A wedding in Cana.

A private getaway in Capernaum.

The temple in Jerusalem.

Three distinct revelations of Christ’s glory packed closely together in the second chapter of John. They’re written back-to-back for a reason: John wants us to understand that glory has a surprisingly broad definition.

After turning water into wine, what did Jesus do? I can tell you what he didn’t do right away: He didn’t do more miracles. He didn’t heal anyone, or feed anyone, or cast out any demons. He didn’t go looking for a larger platform. He didn’t even preach.

As John tells it, here’s what Jesus did after revealing his glory for the first time publicly in Cana:

Maybe that’s ok. Maybe it’s best to not fight it. Let someone else be thanked, or congratulated, or praised, or awarded.

I think there is perhaps no faster way to offend another human being—especially if they live in a competitive, success-driven, image-obsessed culture like America—than to give someone else the credit for his or her work. Those are fightin’ words. There are entire TV shows based on that premise. In the age of the selfie and voyeuristic live videos, to be overlooked or anonymous equates to non-existence.

For extraordinary purposes is the modus operandi of the kingdom. It’s Jesus’ go-to method for miracles.

Stone jars and water. Spit and mud. Wind and rain. Word and touch. Friends and family. Crowds and clothes. Bread and fish. Coins and fish. Fishermen and tax collectors. Empty fishing nets.

Yep—lots of fish! In Jesus’ day, fish were as common as hamburgers.

This was Mary’s advice to a handful of servants who probably felt like their jobs were on the line because the wedding they were serving at just ran out of wine. No one knew what to do. There wasn’t a local Trader Joe’s one of them could run to for a few cases of Three Buck Chuck. They were stuck.

Wineless. Answerless. Hopeless. Potentially jobless.

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.