At a party. A raucous wedding party. The first party went on long into the night and lasted for days. The final party will never end.

Family. Friends. Neighbors. (And even a few enemies).

Joy. Laughter. Food. Music. Dancing. And new wine that is continually refilled.

If you lay John 1:51 on top of Genesis 28:12 (through verse 17, really), some fun things happen.

Jesus becomes a ladder. The ladder connecting heaven and earth. He is the cosmic connection point. Anything coming “down” from heaven to us goes through Jesus. Anyone who wants to reach “up” into heaven goes through Jesus. He is the pathway of each and every descent and ascent.

And as we gaze up the ladder, God begins to speak.

Because there’s always more to see.

Whatever it was that caused you to believe in the first place—well, that’s good. Thank God for that. But that’s not all there is to believe. Some day in the future another experience, another bit of evidence, might stir up more belief in you. A kind of belief that feels different and deeper, broader and bigger.

For some this is unsettling because they like having things under control. But faith will not be tamed. Such folks approach belief as if it were more like taking a multiple choice test than like falling in love.

“Nazareth! Can anything good come from there?”

That was Nathanael’s unfiltered reaction to hearing that Philip had supposedly found the Messiah. Nate didn’t seem to immediately have problems believing Phil’s claims about finding the One their people had been waiting on for centuries. No, his hang up was Nazareth: a backwoods, out-of-the-way, unimpressive little town.

He simply thought the way most of us think: Great people come from great places.

Be a visionary leader.

Be a trailblazer.

Be a trendsetter.

Be an influencer.

Be a Lone Ranger.

Be an independent thinker.

Be a self-made man or woman.

Be self-reliant and self-sufficient.

Such is the call of our culture. But it’s a lie. Little more than a marketing strategy. And it’s so loud and pervasive and persistent that it’s hard to truly hear the call of Jesus: “Follow me.” We’re conditioned to not hear it. Our environment is designed to drown it out.

As well you can. Hang out with them. Spend time with them. Do the ordinary things of life with them. Wait and watch, and the moment you spot Jesus, simply draw their attention.

Here’s the thing: Most people spend at least a good chunk of their life not recognizing Jesus. If for no other reason than life is busy and there’s a whole lot of other things to pay attention to like jobs and families and food. Sometimes even when we would like to notice him, we just blink and miss him.

So we need a little assistance.

At some point while following Jesus, he’s likely to turn around and ask you, “What do you want?”

It may come as a surprise (which I think is part of his strategy). And you may not know how to give a truly honest answer (which is what he wants from you). And it may be that you aren’t even tuned into your desires enough to know what you want (which is part of the work he is inviting you into).

Doesn’t Jesus already know what I want? Shouldn’t I be asking him what he wants? Why does it even matter what I want?

Better than you can. Hang out with them. Spend time with them. Do the ordinary things of life with them. Wait and listen for the moment that they spot him.

Here’s the thing: Most people spend at least a good chunk of their life not recognizing Jesus. Even John, the cousin of Jesus, certainly knew him, but didn’t recognize him until much later. Once we recognize him for the first time, the rest of our life involves becoming incrementally attentive.

It’s one thing to let someone immerse you in water. To let them lay you down and hold you under—at least for a brief few seconds—as a tangible enactment on the outside of a cleansing that has happened on the inside.

It’s another thing to let Jesus immerse you in his Spirit. To let let him overwhelm you from the inside out with his power and presence.

We call both of these baptism.

As if once that’s dealt with, in whatever way my theology makes room for, then everything is hunky dory and life can go on and I can enjoy myself blissfully unconcerned about eternal fire.

Nor is your sin the problem. As if all that matters is whatever bad thing you’ve ever thought or done or thought about doing was now erased from the divine ledger and now God says you’re cool.

Nor is sin our problem. As if human beings are the only thing God loves or cares about. We might very well bear culpability for enacting sin and need to be set free from our own self-inflicted suffering, but there is a lot more that suffers from the consequences of sin than people.