by Miranda McCasland on September 29, 2025
This week, my best friend walked into my house after giving me three minutes of warning. It’s a normal occurrence for us—the tight group of mid-twenties young adults we exist within is a “drop by really fast” kind of group. It’s just how we are—I’m grateful. All she needed was a bag of party supplies I had borrowed a week ago, but in the middle, she asked me a question that brought up more than she or I was expecting:
“How was your week? You haven’t said much this week.”
The reality was that my week had been fine. I had been processing through decisions that I knew I needed to make and that were good and beautiful decisions to be getting to make, but I hadn’t filled her in. She knew something was up because I had pulled back, so she had to ask for me to admit I had been in my own little thinking world all week. She was so excited to hear about all of my news. Genuinely, so excited for me. In the middle of telling her, I realized I hadn’t even given her the chance to know and be a cheerleader in my life.
I’m a pro at this kind of slinking back into my own little world—when faced with anything but the day-to-day hum of life, I assume that others do not want to be in the thick of it with me. Why would they?
Maybe you feel this too. Between endless feeds, constant scrolling, notifications dinging on your phone, and instant access to information versus true, vulnerable, relational intimacy with others and with God, one choice feels far easier. There’s no risk of being unseen or unheard in the depths of a doom scroll.
In hiding, there’s also no chance to be seen, heard and known. You can’t get hurt, but there’s also no chance of someone getting to cheer you on. The really good stuff is totally lost. Is the risk of being unseen worth the loss of being truly known?
What I do in my friendships, I often do with God, too. To be truly close to Jesus? To be truly honest with the Father? To let the Holy Spirit fully and truly influence my day-to-day? That feels risky. It’s a whole different kind of intimacy. My head knows that God wants to be close to me, but my heart often forgets. Why would a God who is so holy want to be in the big, messy stuff with me?
Jesus is proof of just that: God’s desire to be in the hard, the beautiful, the complex in-betweens. As Eugene Peterson’s Message version puts it,
“The Word became flesh and blood,
and moved into the neighborhood.”
(John 1:14, MSG)
God becomes flesh. Moves in next door. Walks on our streets. Eats dinner with us. To know us. Not just to stand outside and hope we’ll never say what’s happening in our inner lives, but to walk across the thresholds we’ve put up—ask what’s going on, and then be in it with us.
In the Gospels, Jesus is often approached by those needing healing. I am always struck by one specific case: the man with leprosy (Matthew 8:1-4, Mark 1:40-45, Luke 5:12-16). Perhaps because I am shocked by how Jesus treats him.
The man with leprosy is a man who was banished from his community, isolated and untouchable for fear of his leprosy spreading to others. No one would dare touch him—the fear and risk of contracting leprosy was far too high. The stigma was too great.
“In one of the villages, Jesus met a man with an advanced case of leprosy. When the man saw Jesus, he bowed with his face to the ground and begged to be healed. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘if you are willing, you can heal me and make me clean.’ Jesus reached out and touched him. ‘I am willing,’ he said. ‘Be healed!’ And instantly the leprosy disappeared.”
(Luke 5:12-13, NLT)
Jesus isn’t reluctant to touch him. He doesn’t back away from this man, calling him dirty, messy or too much. He doesn’t heal him from afar. He stands close to him, close enough to reach his hands out. He touches a man who has been considered untouchable. Willingly.
I am just as desperate for Jesus as the man with leprosy. I, too, need to bow, face to the dirt, and present my need to Jesus. I have to trust that just like he did with this man, Jesus will look at me willingly, unshaken, fully aware of where I need His help.
The implication of a God made flesh and blood and moving into the neighborhood can’t be overstated. It’s the heart of God we see in Jesus in this moment and throughout all of Scripture. God has never feared where we feel like we might be too unholy, too broken, too difficult to be known. He has wanted to know us the whole time—from the first pages of our story at Creation. So much so that he moved into the neighborhood, ate in our homes, lived a full human life with us, died and rose again to make certain knowing you and I was possible.
I am not too much for Jesus—even in the middle of big decisions. You aren’t either. Where you feel like you should run away from Him—He is still desiring to be there.
“Come close to God, and God will come close to you.”
(James 4:8, NLT)
What would happen if we stopped hiding away? If we truly presented the parts of our lives that we have felt like too much? Where we have incorrectly assumed He would not care? To trust that God moved into our neighborhood to truly know us changes everything. May we rest in that.
