Second Sunday after Epiphany

The Feast of the Epiphany is always January 6. That’s when we remember the story of the magi who came from the east to pay homage to the newborn king. They were astrologers responding to the star they saw, that they believed signaled the birth of a new king in Israel. That star was their epiphany. And now, for us in the church, this entire, several-week liturgical season is characterized by the retelling of stories that reveal ongoing epiphanies about Jesus in the gospels – these ongoing revelations about who he is and how God is at work through him.

So last week we looked at Jesus’ baptism, which kicked off his ministry, and today we read the story about his first miracle: the changing of water into wine at a wedding in Cana.

So to start with, in light of the fact that we are in the season after the Epiphany, the first thing to ask is, What epiphany is being communicated through this story? What revelation about Jesus do we see here?

And to a certain degree, the answer is fairly self-evident; it tells us in the final verse:

Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him (John 2:11).

So what was the epiphany? He revealed his glory.

But it’s a little more complex than that. It says he revealed his glory, and I’m sure his disciples were dazzled by it. And yet, almost everybody else missed it. The only people who knew what just happened were Mary (his mother), a few of the servants, and the disciples. The steward didn’t know. The bride and groom didn’t know. Certainly, none of the wedding knew.

It’s like a gallery owner hosting a big opening night party to showcase the work of an up-and-coming new artist. The whole sophisticated artsy community shows up and is having a good time. But, without telling any of them, the gallery owner brings his mother, a few friends, and the catering staff into the back room to show them the original Rembrandt he’s just acquired.

Why would he do that? Why not show everyone?

Why would Jesus begin his public ministry in such a private way? It doesn’t make sense.

And here’s another thing that doesn’t make much sense: What kind of religion would tell a story like this one to showcase the beginning of the Divine Redeemer’s ministry? If someone were just making stories up, trying to trick people into believing some new religion, I don’t think they’d choose a story like this.

• They’d have him show up on the scene, glowing white and radiating other-worldly holiness.

• Or he’d do some jaw-dropping, spectacular miracle in front of everybody.

• Or he’d be like John the Baptist, chewing everyone out for being such lousy sinners.

Who would come up with an inaugurating miracle that was so private?

And not only that: what on earth was he thinking when he decided to do this miracle?

Think about it: he’s at a party where they’ve run out of wine, which means most of the guests are probably already pretty well sauced. You’d think a good, responsible Redeemer would to be making several pots of black coffee, then calling an Uber to get them home safely. But not Jesus. According to this story, he made about 150 gallons of wine and told them to carry on and enjoy themselves. It’s dangerous and irresponsible.

Which, I must say, lends it a certain degree of plausibility.

Such an unpredictable, yet appealing Jesus we find at Cana.

And I say appealing – not because I’m looking for some Biblical justification to be a drunkard – but because of how Jesus begins his ministry by meeting people where they are, in their joy.

• He begins his ministry at a party.

• He begins his ministry making wine for drunk people.

• He begins his ministry by making jolly people even more jolly.

• And he doesn’t even want any public recognition for it.

This world is full of suffering and evil, and the remainder of Jesus’ ministry – and certainly its ending – will engage that evil head- on. But first: not condemnation, but approval. Not a battle, but a party. Not the cup of wrath, but gallons and gallons of outstanding wine.

I think John begins his story of Jesus with this story to give us a glimpse and a foretaste of God’s value and God’s intention for all of us. God loves us and wants to celebrate with us. And the remainder of Jesus’ ministry, everything else he’s about to do, is done with the intention of ending where he began: at a wedding feast with us, his beloved.

“As the bridegroom rejoices over the bride,” (said Isaiah) so shall your God rejoice over you” (Isaiah 62:5b).

Everything Jesus does is for love: intimate groom-like love – passionate and devoted; a love that cannot, and will not, be broken. Our gospel, after all, is a love story.

And then there’s something else that’s especially appealing in this story: Jesus appears to be comfortable with the fact that everybody is enjoying the wine he made for them, even though they don’t know where it came from. He seems to prefer, in fact, that they not know, that his role in the matter remain a secret.

It reminds me of what happens for us every Sunday (in normal times!) when we come to church to celebrate with Jesus, and to drink the wine that he gives us. But for us, it isn’t water changed to wine; but wine changed to blood.

And even though we have two thousand years of theological interpretation of what we mean by this, and two thousand years of spiritual practice, meditating on what this means, it remains for each generation and each person to encounter afresh the mystery of Christ’s presence to us in the wine.

And it is a mystery. Like Jesus standing in the wings at the party, watching all the wedding guests enjoy the wine he made for them, so he stands with us at each Eucharist, watching (smiling?) as we come to the rail to drink from the chalice. We don’t get it, entirely. We sense God’s welcome. We sense God’s healing and God’s mercy. But there remains a sense that far more is going on than we’re able to perceive. Which is why we call them “holy mysteries.”

But the efficacy of the Eucharist is not determined by our piety or our intellectual astuteness. It’s determined by God’s love – God’s love poured out for us. So come. Drink. This is the cup I’ve prepared for you in love.

Just like the wedding guests, the wine we drink is so much than we can perceive.

But we’re also like the steward in this story. He’s the one who first drinks the water-turned-to-wine. And when he tastes how excellent it is he turns to the groom and says, “What on earth were you thinking? This is so much better than what we’ve been serving all evening. You saved the best for last.”

Now here’s what I can’t tell from the story: is the steward praising the groom for his abundant generosity, or is he chastising the groom for wasting the good stuff on a crowd that’s too far gone to appreciate it? The story is ambiguous, and perhaps that’s intentional.

“Intentional” because we’re all prone to behaving like this steward, especially those of us who feel at home in the church, confident that we know what’s going on and how this organization ought to be run (and I’m including myself in this). The steward thinks the groom is in charge, that he’s the one who made the decision about which wine to serve when. How on earth could he have known that one of the guests has a little party trick up his sleeve?

In the same way, we think we know what’s going on here. We see this “organization of a church” and we all have opinions on how things ought to be run. We need this ministry or that ministry. We need a better website. We need another staff position. We need more young people. We need more pledging units. We need to feed the poor and stop violence and have more Bible studies and on and on and on. So we praise the people doing what we think should be done. Or we condemn those who aren’t.

And as we scramble to “put on a good wedding”, as it were, don’t you wonder,

“God what are you doing? What are you doing here at St. John’s or in Gig Harbor? What miracles are you performing in our midst? What lives are being prepared to encounter your love? What wine are we already drinking – utterly unaware – that moments ago was simply water?”

It invites in us a certain humility, a certain modesty, not only in how we administer the church, but the posture in which we live in this world. Rarely can we say with any confidence what God is doing. We can say what values we have and how we see those values being manifested or not. But God remains in the wings. And it just may be that – beyond our own opinions of how things ought to be done – God is far more present, far more gracious and generous to those we would call undeserving, than we could possibly imagine. Gallons and gallons of love being drunk by those oblivious of the source.

And then the story ends with that handful of people who did know, who did see: the disciples.

Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him (John 2:11).

Our call is to be disciples of Jesus: to watch and to follow and to imitate what we see him doing.

So I pray for us, that we would be a community that wants to mimic this kind of love: celebratory, generous in ridiculous ways, taking joy in blessing others without need of recognition or praise. God knows there’s trouble enough in this world, and that in loving such a world we will encounter our own degree of pain. But such knowledge is not the final word on the matter. For beneath the pain is love, and where love is, there is joy, and mirth, and more wine than we know what to do with!

Being like Jesus, it turns out, comes with some fabulous perks.

Amen.