There Was This Wedding

In the Gospel of John, the very first thing Jesus does is go to a party. Sure, there’s the famous intro and his cousin John introduces him to some of his first followers, but the first action the gospel narrates is Jesus, his mother and his friends attending a wedding celebration in Cana.

It’s quite a well known story because Jesus brings the wine. Kind of. Wedding celebrations in those days were big week-long events involving the whole community and everyone brought food and drink. They ran out of wine and Jesus’ mother tells him to help them out. He tells the servants to fill some large pots with water and then they serve it and, when they do, it had become wine. And not just any old plonk, the best quality stuff. And a lot of it, too, more than they needed. The steward of the feast even congratulates the groom on holding back the good stuff until now. Crisis averted, party saved, it’s a miracle.

Is it, though?

It’s often referred to as “The Miracle at Cana” or “The First Miracle” Jesus did, but really, any street corner magician could probably pull that off. Maybe not in the quantity Jesus did, but is it really that spectacular? And compare it to other “miracles” of Jesus. No one was healed, physically or spiritually. Justice wasn’t done, no lives were saved, the hungry weren’t fed. Okay, you could argue he helped the thirsty and saved the groom some embarrassment, but it just doesn’t stand up well with the others, does it?

The so-called miracle’s not the point here, though. There’s more important things to notice, and the author of John wants you to. At the conclusion of the story, they write “Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee and revealed his glory, and his disciples believed in him.” 

It’s a sign. Signs point to things, they impart information and direction. You’re not supposed to focus on the sign, but what it points to.

The gospel that begins with the Word and how “the Word was made flesh” to live among us, puts Jesus right in the middle of a life-changing community event. And I don’t think for a moment that he was sitting quietly in a corner being a wallflower. I think he was in among the people, eating, drinking, dancing and having a great time celebrating. It was time to be just one of the people, not the messiah, not yet. 

Even so, as one of the people he makes transformation happen. Ordinary, everyday water, essential to the fabric of who we are, is transformed into something tasty, delicious even, fruitful, enjoyable and lively. Jesus transforms the ordinary into the spectacular. How’d he do that? 

Easy enough to say “well, he’s Jesus.” Sure, but what is Jesus but the divine spirit of love, grace, compassion, the good that has been from the beginning - the very things that he’ll demonstrate with the “miracles” of his life. A life that shows us we are capable of all that, too. 

As he leaves the wedding with his disciples all chatting excitedly about the miracle, I imagine him saying something like “you think that was cool, watch this.”

In Winter

I guess January wouldn’t be an ideal time for a baptism in a river. Not in this part of the world, for sure.

But, on the church calendar, it’s January when we hear the story of Jesus being baptized by his cousin John in the Jordan River. I know, different part of the world, different era, and, in all likelihood, it might not have even happened at that time of year anyway. It’s a key story of Epiphany, though, so that’s where it’s put. I’ll come back to that.

But just imagine, for a moment, Jesus trudging through the snow with everyone else, down to the river where John’s franticly chopping at the ice, trying to break through. He can’t, so he finally gives up and uses snow. Think about that. Not the ridiculousness of it, or the cold, but the meaning.

We baptize with water because water is life. John called people to repent, to turn away from sin and turn back to God. The water symbolically washes away that old life of sin and offers something new, a new life with God. We baptize as a community because it’s an opportunity to publicly acknowledge what we already know to be true, that we are all children of God, to welcome and to offer love and support.

In the cold and shadows of winter, the life hides in the snow. We know the snow will melt, we know that spring will come, we know that creation will come back to life. We know the life is still there through all the changing seasons. Our lives are like that, too.

That day Jesus was baptized, I wonder how many others were baptized by John who struggled with their repentance. I wonder how many found themselves making their way through different seasons in their lives. I wonder how many remembered their baptism, remembered Jesus, and found their way through. Maybe even Jesus himself.

We tell the story in Epiphany because it’s a story that reveals who Jesus is: after John baptizes him, the Holy Spirit appears as a dove and a voice from heaven says “this is my beloved son, my pride and joy.” 

It also reveals that Jesus comes to be baptized just like everyone else. In Matthew, the author even has John point out that it’s Jesus who should be baptizing him because he’s, well, he’s Jesus. But Jesus says no, this is the way, and of course it is, Jesus is one of us.

