Live And In Person

January 16, 2022 + Second Sunday after Epiphany + John 2:1-11 + Pastor Craig Mueller

For two years the phrase “in person” has had new meaning for us. I seem to remember, decades ago, announcers sometimes saying something like: “And now we present, live and in person, James Taylor!” If you could see a celebrity “live and in person,” it was way better than merely being on television or radio. Or today we would say, Zoom.

I didn’t know there was even going to be a wedding. Taffi had attended Holy Trinity years earlier but had since moved to Valparaiso. And now she was engaged to Eric. I got the email in May 2020. Remember back then. No large gatherings or any gatherings, really. Not even with friends. There were no funerals in person. Weddings were postponed. Church was only online. And we were only going out to the grocery story and walks outside. How can we ever forget?

Taffi emailed me to see if I would officiate at their wedding: online! Taffi and Eric, and her sister and husband would be at their Valparaiso home. Their two parents would also be on Zoom, at their respective homes. With me that made four Zoom boxes.

I’ll never forget it. I nearly choked up at one point. It was joyful and sad and poignant all at the same time. It wasn’t the “in person” wedding they had hoped for. But it was an occasion for gratitude and celebration. I imagine there may have been some wine or a sparkling beverage as part of a post-Zoom toast.

Weddings feature prominently in our readings today. I’ve had two—though they weren’t called weddings, then. Some of you are married, were married, wish you were married, or glad you are not. But whatever our feelings about weddings, the marital imagery in today’s readings go beyond the literal to the symbolic.

In Isaiah, God figuratively marries the people. They are a crown of beauty in God’s hand. As two people marry each other and rejoice over each other, so great is God’s delight in us.

Then there’s the most famous wedding in the Bible. It’s an Epiphany. Like the revelation to the Magi. Like Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan river.

It’s known by the town where it took place: Cana. We don’t know who the bride or groom were, or even why Jesus was there. But Cana makes it into our marriage liturgies in this prayer: “as you gladdened the wedding at Cana by the presence of your Son, so bring your joy to this wedding by his presence.”

For the gospel of John, this isn’t an ordinary wedding. Like in all of John, there are layers of meaning. On one hand, the miracle of water into wine is Jesus’ debut. It’s his first public appearance in the gospel—live and in person. In the flesh! Ah, but in the flesh doesn’t just mean it isn’t remote, like we would think.

One chapter earlier we hear the theological meaning of Christmas. The Word was made flesh and lived among us, full of grace and truth. And now Jesus appears, in the flesh. Or in the eyes of John and the church through the ages—God appears, live and in person. In a human body.

And think of it. It’s not some serious religious occasion. It’s at a wedding, with wine flowing. And dancing. And feasting. And celebration. And joy.

But then the wine runs out. That would be embarrassing then and now. Back then weddings typically lasted a week. The host would serve the better wine they could afford when the guests could actually taste it. [I would go for a dark red. Used to be Shiraz. But now a Cabernet or maybe a red from South Africa will do nicely.]

Only after a few days of drinking and a certain sense of inebriation, would the guests be served the inferior stuff. For us, maybe wine out of a box? [Wait a minute! Shh. We drink box wine as our everyday go-to. It stays fresh for thirty days, after all!]

Omicron has brought more warnings to avoid large gatherings. But oh, how we long for those live, in-person gatherings. Dining out. Parties. Receptions. Wedding feasts. You get a sense of the proportions of the whole person—inward and outward—when we are in the flesh. But a Zoom call with everybody holding a glass? Not so much.

They have no wine, Mary tells Jesus. We have may not run out of wine, especially if you have a box stored away! But we are running out of other things. There is nothing left we can do for her. Time is running out. I have no more patience. They have no money. She lost her will to live. He is overwhelmed with grief. I don’t know how long our country can go on like this. A scarcity of hope.

Let’s consider one detail in the story. The six water jars. Six, an incomplete number. Holding 20-30 gallons. An extraordinary amount. And the best wine saved until last. What’s up with that? What’s the epiphany? Jesus as a wonder worker? John wouldn’t want us to get hung up on the miracle alone! After all, Jesus tells his mother his hour has not yet come. And don’t forget that when Jesus’ hour does come, on the cross he will taste the sour wine of our suffering.

Jesus will go on to say: I have come that you have life and have it abundantly. Or in famous words from John 1: from his fullness we have received grace upon grace.

Sometimes we get a taste of this abundance. When our cup overflows with blessing. When we weep out of gratitude for the beauty of life. When love overwhelms us, even in the midst of a pandemic. When we finally receive a hug, share a meal, and look into someone’s unmasked, lovely face—live and in person.

Is water-to-wine stuff just about Jesus’ great epiphany, you ask? After all, he is the Godman, live and in person, in the flesh.

But maybe there’s more. An Epiphany of grace for us when we are spent. And it seems there isn’t enough. God transforms our ordinary lives. Water into wine. We catch a glimpse of what really matters. We grasp a God who appears, live and in person, in our story. In our bodies. In our flesh. In the bread and wine of the eucharist. In our joys and in our sorrows. Even in this persistent pandemic.

The Hymn of the Day we will sing in a few moments is a beautiful poem and a sermon in miniature, I’d say. Let its words inebriate you with hope:

Jesus, come! surprise our dullness, make us willing to receive

more than we can yet imagine,

all the best you have to give.