John 2:1-11
I steeped my tea and poured my cereal. Before sitting down, I pulled out my calendar to see what was ahead for my Tuesday. Ahh, a lightly scheduled day. I can start thinking about my sermon: what in the world can I say about Jesus turning water into wine?
As I often do at breakfast, I picked up the latest Time Magazine–this one a special Climate Issue– and glanced through it. My browsing landed on an article entitled, “The Great Green Wall of Africa.” The author opens by describing a planned event: a day when 399 volunteers from 27 countries would plant 150,000 shoots of drought-resistant trees in northern Senegal. It is part of a massive effort to create a “green wall” to keep the Sahara desert from encroaching on the Sahel grasslands, which are crucial to the ecology of northern Africa.
The people were there. The seedlings were there. The annual rains, which should have come two months before, were not yet there. You can’t plant trees without water.
I thought ahead to my sermon-writing plan for the day. In the context of this present-day story, the scripture feels almost offensive. How can I preach about Jesus turning water into wine when we are in a global water crisis? Our world doesn’t need more wine; it needs water: ocean waters not poisoned by fertilizer and plastics, water absorbed in wetlands instead of flooding cities, water for farmers who grow our food, clean water for children to drink. The biblical story feels at odds with how our faith calls us to act. It seems to present Jesus promoting the kind of excess and disregard for precious resources that is a primary cause of our current climate crisis.
My breakfast musings prompted me to dig a little deeper into this text. Why does John tell this story? Does it speak to us today?
This story is one of seven “signs” John describes in the first 12 chapters of his gospel. The signs are intended to tell the reader something about who Jesus is, something about the kin-dom he proclaims, something about how his followers are called to live.
Of those seven signs, six seem to fit. Three are healings–signs that convey Jesus’ concern for our well-being and teach us that God’s realm is a place of wholeness. In a fourth sign, Jesus calls a dead man back to life–a profound expression that God’s love is more powerful than despair. There’s the Feeding of the 5000–a sign of God’s abundance and Jesus’ concern for the hungry, a challenge to share what we have. There’s walking on the water–Jesus transcending limitations to come to his frightened friends. And then there’s today’s reading.
In this list of signs, turning water into wine seems to be the outlier. John, though, doesn’t throw it in as an afterthought. He leads with it. This is the first sign, the first miracle. Clearly, John believes it tells us something important about following Jesus.
Maybe the key to this story is not the wine but the occasion. Jesus is at a wedding. We know that weddings are complicated. They are traditional rites of passage. They mark participation in a historically exclusionary social institution. At times, they have as much to do with power as with love. We know too well that joyous weddings can lead to pain-filled marriages.
Even so, behind a wedding is a profound expression of human possibility. Marriage, at its best, is about the promises we make to one another. It is about our commitment to care for one another through good times and bad. Depending on the culture, it might be about love that inspires two people to make a commitment. Or it might be about making a commitment with the hope that love will ultimately develop.
We don’t know why Jesus joins his mother at that wedding. I choose to believe he is there because he trusts that God is at work through our imperfect human efforts to care for one another. I choose to believe he changes water into wine because he rejoices in the courage of two people–or any number of people–making commitments to one another.
This sign isn’t about marriage. It is about any time human beings promise to care for one another. The act of turning water into wine points to the real miracle of that occasion. In the face of our brokenness, our uncertainties, our pain and our limitations, still we dare to commit ourselves to care for one another in love. That is the kin-dom of God breaking into our midst.
Maybe John put this sign first because it is the starting point for all the other miracles he describes. God inspires us and empowers us to commit ourselves to care for one another. That miracle opens the door for the other six that follow. The miracle of healing happens when human beings dare to reach out, not just with a momentary touch but in persistent friendship and consistent community. The miracle of new life begins when we cry out our grief and discover someone is listening. We feed thousands of people when we commit ourselves to work together and share our resources. We walk on water when we pool our wisdom to build bridges across chasms of misunderstanding. When love inspires us to commitment, when commitment blossoms into love, God is at work, the Realm of God is at hand, and there is cause for great rejoicing.
Our gospel reading speaks directly to the crises of our world today. God grieves with us as we acknowledge the damage we have done to our planet. And God rejoices when people commit to taking action. God celebrates when people gather to plant trees, and even more, God celebrates when those 399 people are dedicated enough to come back two months later when the rains finally do arrive. Jesus calls us to join in the party.
Last weekend, I was privileged to join in four celebrations that remind me of this gospel story. None of them include wine. All of them celebrate the miracle of human beings committing to care for one another over the long haul.
The first celebration was Friday evening at Temple Beth Sholom, a meal before the installation of their new rabbi, Allison Poirier. Through this meal and in the service that followed, the congregation and the rabbi promised to support one another. They made that commitment in the face of some daunting circumstances. The culture of hate around us compels them to post a security-trained greeter at the door. They are acutely aware that membership numbers and finances make thriving as a synagogue today as challenging as thriving as a church can be. The rabbi is young and the first woman ever to serve there. The congregation is taking a leap of faith, and on Friday evening declared that it is not a single jump but a long-term commitment. There may have been wine later that evening; at the dinner, the sign of this miracle was the meal prepared with love by the Temple Brotherhood.
Fran and I slipped out of the synagogue after dinner and joined other Edwards Church folks at Greater Framingham Community Church, for the Mass Council of Church’s celebration of 400 years of black resiliency. The service acknowledged that the first Africans arrived on this continent as slaves in 1619. We lifted up our grief; mostly, though, the service focused on resilience. A litany lifted up Massachusetts African-Americans whose actions exemplified a commitment to care for one another, to work for justice, to be beacons of hope. The sign that God was at work in our midst was not wine but a spirit of joy that exploded in the music.
Sunday morning was our outdoor blessing of the animals service. New friends showed up with their dogs and cats, choosing to trust that we could be a source of blessing for their beloved. We promised our guests–and our long-time members–that we are here for each other. We are committed, not just for one fun service but all year round, to be a place of welcome and comfort in a harsh world. There were many signs of God’s presence with us that morning–our youthful blessing-givers, our friendly conversations over hot dogs and tofu pups. For this sermon, I’m going to go with the harmonica as sign, joyous melody to complement the joyous chaotic noise of God’s beloved creatures gathered together.
Finally, Fran, Jeannie and I attended a Convivio Sunday afternoon at Framingham Friends Meetinghouse. Convivio, a Spanish word that translates as gathering, implies coming together to celebrate the goodness of life. That’s what we did.
The event, sponsored by Metrowest Immigrant Solidarity Network, brought together recent immigrants with long-term residents. We started in a circle, sharing stories. There were stories of pain transformed into hope, by virtue of lots of people helping each other. There were others stories that, right now, are just about pain, told with faith in the promise that God is with us when we work together.
After the circle, we had hamburgers and chorizo, black beans and rice. Kids and adults played soccer. Then they brought out the popsicles–red and orange and purple signs of joy in the face of hardship. Sometimes it is a miracle to eat popsicles, a miracle in celebration of the even more wondrous miracle that we can come together and help each other.
The real miracle in our gospel story is not that Jesus turned water into wine. The miracle is that in our world which, then and now, is broken by pain and suffering and injustice, God gives us courage to commit to one another, courage to promise to work together. The miracle is that people gather to plant trees in the desert, to share meals, to sing our resilience and our joy, to accompany one another. Jesus calls us to celebrate that miracle wherever we find it, wherever we are part of it. We don’t need wine–harmonicas and popsicles will do just fine. Amen.