14January2001sermon.htm

Epiphany 2, Year C, 2001

Trinity Church, Princeton NJ

Reading: John 2:1-12

It was,
when you think about it,
a rather strange way
to begin his public life and ministry.
No fanfare of trumpets, no press release,
just the host of the party
standing by the kitchen door
tasting an unexpectedly good
glass of wine.
In all the bustle it might have gone unnoticed
except that
the wine had run out,
and no quick trip to the liquor store
could have produced anything
this good.
He whispered to the caterer,
"Where did this come from? It wasn't in the budget!"
And the caterer called a servant
"where did this come from? I didn't order it."
And the servant took him to the huge stone jars,
and dipped the ladle in again,
and when he drew it out, the air was filled
with the peppery spice
of good red wine.

How did the wine get there, into jars reserved for water
for ceremonial hand washing? The servant didn't know;
he just shrugged his shoulders
and pointed to a woman,
a guest at the wedding,
standing chatting with some friends,
and to her son,
dressed for celebration, but still with circles under his eyes
and blisters on his feet
from the long journey north.
"She told us
to do
whatever her son said,
and I couldn't see any harm
in humoring him, though it seemed kind of crazy.
I mean, we all know that those jars
are for water - it's part of our job
to keep them filled -
but who would ever have thought
we would find wine
there."

The first miracle,
the first sign, John calls it,
a kind of equivalent
to the presidential inauguration,
and its all about
providing some extra wine
for a wedding.

Sermons
have been preached
on this passage
arguing that it demonstrates that alcohol
is a perfectly acceptable thing to drink
for Christians;
sermons have been preached
about Jesus' apparent rudeness
to his mother.
Sermons have been preached
on the symbolism of the six water jars,
and the symbolism
of almost every word
in the story,
but what strikes me when I read it
is how incredibly ordinary an event
this was.

This is a domestic miracle,
and domestic
in its consequences.
As far as we can tell, there were no riots,
no attempts to use Jesus
to make some quick cash.
Just a few extra
gallons of wine,
the wedding reception continues
and afterwards
Jesus goes home to spend a few days with his family.

It's a strange way
to begin
public life.
Remember,
the way John tells it, this is less than a week
after John the Baptist
announces Jesus to be
Messiah
and Son of God;
this is less than a week
after he calls his first disciples, Andrew and Peter,
Philip
and Nathanael.
We are right at the beginning of things,
and you might expect
that Jesus would begin
as he intended
to continue.
With a fanfare, with a press release,
with something
that would make the world
stand still for a moment
and pay attention
to what he had
to say.

Instead
we hear
of a backyard miracle
at a family celebration
in a small town
in Galilee.

If I
had been put in charge
of planning Jesus' campaign, this is not
where I would have begun.
I would want him
to make his inaugural display
in full view
of the wealthy, the powerful,
the movers and shakers
of his time.
I would want him
to get on the news
and hit the headlines,
to make connections
and use them
for the sake of the cause.
I would assume
he was moving
straight
to the center of power.

Which of course is what the wise men did,
heading straight to Herod in his palace
searching for the baby
born to be king.

And where did they find him?
In a little village,
with a teenager for a mother.
A father with an unlikely story
of the baby's birth,
and none too sure
of his own place in it all,
but working to make ends meet
and to feed
his brand new family.
Private, domestic, ordinary.

And so too, this miracle, this first sign,
this inaugural act
of his ministry.

No crowds, not even
of hopeful revelers,
hearing a rumor
of unlimited
free wine.
Just a family wedding,
a mother
hoping her son
can do something
to relieve the embarrassment of the host
when he runs out of wine.

This wasn't a miracle
with a whole lot at stake. Not compared with the other,
later
ones.
No blinded hands
fumbling
towards the light.
No scab-scarred skin
waiting, dreaming
to feel the touch
of another hand
once again.
No grief stricken father
fearing
that his beloved daughter
will never
wake up.
No weeping Mary and Martha,
Lazarus rotting
in the tomb.
Just an party
which has run out of wine.
It's a domestic miracle.
And a domestic miracle
is where Jesus, to use the language of John,
first allows his glory
to be shown,
it's a domestic miracle
which first prefigures
Jesus' final work on earth,
his death
and resurrection.

And perhaps that's not so surprising.
Because not only here in Cana,
not only when the wise men
find the baby in Bethlehem,
does God appear
in ordinary
unexpected
places.
But time
and time
and time
again.

Think of Abraham
camped
at Mamre,
minding his own business,
when angels appear and promise a child.

Think of the widow
with just a handful of flour
and a scraping of oil
to feed her son,
and Elijah, the prophet of God
comes to stay,
and the flour doesn't run out,
or the oil run dry.

Time and time again
God appears
where God is least
expected.

Sometimes
to the powerful,
and the wealthy
and the influential,
but more often
to the poor
and the friendless
and the needy;
sometimes
working spectacular
acts of wonder,
but more often
working the minor miracles
which keep hope alive.

And that makes
me wonder.
Here we are in Princeton,
Ivy league college, center of research,
close enough to New York
to commute
to the financial and legal
hub of the world,
and to Washington
political center
of the nation.
Here we are at Trinity, for the most part
comfortable, employed, educated.
We don't have to worry
where the rent will come from,
or choose between
heating our apartment
or eating three square meals
a day.
It makes me wonder
if Jesus were
to pass through here,
would we be the ones
who would see him?
Or would we be too busy,
keeping our world running
to even notice
that he'd just been by?
Would we still
be waiting
for something spectacular
to happen,
and miss the domestic miracles
which could transform our lives
if only we were ready for them?

I wonder how many people
that day in Cana,
when they discovered the wine had run out,
glanced right past
Jesus
and his friends,
assuming
they would be no help.

And I wonder
how often I,
when I come to some difficult point
in my life,
glance right past God
assuming God
can be no help.

And yet, it seems,
that if this story is anything to go by,
it's precisely those ordinary, mundane,
domestic parts of my life
which God is most interested in.
Perhaps because
it's the ordinary
mundane, domestic things
which make up
what our lives, and what our lives of faith
are mostly about --
not just the exhilarating highs
and deep-dark lows --
but the everyday ordinariness
of small joys and sorrows
which God
is all about.

We don't need to be the most important,
we don't need to be the most worthy.
We don't have to prove ourselves.
God will come to us,
wherever we are,
whoever we are,
if only
we open our minds
and our souls
and our eyes
to see Christ
come among us.

Because it's in the ordinariness of our lives
that we are called to follow Christ,
at parties with friends
and visits home to the family,
when we're worrying about getting
the sidewalk shoveled
or reliving our childhood delight
in the beauty of fresh fallen snow.
All these times, all these places,
are where God is present,
and where the Christ
who turned water into wine
might also give us
a glimpse
of his glory.

Amen.

Raewynne J. Whiteley
14 January 2001