Go In Peace

One of the Pharisees asked Jesus to eat with him, and he went into the Pharisee’s house and took his place at the table. ³⁷And a woman in the city, who was a sinner, having learned that he was eating in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster jar of ointment. ³⁸She stood behind him at his feet, weeping, and began to bathe his feet with her tears and to dry them with her hair. Then she continued kissing his feet and anointing them with the ointment. ³⁹Now when the Pharisee who had invited him saw it, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him—that she is a sinner.” ⁴⁰Jesus spoke up and said to him, “Simon, I have something to say to you.” “Teacher,” he replied, “Speak.” ⁴¹“A certain creditor had two debtors; one owed five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. ⁴²When they could not pay, he canceled the debts for both of them. Now which of them will love him more?” ⁴³Simon answered, “I suppose the one for whom he canceled the greater debt.” And Jesus said to him, “You have judged rightly.” ⁴⁴Then turning toward the woman, he said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. ⁴⁵You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. ⁴⁶You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. ⁴⁷Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.” ⁴⁸Then he said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” ⁴⁹But those who were at the table with him began to say among themselves, “Who is this who even forgives sins?” ⁵⁰And he said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

Luke 7:36-8:3

“Go In Peace”

If you’re my friend on Facebook, you might have noticed that most of my posts over the last two weeks have either been pictures about my dg or posts about our Auburn women’s softball team—this is for two reasons: number 1. I am so proud of these amazing young women who have been tough and fun and fierce, women who have fought their tails off and made us all so proud; and 2. For a very different reason—the news of the world over the last two weeks has been so overwhelming and depressing that I’d rather focus on something happy and joyful. In the past two weeks, our news has been overtaken by some very hard, sad, and challenging stories, stories which have prompted much-needed conversation and thought, stories which have also left us trying to discern when it is appropriate to call another person out gently as opposed to leaving another person bent over with shame and oppression, stories which have prompted folks to be incredibly judgmental of each other and others’ motives, stories which have encouraged to call out another person’s sin without realizing our own. And then there are stories like ours today of 50 people slaughtered in Orlando, stories that leave us simply stunned and heartbroken.

There was the little one who somehow got away from his mom at the Cincinnati Zoo, either climbing over or falling through the gorilla exhibit. Folks all over the internet quickly blamed his mother, saying she had not paying enough attention, sending her death threats, forgetting the time they had spent with children, forgetting how easy it is for a child to let go of your grasp. People blamed the zoo folks, cursing them for their action of killing the gorilla, not even stopping to think about what an awful decision it must have been for the staff that loves their animals so much.

Two other stories about violence and sexual assault by college athletes have also dominated our news stories over the last two weeks, stories which caused collective anger and frustration—the story of a football player at another SEC school who will only sit out one game even though he violently assaulted a woman; the story of a swimmer in California who will only serve a few short months after sexually assaulting a classmate of his, and of his father who seemed to only care about the damage caused to his son instead of the life-long damage caused by his son to a young woman who may never be able to sleep a whole night again because of the assault she relives over and over again. I am heartbroken for these women, who won’t see much justice for the awful things done to them. I felt myself angry with the older men and institutions that are very guilty of enabling these younger men to hurt again. And I felt myself angry with the young men for being so stupid and thoughtless and violent, for forever changing another person’s life. But I also found myself hoping that somehow they are able to realize what they did, the damage it has caused, found myself hoping that they will find a way to seek redemption and forgiveness.

And I probably shouldn’t get started too much about our presidential election—about the hateful words used and the insults being hurled, about the tirades being thrown, about the violence that has erupted at rallies on both sides of the aisle, about the awful things we say on social media about the folks who dare disagree with us because of course we think we are right and everyone who doesn’t agree with us is wrong. Here’s what I inevitably end up thinking: “Our children are watching us. And what they are seeing is not good.”

All of this has left me wondering about the nature of sin. It has left me asking questions about shame—when shame is good and helpful, and when it is so overwhelming that it leaves us only with tears and desperation. It has left me wondering how to call out the racism and sexism and the violence of the world while also recognizing and acknowledging that I am just as prone to sin as the people and institutions causing these things. And all of this has left me pondering the very perplexing nature of God’s grace given to us in Jesus Christ. I have come with all of these questions to our Gospel lectionary reading for today, and I’m honestly still thinking about what it says to us about sin and shame and grace and love. This is one of my favorite passages of Scripture, and one that is challenging for us all. Please know that, as I attempt to muddle my way through this reading today, I’m still thinking, pondering, wondering what it means for us all. And I fully recognize that my interpretations will change as I fully take in what has happened in our country over the last few hours-the worst mass shooting in our history.

