“As they walked away, I wondered where they were going. I wanted to ask. I wanted to talk some more. What I really wanted was for them to take me with them. Just as I was realizing this, Jesus stopped and turned around. He looked at me for long moment, grinned like he was daring me and said, ‘You want to come?’

Didn’t bother to ask where. ‘Yes. Yes I do?’” (The Samaritan’s Friend, page 10)

The first chapter of The Samaritan’s Friend is my retelling of the marriage at Cana; the wedding recounted in John, chapter two, where the water gets turned into wine. Good wine. Not six dollars a bottle, and bunch of it. A bunch.

I had a hard time writing about that. Not because I have a problem with alcohol in the Bible. I like the idea of Jesus providing good wine at a wedding. It says a lot about him, who he was, and how Christ is present in life’s sacred times. Again, it was good wine and a bunch of it. My struggle is not concerning what the guests were drinking. I struggle with miracles.

Water changing into high quality wine, blind folks instantly seeing clearly, people who have been unable to stand for decades jumping up and dancing; these things are problematic for me.

It’s not because I don’t believe that the One who exists before the universe, and taught bumblebees to fly, can’t pull these things off. And just between us, I’ve witnessed more than a couple of events that defy reasoning and go beyond typical human experience. I just don’t think expecting a life of jaw dropping, rescuing from struggle, miracles is the path.

Going through life thinking that the seas will part and giants will be easily defeated leads to magical thinking. (Magic as in delusional, not magic as in first kisses or babies lying on your chest.)

Seas rarely part, giants often win, and beautiful people are crucified. That’s the reality of it.

Welcome to Ash Wednesday. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Jesus’s call to come and follow is a call to walk in that reality. It’s a call to know that Christ is present when we throw up after chemo, or weep bitterly, wishing for one more afternoon with a loved one.

Been there. Done that. Christ was present.

Of course, life isn’t all hurling and grieving. There are jokes, hugs, and hearts filled with love. But, hear me, I’ve observed all that coming from a man in a wheelchair.

The peculiar call of Ash Wednesday and Lent is to dare to follow into reality, not a Jesus themed Disney world.

It is a dare. It requires courage, and it requires faith. A faith that trusts that somehow, someway, even though there may be some pretty tough days, the worst word is never the last word.

You want to come?