It also reveals that Jesus didn’t come quietly to be baptized privately, but publicly, with everyone, in front of everyone. And of course he does, Jesus is one of us.

It also reveals that Jesus’ baptism is followed by the time of testing in the wilderness and the beginning of his ministry. So Jesus is baptized by John and then begins to live his baptism: remembering it, reconnecting with it, living it. Of course he does, Jesus is one of us.

The story reveals that Jesus is a child of God, blessed with the Spirit’s presence. And so are we, that’s what Jesus’ life reveals to us. The divine spirit is in us, too, we are loved by God and we are God’s pride and joy. Even in winter. 

A Tale of Two Tales

I like to talk about the Christmas creche every year. I just wrote about that a couple of weeks ago. I think it’s important to remember the whole story and remind ourselves that everyone belongs at the manger because Jesus is for everyone. And I think it’s important to remember that one big story portrayed by a full and busy stable is from two different gospels and a load of traditions, it covered a much longer span than one night, and is full of a whole lot of imagination.

All of that is good, it is. And we should find time for all of it. Every story that brings each of those characters to the stable brings us closer to the stable, too.

Take, for example, the shepherds and the magi, two very different groups of people. What is true about Jesus is revealed to both of them, but each travelled a very different route to get there. And the presence of each reveals something very different to us.

The birth was revealed to the shepherds by an angel (and heavenly host), according to the gospel of Luke, and they came to the manger from nearby fields and found Jesus just as had been described to them. It wasn’t much of a journey, not physically anyway, and they didn’t really have to look hard to find him. They just followed instructions and believed they found exactly what the angel told them they’d find.

The first to see Jesus were poor and marginalized, the very people Jesus came for. They found him among animals, a child of poor, ordinary people, just like them.

The magi, according to the gospel of Matthew, were not close by: they were "wise men from the east."  That's not a description you give of people from just the other end of town. And the sign they followed was a star, a celestial marker, that anyone should have been able to see from anywhere. And yet, they were the only ones who truly "saw" what it meant. They followed a sign which they interpreted in order to find the fulfilment of a prophecy that a great king was born. And even though there was no trappings of royalty, they knew, when they found Jesus, that they were in the right place and they offered him their royal gifts.

This is a whole different kind of journey from the shepherds. But the truth at the heart of their stories, what they found, brought them to the same place.

The author of Luke says they found the messiah. The author of Matthew says they found what Isaiah prophesied to be Immanuel, which means “God with us.” The author of the gospel of John writes that he is “the Word made flesh.” Jesus, who is for everyone.

Perhaps that’s why we like to put them all together. Shepherd or magi, we come to Jesus in different ways, from different places, led by different desires.

What Now?

Why December 25th?

There’s no statement in the Bible that conclusively says Jesus was born December 25th and even the specific year is suspect. There are theories as to why that date was settled on sometime in the 3d or 4th century - they’re all really interesting and you should look them up - but I don’t wanted to debate the need for realism in the Christmas story. For centuries we’ve embraced December 25th, we’ve built traditions on it that can be meaningful and help the world be a better place, if we let them, and I don’t see any need to tear that down.

In fact, I’d like to point out that, while the chronological new year is January 1, the traditional church new year begins with Advent, a time of preparing for Christmas, four Sundays prior to December 25th. That date varies, obviously, though contemporary Advent Calendars might start December 1st (maximum number of chocolates that way).

So when are things “new” for you?

In the story, Mary and Joseph welcome a baby after quite a journey, a journey physically, spiritually and emotionally. Strangers show up because angels told them to and, later, magi with expensive gifts show up because a prophecy about a star told them to.

I wonder what Mary and Joseph were feeling when they woke up the next morning. It was a new day. Most likely, they were wakened by the baby crying. That would sure be a new experience for them.

They woke up in a strange place, surrounded by animals and strangers they didn’t know. Family and friends were far away. I imagine they had to get moving pretty quickly, finding food, getting that census thing done (that’s why they were there, after all) and figuring out where to get the things a new baby would need. I don’t suppose they could stay where they were for long. There were practical, everyday things that needed doing, many of which might be new for new parents. I don’t suppose there was a whole lot of time for wonder the next day. It was all so new.

