Church of the Incarnation

We could hear the procession coming long before we saw them. The groomsmen had left at sundown to go fetch the bride from her family's home. They didn't have far to go - Cana being such a small town - but it seemed that they were gone an eternity. Some time after it was completely dark, though, we started to hear the music in the distance, the harps and the singing. Every so often, the groomsmen's shouts would soar over the music, and we knew they had lost their grip on her chair and almost toppled the poor girl. We women all recalled with terror our own unsteady rides in the chair carried through the dark streets by the rowdy groomsmen, leaving the security of our father's homes for the great unknown of married life.

As the shouts and the music came nearer, the eager, giggling bridesmaids huddled together, lighting their lamps to go meet the procession. The guests pulled ourselves away from the tables of plump green olives and musty goat cheese, of steaming flatbread flavored with coriander, and of dates and figs. We refilled our cups with rich, dark wine and crowded towards the courtyard entry, eager to toast the bride as she entered her new home.

Looking around, I couldn't believe this was my brother's home. When my father was alive, this courtyard was teeming with life. Date trees lined the perimeter and a cluster of olive trees gave shade in the center of the yard. Father always let us keep a few of the newest kids to play with in the courtyard, and their bleating would fill the air. Even tonight, in the glow of the torches, it was evident in the courtyard that my brother had fallen on hard times. The olive trees once so full and shady had lost their leaves and withered away. The date trees were gone, too, and it didn't appear that the children played in the courtyard at all. They were undoubtedly all needed to tend the few goats that remained, lest my brother's last means of income be carried off by wolves.

Suddenly shouts of joy erupted as the procession turned into the courtyard. The bride looked lovely, flushed with anticipation and fear, and my nephew beamed up at her, in awe of this lovely creature who was about to be his. As the groomsmen lowered her to the ground, my nephew leapt toward her and took her in his arms, twirling her around with glee. The whole crowd laughed and applauded, thrilled to see his delight. Before long, everyone made their way to the line of water jugs to purify ourselves for the feast to follow. We reclined before the tables as the dishes of steaming, fragrant food were placed before us. There was a salad of fresh greens and pungent herbs, sweet and bitter all at once. There were lentils cooked tender and infused with delicate herbs. But the entire party cooed their delight when the platters of lamb came out, roasted crispy on the outside but tender and juicy in the middle. My brother had truly spent all he had to make certain my nephew's wedding represented a change in the family's fortunes. Among the guests were all those who'd helped the family through the hardest years: Emil the butcher, who managed to find a use for even the leanest goats; Rasha the weaver, who allowed the women to sew for her in exchange for cloth to cover the children; and dear old Abrim, who regularly helped us with our chores once his were finished. This feast was more than just a wedding; it was my brother's thanks to the people of Cana.

This is why I was so appalled when the servant looked at my empty cup and told me there was no more wine to be served. How could this have happened? My brother would be ruined. Every guest would take this as a personal affront, a lack of the very hospitality he was trying to show, an indication that he no longer valued them. My poor brother - after all he'd been through, to have this happen. Who would he turn to now? He'd be an outcast in his small town, friendless and shunned.

I searched the tables for someone who could help, someone who might have stores of wine they could lend, or someone who might speak for my brother and explain away this affront. As I began to become frantic, I saw my son, Jesus. And peace flooded my soul. It was time. It had been thirty years since the angel came to me that day, announcing that I would bear the Lord's son. I'd raised him into a fine man, strong and good. Joseph had been tough on him, and I'd been gentle. From the beginning, I'd taken great delight in telling him the story of his birth, about the visit of the shepherds and later the wise men from the east. He'd taken it all in stride, never lording it over the others, but always reflecting on it thoughtfully and humbly. There'd been many times I'd thought he was going to begin his ministry: when he'd seen Eli's boy mauled by wolves, or when he'd sat with the rabbis in the temple. But each time he told me, "not yet." I'll admit, I was anxious to see his ministry happen. I wanted to be able to tell the world about my special boy, and to see God at work the way I knew he would be. It's hard for a mother to be patient for thirty long years, sitting by while her son's potential seems wasted. I suspect Jesus would say I hadn't, in fact, been patient at all. I suspect he'd say I'd been puhing him all those years, pushing him to learn more, to pray and reflect more, and pushing him to act in the ways I knew he one day would. And perhaps he'd be right. Because it came very easily to me to push him that night in Cana. I just couldn't understand. Compassion required that he intervene. And he had already made a few tentative steps toward hisministry. He even had a handful who called themselves his disciples. Why wouldn't he act? And so I pushed him. Not just as a mother, but as a follower of the Lord. I knew God could not stand by and leave my brother to his ruin.

So I pushed him. And as I watched his face, I saw my son transformed. A peace flooded his face, along with a bit of resignation and even sadness. He looked at me as if to say, "I'm yours no longer," and then he began to act. He took the jugs of water left over from our purification ritual. The cast-offs, the part we no longer needed. He had the servants fill them to the brim. And with a wave of his majestic hand, he turned it into the richest, purest wine any of the guests had ever tasted. With that wave of his hand he took my brother from certain doom and lifted him to a height he'd never dreamed of seeing.

For that moment, my son was God incarnate, God alive and active, acting with compassion and great power. I'd hear so many more stories through the reast of his short life, times he'd heal the ill and even raise the dead, times he'd intervene and save the suffering. But for me, none of them would ever be so clear a sign that God had come to live and act among us as that night at Cana.

Amen.