But here’s what I do think for this moment, for this day. This story tells us so much about the nature of sin and the affect it has on our lives, tells us about how much forgiveness granted can do for us. We are told from the second line of this story that this woman is a sinner. Can you imagine that being your name and identity, imagine what your life must be like if that’s how everyone knows you, if that’s what they call you? Sinner. Can you imagine the shame this woman must carry? The story doesn’t tell us what sins she has committed, but they are what identify her, and Jesus tells us that she has many. It is obvious that this woman, whatever she has done, is weighed down by her sin, brought down by constantly being called “sinner.” Whatever she has done, whatever sins she has committed and the way those sins wear on her and cause the community to react to her and shun her—all of those things have broken her, broken her to the point of desperation. She has no choice but to find Christ wherever he is, to take her chance and come into a dinner party to which she is clearly not invited, to kneel down in tears and cry onto Christ’s feet, crying so much that her tears clean the dirt off of them, drying those tears with her hair, begging for help. She asks for forgiveness with her actions as she cleanses Christ’s feet. Just as the waters of baptism claim us with the promise that we are cleansed, her actions are a plea for that same cleansing. No words are needed as her actions reflect her desire to be cleansed, to be redeemed, to be free and forgiven. And Christ grants her all of those. She has so often been named as a sinner, and now she is named as faithful. Named as forgiven. Can you imagine how freeing that must be for her? This woman is given new life by Christ, and she is a new creation who can now go in peace.

We also learn a great deal about judgment in this story, both our own judgment and Christ’s. We are told from the very beginning of the story that the dinner party is being held at the home of a Pharisee, the temple leaders who are known to strictly observe the law, the ones who are quick to call out others when they are not, the ones known to be self-righteous and sanctimonious. Simon sets the table for the people gathered and invites Christ to join them, which is lovely. He never expects a sinner to join them, a woman who has broken many of the religious laws, so much so that Simon judges her and would never even think about inviting her in. But she comes anyway, and Jesus welcomes her. Instead of recognizing this woman and celebrating the fact that this might be her only chance for redemption, Simon judges her instead—and in doing so, judges Christ: “’If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him—that she is a sinner.’” In one fell swoop, Simon proclaims judgment not just on the woman, but also on Jesus for even acknowledging her. I think it’s important to note here that Jesus doesn’t walk into the house and immediately call Simon out for the sin of not extending hospitality to him. Instead, Jesus waits for Simon to commit the sin of being judgmental all on his own. And then Jesus proclaims judgment—he says,

Simon…Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven, hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.

In saying this, Christ reminds Simon the Pharisee, who deems himself to be the most righteous one around, that judgment and the lack of hospitality are just as much of a sin as any sin the woman has committed. Jesus waits for Simon to commit a sin, then for Simon to make it worse for himself as he calls out someone else for her sin before he ever proclaims a word of judgment on Simon. And Simon never gets it. The woman does, but Simon does not. She knows she has done something wrong and she acts for forgiveness, but Simon doesn’t. He never understands the need to ask or act for forgiveness. And the woman is the one who is proclaimed as faithful, the one who is given peace. Jesus reminds us here to be slow to judge, to recognize our own sin, to be quick to open our hearts and minds and homes to those who are weighed down and shameful and heavy and desperate as they recognize their own sin, as well.

Finally, I don’t think it’s an accident that this story places us around a table, around a feast where folks are invited to eat and drink. Although we are never told who else besides Christ is invited to Simon’s table, we can imagine that it’s the religious leaders like Simon who are invited, the ones who dress like him and speak like him and believe like him. We might imagine that Simon doesn’t invite much dissension or disagreement or diversity to the table. Simon doesn’t want his dinner party to be open and accessible, and he would never take the opportunity to invite those who have been deemed by their community as “sinners” to the feast. And I imagine that most of us, if not all of us, in this room would feel the same way. When I think about the news stories of our last two weeks, I think—I know—I would have a very hard time inviting men who are guilty of violent assault and sexual violence to sit next to me at the table, next to any woman I love at the table, certainly next to my niece at the table. And I certainly couldn’t invite someone who takes his anger our with an assault rifle at my table. I have to acknowledge that my dinner party might look very much like Simon’s because I don’t want to admit that I am a sinner, too. And I certainly don’t want to admit that God’s forgiveness probably extends to the very folks for whom it would be impossible for me to forgive. In a few minutes, we will sing the words, “For everyone born, a place at the table, abuser, abused, with need to forgive.” Those are some pretty tough words to sing.

But, friends, the wonderful, challenging, and awe-inspiring lesson that we learn from our Scripture today is that Christ’s table will always look very different from what our own might look like. As hard as that is to hear, it is very good news for us to hear. The woman knows she has sinned, and sinned greatly, but Christ still welcomes her and welcomes her need for forgiveness and grace. She falls to his feet and weeps on them and cleans them with love, with desperation, with hope-and out of great faith. And she is saved and forgiven, made well and made whole. She is given a new way to live, as our hymn says. She is forgiven and invited to Christ’s table. And so are we. Thanks be to God.