But, a couple of times in their account of the story, the author of the Gospel of Luke says that Mary “pondered” things. I imagine she was a deep thinker who wondered what all this might mean. I imagine she, and Joseph, would have found the time to wonder what this new life could hold, how the world was changing for them and how they might be changing the world.

There were certainly going to be challenges ahead, but the future was full of promise, too. They were holding the promise of love and life in the child they now held. And what was it the angel had said to Mary in Luke’s story: God is with you. And in Matthew’s story, the angel tells Joseph that the child is the fulfillment of an old prophecy and will be known as Immanuel, which means “God with us.”

However you count the days, as the new year begins take a moment to ponder what might be ahead. Be open to new things. Be open to the wonder of creation and the possibilities it holds. And remember: however you know God, God is with us.

Where We Belong

Every year, I like to talk about the Christmas creche. That beautiful nativity scene we create in a stable or barn, with all the characters of the Christmas story from scripture.

You may have one. They come in all shapes and sizes, from tiny ones you can hang on a tree or find in a snow globe, to life size figures you can put on the lawn. Some churches and communities even do a “live nativity,” with real people and animals creating the tableau.

There’s usually at least the baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph in a stable or cave where animals are kept, as it says in the Gospel of Luke. There may also be animals, especially sheep, they come with the shepherds, but there may also be a donkey, a cow or two, maybe even a few chickens and a pig. It’s supposed to be a stable, after all. With the shepherds, you might find the magi. There’s at least three, to cover the three gifts, and they might have arrived on camels, if you’re getting really fancy. And there could be an angel, too, overlooking them all. And a star - don’t forget the star - that sits above all that. 

Some even throw in an innkeeper or a Roman soldier or two. And a Little Drummer Boy.

Of course, it’s not likely that all these would have been there. At least, not all at the same time. Or at all, because that part of the story isn’t part of the scripture story - we made it up. And remember, that full manger scene is created by conflating two different accounts from two different gospels. Then there’s the reality of what life was really like in first century Judea.

I know, don’t ruin it! Most people don’t want to know that. Reality spoils this lovely pastoral vista we’ve created.

Does it? 

The story of how everyone got there is full of the unexpected. It’s full of challenges, even hardship, mystery, wonder. In a world full of conflict, oppression, hate and anger, a young couple, still trying to get to know each other, find themselves far from home. It’s late, there’s nowhere to go and she’s having a baby, a baby that’s, well, hard to explain. And yet, here he is and they wonder, with joy, at this tiny little miracle.

It sounds like they did it alone, but maybe there were hands to help them on the way. People who believed in them, people who didn’t know them but offered them hospitality and kindness. Then there were people who heard the news, people who knew something was happening, change was coming. Maybe they weren’t alone, after all.

Maybe everyone belongs at the manger because Jesus belongs to everyone.

The reality is that we all can find a place there. For some, it may be a beautiful, quiet pastoral scene, warmed by a gentle light. For some, it may be a place of refuge, a stop on a hard fought journey, shrouded in darkness. For some, it may be a place of peace and joy, for some a place of comfort and rest. For some, it may be the only place you feel you belong.

And you do. Everyone does.

There's Something About Mary

Do you know Mary? She’s a poor young woman from a small town who meets an angel.

The angel tells her she is filled with grace and God is with her. Mary wonders about that. She’s not really feeling it today and she’s got chores to do. 

The angel says that God thinks she’s pretty amazing, so she’s going to have a child who’s going to be pretty amazing. Mary nods and wonders how that’s going to happen, seeing how she’s engaged, but they’re waiting and she’s not, well … and the angel interrupts her and says the Holy Spirit will take care of it. She says okay, I serve God, so let’s do that.

She’s super excited and runs off to tell her cousin Elizabeth, who’s also pregnant under pretty unusual circumstances (she’s really old, thinks Mary). When Elizabeth sees Mary, she’s pretty excited. Her baby’s kicking pretty hard and she says he knows Mary’s pregnant and it’s the messiah she’s carrying. How awesome is that?

Mary says that’s pretty awesome. It is. So’s Mary.

That’s a pretty free paraphrase of Luke 1:26-45. But even in the scripture account, it’s pretty clear that Mary’s awesome. But maybe not in the way tradition describes her.

