“Miracle—A Sign of Hope”
February 4, 2018
Amos 9:11-15
John 2:1-11
“Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory.”
Each of six stone jars is filled with twenty or thirty gallons of water—filled almost to overflowing, to the brim.
Out of those jars comes wine—and not just wine, but good wine.
The wine steward and the servants and the bridegroom—and even we, ourselves—are standing around wondering:
What do we do with a miracle?
The scientifically minded might discredit it. The pious might give it more credit than is due.
What do we do with a miracle—with abundance coming out of scarcity?
Our question grows out of that curious confrontation between Mary and Jesus.
In the midst of wedding festivities, the wine runs out. Poor planning, excessively thirsty guests—we don’t know. The mother of Jesus sees the problem and finds him. He’s just a guest here, mind you. Still his mother tells him: “They have no wine.” She is impatient. She wants something done.
Mary would have been a good Congregationalist. She’s like us.
We are restless people. We don’t settle for easy answers. We don’t settle for the way things are. We don’t settle for the way we are.
The faith we know is not about putting up with things. If there is no food, we go out and buy some and take it to the food pantry. If there is no place to go on a cold night, we work to expand Shelter House. When it’s hot we take fans to be given away by the Crisis Center. If there is no love for some, we make it clear that LGBTQ people are welcome here. When resources seem scarce, we’re usually pretty sure that more food, more funds, more love, more acceptance are somewhere to be found among us.
Watching, we discover that the mother of Jesus is like us. She wants something done.
Jesus replies that this is really none of her business. Is this any way to talk to your mother? He doesn’t really sound the way we think Jesus should sound, does he?
Jesus also says that this lack of wine is really no concern of his. Meditating on this, in The Brothers Karamozov, Dostoyevsky wonders: “Indeed, was it to increase the wine at poor weddings that he came down to earth?” and concludes: “Yet Jesus went and did what she asked. . ."
Even as he does, Mary says to the servants: “Do whatever Jesus tells you.”
I don’t know what she had in mind at the time, but I hear Jesus telling us again: “Love one another.”
I hear Jesus asking those who are with him: “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?”
I hear Jesus telling his followers: “You can show kindness to the poor whenever you want.”
I hear Jesus telling us: “Love your enemies. Bless those who curse you.”
It would take a miracle, I sometimes think, for people to start living like that, for people to do whatever Jesus tells us. It would take a miracle, I sometimes think, for me to start living that way.
Jesus tells us to do something that is not “natural.” He speaks of a way that is different than the way our emotions might tell us to go. He speaks of a way that is different than the way our thinking might tell us to go. He speaks of a way that is different that the way politicians and pundits and policy analysts and even preachers might tell us to go.
Jesus speaks of a way of love, a way of peace a way of abundance. And as G. K. Chesterton once said: “The way of Jesus has not been tried and found wanting. It is still found wanting to be tried.” We are troubled by the foolish way that Jesus tells us to follow and we are reluctant to be fools for Christ.
Jesus assesses the situation and looks for God’s abundance—which isn’t always obvious to most of us. There are six empty jars. There is water. And that will be enough. That will be more than enough.
Years ago I heard what is now one of my favorite stories. I think I’ve told it to you once already—and will most likely repeat it again. It’s about a man who went into a diner and ordered a cup of coffee. This was during World War II, when, as some will still remember, various food items were being rationed. Sugar, being a somewhat precious commodity, was kept behind the counter. After getting his coffee, the man asked for some. The waitress poured a small amount into his cup and put the sugar jar away. A little dismayed, he asked for more. “Stir up what you've got, first,” came the reply.
Stir up what you’ve got, first. I love that.
What do we have? How can we stir it up so that it will be enough?
We can imagine the commotion and the confusion that occurred after the water was poured into those empty jars.
The novelist Reynolds Price says of this story: “It seems unlikely that John would describe such a homely kitchen-wonder unless he had been present and convinced of its actual and inexplicable occurrence.”[i] From the start, however, people have tried to find another explanation, because, well because everyone knows that water doesn’t turn into wine. We know that now and they knew that then.
The steward at the wedding is puzzled. He has no idea where the servants got this good wine. There must be a rational explanation, and so he calls for the bridegroom and praises him for his exceptional hospitality. That must be the reason.
The groom doesn’t really try to set the record straight, does he?
But something greater is happening here.
Our conventional assumptions about what is possible, about where God is found, and about how God is known are shattered. This is an act of abundance and new possibilities.
So John’s gospel speaks of water turned into wine not as a miracle but as a sign. What is of real importance here is not the event but the reality to which the event points.
We need to look, not at the miracle—for those who do will always need one more to be certain. We need to look to what is beyond this miracel—to this Jesus who is showing the abundance of God in a world of need.
Water turned into wine is a sign.
To what does it point?
What’s going on?
We get a hint from the prophet Amos in his attempt to describe the coming of the realm of God. “The mountains shall drip with sweet wine, and all the hills shall flow with it. I will restore the fortunes of my people Israel, and they shall rebuild the ruined cities and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and drink their wine.”
This is what God desires: Abundance. Restoration.
This is what God brings about: Abundance. Restoration.
Let’s let that sink into our weary, February soul for just a minute.
Imagine your life restored. Imagine the cities rebuilt. Imagine the hills and mountains flowing with all good things. Imagine this nation living out its promise
God’s will is that you would know abundance.
God’s will is that your ruined places would be rebuilt.
And that is not just God’s desire for you alone, but for all people.
When Jesus shows up at the wedding in Cana, when water turns to wine, it is a sign that the sun is beginning to shine upon bleak and desolate valleys. The sunrise is slow, but it is certain.
Let us stir up what we’ve got—discovering the abundance we might often overlook or seek to deny. In doing this, we will realize that while we can’t do everything, we can do something. This congregation is blessed with an abundance of resources: skills, talent, energy, and, let’s be honest, wealth. What might we do with all that we have and all that we are to bring the healing and restoration that God desires?
A wedding is an occasion of hope and unknowing. A wedding brings with it the hope for the best that life might bring—and in the background are the unknown challenges and the unknown responses that a couple will face.
A wedding is an occasion of hope and unknowing.
So, too, is each day of our lives. In the morning we know neither the challenges nor the opportunities that will come to us in the hours ahead. Even in the uncertainty of these times we can live our days in hope—in the hope that we will be up to the challenges, that we will make good use of the opportunities, hoping for the best in life for ourselves, our neighbors, and all creation.
In that hope, let us do all that we can to be signs of God’s love in the world.
[i] Reynolds Price, Incarnation, pg. 44.