The Shepherd's Voice

Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul.

He leads me in right paths for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley I fear no evil;

for you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;

you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.

John 10:22-30

22 At that time the festival of the Dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, 23 and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. 24 So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, “How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah,[b] tell us plainly.” 25 Jesus answered, “I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me; 26 but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. 27 My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. 28 I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand. 29 What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father’s hand. 30 The Father and I are one.”

“The Shepherd’s Voice”

Five of our UKirk students and I spent last weekend in South Alabama, a lovely weekend on Mobile Bay working with high school students, teaching them and encouraging them to be leaders in their home churches. I was so proud watching our students play and lead games with them, proud watching them help the teenagers plan a lovely worship service to close the weekend. Our keynoter for the weekend, Ray Jones, works with the Presbyterian Mission Agency in our General Assembly offices, and he used much of the 10^th chapter of John’s gospel to talk about how we, as Christians, are called to follow the lead of our shepherd Jesus Christ into the world, to carry Christ’s word and message and love to each other in all that we do.

Ray talked to us about shepherds and their flocks, about how the sheep respond to their leader. Between his keynote to us and some research I’ve done about sheep and their shepherds this week, this city girl has learned a lot. It turns out that sheep and cattle are very different creatures. While cattle are rounded up from behind with the sounds of yells and cracking whips, that doesn’t work with sheep. Sheep need to be led by their shepherd who walks in front of them, guiding them, encouraging them that everything ahead will be ok. The shepherds learn the different noises of their sheep, as any good caretaker would—they know the difference between the sheeps’ cries of pain, cries of hunger, cries of fear. And the sheep learn the voice of their shepherd, responding to that voice and that voice only, quickly able to distinguish between their shepherd’s voice and the voice of a stranger who might walk through the flock talking. It is not uncommon, at the end of the day, for many different flocks of sheep to gather and get mixed up at the same watering and feeding hole. But the shepherds don’t worry when they see this mass of mixed-up sheep. They simply use their own distinct call, their own unique message, to call their sheep—and they sheep are smart enough to hear their own shepherd’s voice, coming together again in their own flock, responding to the voice of their Shepherd.

In his keynote at the retreat, Ray asked us all a very important question: “How do you hear the voice of the Good Shepherd, the voice of Christ in your life? And what keeps you from hearing it? What other voices do you hear?” That question jumps out in our Scripture passages today. During our passage, many folks are gathered in Jerusalem for the feast of the dedication, and Jesus is walking beside them through the temple. They see him there, but still don’t believe what they have been hearing, what he has been telling them-that he is the Messiah. They want a plain, clear answer from Jesus, to hear the news once again because they still, for whatever reason, have a hard time believing it to be true. Growing frustrated at their constant questioning and disbelief, he says to them, “’I have told you, and you do not believe…you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep.’” Get it together, he is telling them-I have led you, I have helped you, I have loved you, but you still refuse to believe that my voice is the true one and what I’m saying is true. “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish.” My sheep hear my voice, and they follow me.

I think this passage and its message have been sadly, sorely misinterpreted over time to say that, once we dare to express doubt in our faith or disbelief in Christ’s word to us, that once we listen to other voices other than Christ’s, that even in those times when we really can’t hear Christ’s voice, that we are kicked out of the flock, not loved or saved by Christ. We are done. There is no hope for life. That we will perish. That is a common conception, but that is not what Jesus says here. I love how Barbara Brown Taylor helps us understand this passage:

…listen to what [Jesus] says. He does not say that we are in or out of the flock depending on our ability to believe, but the exact opposite, in fact. He says that our ability to believe depends on whether we are in out of the flock, and there is every reason to believe that we are in, my woolly friends, if only because we are sitting right here with the flock this morning. If that is the case, then chances are that the way true believers believe is the way most of us believe: valiantly on some days and pitifully on others, with faith enough to move mountains on some occasions and not enough to get out of bed on others…Some days we are as firm in our faith as apostles and some days we are like lost sheep, which means that we belong to the flock not because we are certain of God but because God is certain of us, and no one is able to snatch us out of God’s hand.

Just the fact that we are all here this morning, trying to believe, trying to understand, trying to hear Christ’s message, means that we are part of the flock. It means that we do belong to the Good Shepherd. It means that, although things are not often easy and oftentimes brutal, that we are still being led by Christ, called to make out his voice in the midst of so many other voices in our world. As frustrated as he is with all of those asking questions during that dedication day, Jesus doesn’t say, “Forget this. I’m tired of these persistent questions. I’m done with you.” Instead, he challenges them to listen, to hear his voice in the midst of so many other voices fighting for attention. He challenges them to believe. To be led. And to follow. Just the fact that we are hear this morning means that God’s voice has led us here, that God is certain of us, even when we have no certainty to be found.