I wonder if what we think we know about Mary is less about what we actually know from scripture, and more about what we imagine from tradition. Mary has a variety of titles, like the Blessed Virgin Mary or Mary the Mother of Jesus, that confirm her role in the story. She’s most often described as holy, gently, meek, mild, humble and blessed. “Gabriel’s Message,” a well known Victorian carol describes her as both “a lowly maiden” and “most highly favoured lady.” The timid figure in most Christmas creches has her posed kneeling beside the manger, hands pressed together in prayer and adoration.

Okay. But the story might well tell us something else. 

Mary isn’t afraid of the angel Gabriel. She’s “perplexed” and “ponders” what the angel’s greeting might mean. Sure, Gabriel says “don’t be afraid,” and maybe she ought to be, but she just isn’t. Earlier in the story, Gabriel visited Elizabeth’s husband Zechariah to tell him that their son would be John the Baptist. Zechariah is described as terrified and overwhelmed with fear. He also doesn’t believe the angel and, as a result, Gabriel makes him mute until after John is born. Mary doesn’t doubt it happening, she just wants to know how. It seems that Zechariah, a priest in the temple whose job is literally serving God, is shown how to truly serve God by a poor peasant girl.

And then there’s dealing with her family and Joseph. Even if they believe her story, it’ll be hard going with the community. There’s the journey to Bethlehem and giving birth among animals in a stable.

Maybe Mary’s young and inexperienced, but she wonders, she ponders things, she’s a deep and spiritual character. She’s strong and brave, faithful and true to God. She’s strong enough for a rough journey and an unexpected, uncomfortable birth. Mary “found favour with God” not because of her place in society or any title and not because of her age or lineage (which is never mentioned), but because of who she was. Do you know that Mary?

Peace and Peace and Peace

Peace. Please. Peace.

The theme of the second Sunday in Advent is peace. I hope we think about it more than just one day, of course, and talk about it as much as we can. Just like that, even: Peace. Please. Peace.

In fact, I have been, and it occurs to me that I misspoke the other day. In reflecting on peace, I said that, in churches, we tend to talk about peace one of two ways. We talk about the peace which is the practical end of conflict, the “world peace” of everyone just getting along with no wars and peace and justice for all. That would be awesome.

Or we talk about peace within ourselves, the inner peace of knowing God’s presence (however we might know God) and love in our lives. This is the spiritual peace of knowing the divine (again, however you might describer that) and being grounded in a sense of love and grace. It’s the sense of contentment that comes with the awareness of who and how we are in the world. That would also be awesome.

I went on to say that the key word here is “or.” How often we set them apart, even having separate days for them as if they’re exclusive. They’re not.

There’s no “or” here. If anything, it’s “and.” At this point, I’d even say it’s “AND!”

Imagine how different the world could be if we were all able to approach conflict, disagreement, dissent and difference from a place of our own sense of inner peace. If we knew ourselves and loved ourselves and were at peace with ourselves, wouldn’t we approach the world differently?

Instead of simply reacting, we might patiently seek understanding. We could restrain fear and anger and replace it with curiosity and calm. Instead of rage and violence, we could offer grace and love. Instead of suspicion and punishment, we’d offer care and kindness. Peace in the world out there would begin in the world within us, a world which began in love, a world that began in good.

True peace can’t be imposed, enforced or even negotiated. It’s found in relationships built on our awareness of the peace within, shared with the world around us.

I still stand by that. How I misspoke was that I missed one. There’s three ways we talk about peace in church, and it’s that third way which can be both most helpful and most damaging. Depends on what we do with it.

Paul writes to the Philippians “and the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus” (Phil. 4:7). I’m quoting the King James Version here, just because it’s the one that’s always stuck in my head since I was an Anglican kid. I’d always hear it as part of the blessing. And I always thought, well, that explains it. No wonder we can’t find peace. It’s a mystery we don’t understand.

But it isn’t. We may not understand it, in the same sense that we don’t completely understand love - Paul again, this time to the Corinthians, “for now we see only a reflection, as in a mirror, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully” - but that doesn’t mean we dismiss it or give up on it. Because it isn’t about understanding in our heads.

We want to reason it out, explain it and implement it. But we can’t because, like love, it comes from the heart, not the head. What we can do is be open to it, welcome it, engage it and live it.