You walk into the movie theater filled with anticipation. The media buzz and online chatter have reached a fever pitch. You’ve come to see the movie people can’t stop talking about: The Great Invitation.

As you wait in line, people are exiting the previous showing. Some look stunned, as if they’ve seen a ghost. Many are hugging one another. You notice red, teary eyes everywhere—but these aren’t the faces of people grieving. These are happy tears, the kind you might see when a mother or father holds their newborn for the first time.

Your anticipation builds. You think to yourself, What I’m about to witness feels more like a real-life experience than a movie.

You’re holding a large tub of popcorn, and a pair of packaged 3D glasses. This theater serves alcohol, red wine seems appropriate for The Great Invitation, so you order yourself a glass of merlot before you enter the theater.

As you take your seat, you’re glad you paid extra to see The Great Invitation in IMAX 4DX. A massive screen dominates the room. When your glasses are on, the movie will appear in full 3D. The seats will move—sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully—synchronized with the action. Rain may fall. Cold wind may blow across your face. Sound and music will surround you from every direction. Technically speaking, it’s the closest thing to physically being inside a movie.

The previews begin, but you can’t focus. If the hype is even half true, what you’re about to experience won’t be duplicated anytime soon. You know it. The previews seem endless. When will they end? you shout silently in your mind.

Finally, they do.

After the opening credits, the screen lights up with a close-up of a lottery machine filling the frame. You’re surprised—it’s in 2D. Are my 3D glasses defective? you wonder.

You see a finger enter five lottery numbers on the keypad:

Drawing Date: 12/14/2010

The camera lingers on the Illinois Lottery logo—a rainbow over a pot of gold—as a female clerk hands the ticket to a male customer.

The screen cuts to black.

An ominous orchestral score begins and slowly swells, surrounding you. The black screen lingers longer than expected, tension building.

The screen comes alive again—now in vivid 3D. Your glasses work. Objects appear to float inches from your face, almost holographic. You realize what the director is doing. Like The Wizard of Oz, the film shifts from flat to immersive to signal a new perspective. Here, the 3D suggests a heavenly vantage point.

Sandy Hook School
1956
Visitors Welcome

From above, you see an American flag barely rippling in the winter breeze. Sunlight reflects off fresh snow, burning the image into your memory.

The next scene surprises you less. It’s from the controversial 2004 film The Passion of the Christ. The buzz surrounding The Great Invitation has been fueled by Mel Gibson’s remark that the stories inspiring this project “fit biblical descriptions of Christ’s return in unexpected ways.”

Some scholars agree the film will, at the very least, reopen conversation about the Second Coming. Others are outraged. But as Gibson learned before, controversy has a way of capturing attention.

The scene from The Passion now unfolds in 3D. Jesus speaks his final words from the cross. Below him, Roman soldiers cast lots for his robe. A tear slides down his face. The camera follows it as it falls.

Before it hits the ground, the screen goes black again.

When the screen lights up again, you’re back in 2D—back on earth—standing near a fire station across from Sandy Hook School. Parents wait for news. Their grief is unmistakable.

The story then follows Scarlett Lewis and Neil Heslin, parents of Jesse Lewis—a six-year-old boy whose courage saved classmates. You witness Scarlett’s journey from devastation to forgiveness, and the birth of the Choose Love movement inspired by a strange—but profound—message Jesse wrote on a chalkboard at home just before he died: “Nurturin Healin Love.”

You also witness the cruelty that followed—the hoax accusations, the lawsuits, the eventual legal reckoning. Another hard-earned moment of redemption.

Just when you think the story has ended, the screen transitions again into vivid 3D. The heavenly vantage point has returned.

Time rewinds. You see Jesse one last time—not in fear, but in resolve. His courage creates an opening for others to escape. The violence itself is not shown. No gunshot is heard. But you know what happened, and the cost is felt.

Then the screen turns black. Silence.

Slowly, music emerges around you—soft, reverent, without a driving rhythm. It carries an ancient quality, lifting gradually in harmony. The tempo increases almost imperceptibly. Light begins to reflect off the wall of a cave, slowly consuming the darkness on screen.

A crumpled robe rests on a flat stone slab.

From the left edge of the frame, the profile of Jesus’ face enters the picture. This is the final minute and a half of The Passion of the Christ—and yet, not exactly.

This time, Jesus gazes directly into the camera. The anger in his eyes is unmistakable. But beneath it is resolve—and then, a faint smile, as if he already knows what is coming. As if he knows the ending of The Great Invitation.

The camera moves closer. Deeper. Until one brown eye fills the entire screen. Then the pupil transforms.

You recognize the pattern.

The numbers.

The dates.

The symbolism. (See Aligned Dates / Numbers Exhibit.) And you understand, finally, that the lottery numbers were never about money.

They were about attention—
attention directed toward choosing love.

In the case of Jesse’s chalkboard message and the prophetic lottery numbers, love came before tragedy—making the choice of love after tragedy more visible and more possible for others. This mirrors the intention of Christ’s passion story as well.

The final sequence is breathtaking: a vision drawn from Revelation 19–22—a wedding in eternity. Music. Joy. Reunion. Invitation.

The groom is Jesus. The bride is believing Christians. The 20 Sandy Hook children who died tragically are alive onscreen again from a heavenly perspective. They are the bridesmaids and groomsmen.

This works symbolically from a biblical perspective:

• Eight boys represent the groom Jesus. In biblical numerology, eight is symbolic for rebirth, resurrection and Jesus.
• Twelve girls represent the bride—the people of God. In biblical numerology, twelve is symbolic for God’s people (12 tribes of Israel and 12 disciples).

You leave the theater changed. Something inside you has shifted—quietly, beautifully.

The movie ends with a simple message:

This film, of course, is still just a dream. It has not happened…yet. But “The Great Invitation” is real—whether or not our movie ever comes to life.

From what you have seen so far, does this vision sound like something a loving God would want to see happen?

If you are a Christian—or simply a citizen concerned about gun violence—and you find yourself moved by this possibility, there is a simple way to help.

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