, the invitation remains unchanged: “The Spirit and the Bride say, ‘Come’” (Rev. 22:17). From Genesis to Revelation, Scripture begins and ends with this same gracious summons. Yet the call to come for grace is only the beginning. Mercy not only cancels guilt; it restores relationship. Reconciliation does more than wipe the record clean; it reopens communion with God. From that renewed fellowship arises a deeper call, not to stand as defendants before a judge, but to experience abundant life in the family of God.

Come For Rest and Relationship

God’s invitation does not end at the moment of forgiveness. The cleansing of guilt is only the beginning of communion. The second call is deeply relational, an invitation to come for rest.

In Matthew 11:28, Jesus addresses those who are worn out by effort and expectation: “Come to me . . . and I will give you rest.” His promise is rich with imagery. The yoke represents relief from the Pharisaical law and the burden of legalism, inviting us into a relationship of guidance where Jesus shares our burden.

My dear friend, who cared for her mother through a long illness, told me, “The hardest part wasn’t the work. It was that I never stopped carrying it, even at night. I was always weary.” Then she said through tears, “But when I prayed, it felt like Jesus lifted what I couldn’t lay down.” That’s the kind of rest Jesus offers—not escape from work, but release from the crushing weight of carrying it alone.

Significantly, Jesus says, “Come to me.” The Gospels repeatedly emphasize this relational nearness. When children sought him, he said, “Let the little children come to me . . . for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 19:14). His welcome extends to those least likely to be received.

As an elementary principal, I routinely greeted the parents of kindergartners at school. Sometimes it was difficult to say who was more timid about entering—moms who knew they had to let go of their babies, or the five-year-olds themselves. One particular little boy froze at the doorway, clutching his mother’s hand. He was sure he wouldn’t belong. Then one of our veteran kindergarten teachers knelt, smiled, opened her arms, and said, “Come on in! We’ve been waiting for you.” That picture captures the promise of John 6:37: Whoever comes to Christ will never be cast out.

John expands the thought further. Jesus, the Bread of Life, satisfies every hunger and quenches every thirst. The repetition of “whoever comes” underscores the openness of his call (John 6:35–37). To come is to be welcomed; to believe is to be filled.

This is the call of rest, not only for the guilty but for the exhausted; not just for the sinner but for the struggler. It is for those who wake tired, lead weary, and love until they have nothing left. To them and to us, Jesus still says, “Come to me.”

Again, the invitation to rest is not an endpoint but a preparation. Rest in Christ is never passive. When we learn to dwell in his presence, his peace begins to reshape our purpose. The same voice that says, “Come and rest,” also whispers, “Come and follow.” From the quiet of communion flows the courage of obedience. Grace draws us near; love sends us out.

Come For Discipleship and Mission

God’s invitations follow a sacred rhythm. He calls us to receive mercy, to rest in his presence, and then to join him in his mission. Each step draws us deeper into his heart and purpose, that we should be his ambassadors. The call to follow is not an optional aspect of faith; it is its very essence. When he told the fishermen, “Follow me,” he immediately added, “and I will make you fishers of men” (Matt. 4:19). His grace not only gathers but sends.

A missionary friend and his wife grew up in a country in Africa, one that they vowed to escape as adults. They studied in England, earned high degrees, and were awarded lucrative jobs. They felt set for life. But they couldn’t shake the feeling of unrest. They heard Jesus saying, “Come, follow me.” And they did. They left their prestigious jobs, moved back to their homeland in Africa, and planted a church. The work has been challenging and yet so rewarding. Sometimes discipleship looks exactly like that, dropping dreams, ambition, and even economic security when he calls.

Throughout the Gospels, the call to follow reveals what truly captures our hearts. The examples are revealing. For one man, it was his wealth. However, we also see men like Andrew, who responded to Jesus’s invitation when he said, “Come and you will see” (John 1:39–41). Even Peter, stepping out of the boat, heard Jesus’s word, “Come.” It was an invitation into the unknown, into trust that could only be sustained by his presence.

I had the privilege of teaching our grandsons how to swim. When our oldest first started to learn, he was eager but also terrified to let go of the edge. I stood a few feet away, hands outstretched, saying, “Come. Come on!” Finally, he pushed off the wall, eyes wide with both fear and trust, and into my arms he came. That moment mirrors Peter on the water. Faith is always a risk, but it is always met by Jesus.

This is the rhythm of discipleship: coming close, being changed, and going out. The same voice that once said, “Come and see,” now sends us to “Go and tell.” Every invitation of Jesus is both an embrace and a commissioning.

The Daily Invitation

These are not three consecutive stages to pass through but realities to live in. We don’t come to Jesus once, collect our salvation, and move on. We come again and again, hungry for mercy, weary for rest, ready for direction. Every day, he invites. Every day we decide.

And the word is always the same: Come.