“Water to Wine and Wine to Water”
The Reverend Tom Steffen
17 January 2010
Isaiah 62:1-5
John 2:1-11
If you were listening to the
lesson read just a moment ago, you will recall that it concerns a wedding party
at which Jesus is said to have turned water into wine. From the conversation, you can tell straight
off that the town of
The secret is to serve the
best wine first and then slowly work in the cheaper stuff. The waiter is amazed and says as much to the
bridegroom, who appears to be footing the bill: “Everyone serves the good wine first,” says
the waiter, “and when guests have drunk freely, then the poor wine is
distributed; by then, no one knows the difference. But you have kept
the choice wine, the best wine, until last.” (John 2:1-11) So the story ends with the waiter amazed, the
guests – at least the sober ones pleased, and the followers of Jesus convinced that
Jesus is no ordinary prophet.
The punch line of the story
is simply: “There is no more wine,” which scholars believe is John’s way of
saying that the old forms of religion are empty and as a result have no power
to save, and that people, not least you and me, are waiting for a fresh and vital
vintage. Writing his narrative some sixty
years after Jesus’ death and resurrection, John is convinced that Jesus came
into our midst to be the new wine. And
though it may seem late in coming, though it be very long after the dawning of
time, late even at this wedding feast, it will be God’s ultimate act. The choice wine will be served last.
Do you remember the
commercial in which Orson Wells speaks on behalf of one of the great wine
makers? I can’t remember if it was Ernst
and Julio or Christian Brothers. Orson
Wells speaks as he walks through the winery; other times he is surveying a
colorful landscape filled with grapes. But
he always turns and looks at the camera and says: “We will serve no wine until it’s time.” Not until it’s time.
It may interest you to know
that in the latter quarter of the first century, critics of the early Christian
movement posed a rather sticky question:
If Jesus is God’s supreme revelation, how is it that God waited so long
to give it? Isn’t this unfair to all the
preceding generations? Good
question. No doubt a question asked by
John himself. Some suggest that this
story served as his poignant response.
It may have been an attempt to undercut the criticism he received by
saying: “OK, it is late, but God intended all along to serve the best wine
last. Not early in order to make a good impression as most would do. But last, the best last.”
Ah, to be fully, ultimately embraced
by God after a long and arduous journey, thousands, millions of years on earth. Ah, to know God’s embrace as a teenager, a
middle-aged man, or an older adult after our own unique and personal struggles. This is to taste a vintage worth waiting for,
worth treasuring. Having Christ in our
midst is meant to be as exciting as celebrating at a wedding feast. Exciting?
Yes exciting, because life is filled with wonder and surprise! Exciting?
Yes exciting, because our lives are designed with a capacity for the
mysterious and miraculous. But is it
exciting? Or, perhaps, a better word is
“compelling.” Is the new wine you and I have
tasted compelling? And if so, how will
others know?
I recently heard someone say
that every five years or so we should forget everything we know about Christ
and start over again. You may think that
is a foolish thing to say, and maybe it is.
Or maybe it is an invitation to press on, to rethink and grow, to be
willing to be surprised again and again, knowing that the best will be served
last.
There is a warning tucked
away in this episode in the life of Jesus: We who are living out the days of Epiphany and
have heard the Christmas story year after year after year are always in danger
of “reversing” the miracle at Cana. We can
turn wine into water. Our familiarity
with the Christmas story can give us a sense that we already know all we need
to know. Our comfort with the Christmas
story can give us a sense that we have already arrived, that God isn’t likely
to do anything new, surely doesn’t have anything new to say. Familiarity and comfort seduce us,
unknowingly, to domesticate God, to tame God, changing God into a super-charged
human being, who is like the very best in us just written in larger letters,
who thinks like we think, who happens to prefer the people we love and is at
odds with the people we dislike or fear (how convenient for us) and whose
message can be condensed and put on a bumper-sticker.
I used to show my religion
classes the remake of “Miracle on 34th Street” just before we recessed for
Christmas vacation. And even though it
is a wonderful movie, it left me uneasy.
Do you think most people today see Jesus as Kris Kringel, an incarnation
of Santa Claus, who really belongs in an old folks home? Are we not tempted to approach God as if God
“keeps a list and checks it twice?” The
haunting question that continues to echo throughout the days of Epiphany is
this: Does Christmas really make a
difference after all? Be honest. Be careful. To settle for a domesticated God, a Santa
Claus God, one fashioned after our own liking, is to, in effect, turn wine into
water. Whatever you think of that
observation, remember that you can’t grow grapes at the North Pole.
I don’t know what you think
of when you ponder the miracle of Cana, what mysterious molecular
transformation that took place in those wine jugs. But this cello piece and visual may lead us
into a new awareness related to our need to pray.
I am
grateful to Reva Allington, friend and member of St. Peter’s UMC, who edits my
sermons.