*Neither our livestream OR recording were working this week, so there's no video or audio. Hopefully they'll both be up and running for next week.*
I have to tell you, I had an entirely different sermon planned for today. But as I was making notes and studying the scripture, I heard the news out of Minneapolis. Before I started writing, I saw the video. And I became angry. Angry that this sort of extrajudicial execution has become acceptable to our society, yes, but even more so angry at the people justifying and defending it and demanding that I ignore the evidence that I’ve seen with my own eyes. And this anger has been sitting as a pit in my stomach since Wednesday. As you can imagine, these are not ideal sermon writing conditions.
For a while, I was just frozen. I felt very much as I did when I preached on Elijah just a couple of months ago - paralyzed by rage and sorrow and frustration. How am I supposed to preach on the Wedding at Cana, of all things? This passage seems like the antithesis of the one thing my heart and head has had room for this week. Jesus’ first miracle in John’s gospel should be an occasion for joy and awe, in jarring and painful contrast to all the events of this past week. What Good News could this story possibly offer that would meet this moment in a way that doesn’t feel trite or simplistic?
I mean, there’s certainly some narrative tension here, but the stakes are pretty low. Many scholars emphasize the social embarrassment and stigma that would result from running out of wine at a wedding, but let’s be real: this is a trivial problem to have in the grand scheme of things. So trivial, in fact, that Jesus at first has no intention of intervening. “What does that have to do with either of us, woman? It’s not my business, and I have other things to worry about.” Jesus responds this way not, I imagine, out of indifference, but out of an instinct to prioritize. Compared to other problems that Jesus would face, keeping the bar stocked simply did not matter to him.
But Jesus’ mother knew her son. She knew him so well that she didn’t even try to wheedle or badger or convince him any further; she merely instructed the servants to “do whatever he tells you,” and left the rest in Jesus’ hands. Her instinct, of course, was spot on: despite the low stakes of the situation, Jesus relented almost immediately, not only turning water into wine, but turning it into better wine than had been served before.
This seemingly trivial miracle shows us exactly who Jesus is, who Mary always knew he was. Jesus is someone who cares about the things that matter to us, that break OUR hearts - even when they don’t seem relevant to his ministry. Jesus takes our concerns, our anxieties, and our fears seriously, even the ones that appear irrational or insignificant to others. The lack of wine at the wedding had nothing to do with him, would play no role in advancing his mission or the kindom of heaven - and yet, he chose to act on behalf of those facing mere public embarrassment.
How much more, then, must Jesus care right now? If he’s there for us when the stakes are so low, how much more must it matter to him when the stakes are the soul of our nation and the lives of our neighbors? How much more must he care when the kindom of heaven feels like it’s getting farther and farther away from us every day? The Good News of this passage is the certainty that God is always - ALWAYS - on the side of compassion, empathy, and love, whether in matters as small as party supplies or as large as systemic injustice.
But this story is about more than just that. When we read this passage, we pick up on Jesus’ obvious divinity right away - as is usually John’s intention. Our focus zeroes in on the miracle that Jesus quietly performs here, the very first sign that reveals his glory and gives his disciples reason to believe in him. And yes, Jesus’ divinity is what turns the water into wine. But it’s his humanity that first stirs his heart. It’s his empathy - his ability to truly, deeply understand to the core of his being what the wedding host must have been feeling - that overcomes his initial protestations and ultimately moves him to act.
Humanity plays a much larger role in this miracle than we realize - and not just Jesus’, but our own. Jesus recruits ordinary people - the household servants - to make this impromptu miracle a reality. It’s through his power that the water transforms into wine, but it’s the servants’ hands that fill the jars, their hands that draw from them, and their hands that bring the wine to the headwaiter. Jesus chooses to make this miracle happen through the actions of human beings.
If it was Jesus’ humanity that inspired the transformation, and human hands that achieved it, then surely our own humanity is capable of taking part in miracles, too. Surely we, too, have a role to play in making the impossible happen. We can’t let ourselves believe the lie that we can’t make a difference - the servants probably thought that filling jars with water would be about as effective at solving the problem as, say, contacting Idaho’s representatives to demand any sort of change. But they did it anyway. And because they did, they became literal miracle workers. And even in the depths of rage and despair and hopelessness - so can we.
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Believe it or not, this story is a call to action for us. As most of us are well aware, thoughts and prayers only go so far. When something is wrong in the world, even if we’re caught up in our own emotions, even if it doesn’t impact us directly, even if we don’t think we can make a difference, we *must* act. We *must*, because that’s how miracles happen. That’s how Jesus’ glory is revealed - not through dramatic demonstrations of power, but through simple human empathy and divinely-empowered human effort. Even in the times that it feels hopeless and overwhelming, we cannot give up. Jesus cares, and Jesus will act - so must we.
If this isn’t the sermon that you wanted or expected, I’m sorry. It’s not what I wanted to be preaching, either. But the wedding at Cana proves that faith is not meant to remain isolated from the realities of human life. All of our concerns, big and small, matter to Jesus, and all of our actions, big and small, have the potential to work miracles through his power. We cannot let despair win, no matter how often it comes to visit. Don’t ever let anyone try to tell you otherwise.
I want to leave you with a poem by Nikita Gill, an Irish-Indian poet and writer. It was written at least a year ago (although I couldn’t pin down an exact date) but it feels as though it could have been written this week, or at any one of hundreds of points of despair and anger that we’ve collectively felt in recent years. While she grew up with a Hindu and Sikh faith background, the imagery she evokes resonates powerfully with our own religious tradition, too. I think that Jesus would recognize the truth in her words - and in fact, it’s brought me comfort to imagine him reading them to me. I hope that it can do the same for you. She writes,
The rage you are feeling
comes from the same place
inside your heart as the love.
This is why you refuse to accept
a world where cruelty reigns
and the fire consumes all.
You have known hope
and joy and kindness
like you have known water.
And justice is a river
that demands
you do not give up on it.
May it be so. Amen.
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