Who knows what really happened that day?
Maybe the guests were unusually rowdy,
or the party,
unexpectedly fun.
Maybe the host scrimped and scraped
and then fervently prayed
that his friends would leave
before the wine ran short
and his poverty was revealed.
Maybe a simple feast,
prepared for 50,
mushroomed
(as weddings often do)
into something not even the bride
could comprehend.
Maybe the dust of traveling
lodged deep
in the back of a dozen throats,
and nothing tasted so sweet
or felt so good,
as a cup of cool wine--
quickly followed by another.
Who knows what really happened?
We only know that the wedding was out of wine.
The party was in danger of dying.
The family was on the verge of public shame.
Medieval paintings sometimes show Jesus at Cana,
surrounded by guests,
his hand outstretched,
hovering over six stone jars
like a conjurer
preparing for a trick.
Six jars,
once empty,
now brimmed with good wine.
Six jars,
once empty,
were now filled.
And yet,
when you look at paintings of this miracle,
When you really,
really,
look at them,
you realize that in most scenes,
those jars
are just too small.
Six stone jars
hidden in a corner,
or tucked away under a table.
Six stone jars,
barely reaching
to the top of his couch,
scarcely filling the space
in an open door.
Six jars,
pictured as too short,
too narrow,
too fragile
to hold this tidal wave of new wine.
180 gallons!
Enough wine
to give 3, 840 people
a standard 6 ounce serving.
Enough wine
to offer 180 lucky guests
their own private gallon.
Enough wine
to fill six large garbage cans
eight wading pools,
two oversized water heaters
or the back end of an SUV.
Enough wine
to launch a flotilla
of model boats
or sink a hostess into debt.
Enough wine
to make everyone in Cana
either sit up and take notice
or fall down in a stupor.
180 gallons.
It’s as if
we can’t quite wrap our minds
around the sheer abundance
that flowed through Cana that day.
As if
our hands can’t bring themselves
to paint jars that are big enough,
sturdy enough,
empty enough,
to hold it all.
Our eyes
skim over the numbers in this story
as if they are mere filler,
an intriguing detail
added to keep our interest
or make the story come alive.
Our familiarity
numbs us
to the fact that at this wedding feast,
no one,
absolutely no one,
will go away thirsty.
Isaiah says,
“As a bridegroom rejoices in his bride
so shall your God rejoice in you.”
This miracle poured out by the gallons
is a sign—
a concrete reminder of God’s delight in us.
It is a symbol of the covenant that binds us—
a bond cemented not by guilt
or by threats,
but by the love that one newlywed
holds out to the other.
This miracle of the jars is an epiphany.
A moment
when God is revealed to us.
And yet,
those words of Jesus, “my time has not yet come”
remind us that this epiphany—
this gallon-by-gallon revelation
of God’s overflowing presence--
is simply one signpost along the way.
The transformation of water into wine,
just like the healing of the lepers,
and the raising of Lazarus,
and the restoration of the bleeding woman
is a marker that invites us to look beyond.
Like legends on a map
or bearings on a compass,
these miracles point us down the road
and guide us along the way.
On that journey,
the true epiphany comes
when we face the loss of dreams
or the loss of friendship—
when we battle human betrayal
or physical pain;
when we find ourselves alone, on our knees in despair
looking up at the cross,
and we remember…
God wants to make emptiness
overflow.
Gallon by gallon,
jar by jar,
God sends us miraculous signs everyday—
a chance to start over,
forgiven,
whenever we have sinned.
A place at the table,
fed,
whenever we are hungry.
A standing invitation to join the party,
even when it appears
that the wine has run dry.
The true epiphany comes
when we realize that,
like painters of the wedding at Cana,
our jars
are sometimes
just a little too small.
The true epiphany comes
when we allow ourselves to be
open enough,
thirsty enough,
empty enough
to receive God’s tidal wave of new wine.
© Dr. Susan Fleming McGurgan
Comments