Imagine you are a novelist, and you write a very long novel, and in it, toward the end, appears a character who is you. You have written yourself into the world of the novel so that you might testify to the other characters of that which you know to be true. You love these characters, for you yourself are love, and from that love which you yourself are have you created the fabric of the reality in which these characters came to fruition. And you could reveal this to them if you so wish, and in some instances you do, for, as the writer of the novel (as well as a character within the novel), you have power over the properties by which the world of the novel operates. But you would rather, for their own sake, that these characters believe you, without proof, for then they become like children transformed by faith, who, though they must die, as a consequence of events that occurred near the novel’s beginning (and that you did not force to happen, though you wrote them) can find again the paradise that was lost to them then.
This scenario bears a very faint and insufficient resemblance to the relationship that God has with us, by way of the incarnation.