The reality of the matter is that we live in a broken and sinful world, one in which there are so many competing voices fighting for our attention. There are the voices of the stress and the stresses of school and work. There are voices telling us that if we don’t make enough money, dress the right way, drive the right car, or have the best house, then we aren’t worthy. There are the voices of events and games and concerts and schoolwork telling us that they are the most important things, that everything else must fall by the wayside. There are the voices constantly found in our news and social media, the ones telling us that if we believe differently, than we are unpatriotic or unchristian or stupid or thoughtless. There are our inner voices, telling us that we aren’t good enough or beautiful enough or worthy enough for love. Those voices are constantly there, telling us that what we want for ourselves is more important than what God wants for us.

Jesus knows that there are so many voices clamoring for our attention, and his message here is one of love, of welcome, a message of a shepherd who wants to lead a flock, who yearns to be heard. In the midst of so many voices in the world fighting for our attention, it is vital that we discover and discern the way to hear Christ’s voice in the world, to constantly challenge ourselves about how to hear the voice of Christ in the clamoring. I asked our students Thursday night how they seek out and hear and discern the voice of Christ in the messiness of the world, when asking questions and making decisions about their lives. They said that they pray and listen and read Scripture, and that they depend on their gut feeling when searching for Christ’s voice. They said that they ask themselves who and what Christ would really give his time and attention to in the world. They said that they look for the work and guidance of the Holy Spirit. They said that they spend a great time in discernment, discovering that they hear Christ’s voice when they feel most at peace in their hearts. That’s something that we all have to discern for ourselves, to discern as a community. We have to ask ourselves every day—how do we hear the shepherding voice of Christ in the world, the voice leading us to wholeness, the voice leading us to love like Christ did in the world?

As I thought about our students and their responses that night, I had a little self-revelation and moment of discernment of my own. I’m about to get a bit personal here, which makes me nervous—but, hey, whenever one of you lovely folks tells me you needed to hear the sermon I just preached, I say, “Thanks. I don’t preach anything I don’t need to hear for myself.” And I mean it, so hear goes. I was in an off and on relationship for a couple of years with a man I deeply loved. For many reasons, the relationship was hard—but I always thought that it would work. I’ve never been more convinced of anything. I don’t think I’ve ever prayed more for discernment in my life during those tough times, to hear the voice of Christ helping me decide whether I should stay or go. But here’s the thing—I only wanted to hear the voice of Christ telling me that it would work, telling me what I wanted to hear, not the voice telling me to walk away even as much as I loved. But I was so wrong, so wrong that the relationship finally ended after I got sick last April. It has been a brutal year since of asking questions about what happened and why. I prayed to hear God’s voice telling me that the relationship would work, and in the year since, I’ve asked God and myself some pretty tough questions.

As I thought about all of this Thursday night, about how we truly hear the shepherd’s voice, I knew that what I wanted—that my voice—was the one I was really hearing. I thought about our reading from John’s gospel, and then I started reflecting on the 23^rd Psalm. As I went over and over it in my head, I finally accepted that the voice telling me to stay in the relationship wasn’t the voice of Christ, as much as I wanted it to be, but instead the voice of my heart, of my yearning, of my hope.

            The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. But I did want. And that want made me yearn for things that only ended up causing me pain.

            He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters. But the grass in the pastures I was walking through was dead, and the waters were dark and stormy and certainly not still.

            The Lord restores my soul. But my soul was dark and damaged and broken.

I was discerning the wrong voice. As we discern the voice of Christ in our lives, in our world, perhaps it’s those questions we need to be asking. Is this voice we hear leading us to wholeness, to the things we need instead of the things we want? Is the voice we hear leading us to open, green spaces instead of dead ones, to still, calm waters instead of stormy, turbulent ones? Is the voice we hear leading us to wholeness, to restoration in our bodies, minds, and souls, instead of being damaged and broken? Is the voice leading us away from fear and towards comfort in God? Is the voice leading us to full, ample tables where we can sit peacefully with all of God’s children—those with whom we might agree and those with whom we might not? Is the voice leading us to create goodness and mercy and justice for all of God’s children and following us through the days of our lives?

Maybe, just maybe, if our answer to those questions is “yes,” then we are discerning the Shepherd’s voice, the voice of Christ in our lives. It is the voice of a God who will leave the rest of the flock to find us, the voice of a God who is certain of us—in those times when we can discern God’s voice in the midst of all the others, and most importantly, especially in the times when we can’t. That is, after all, the message of love found in the cross, found in the great news of Christ’s resurrection. Thanks be to God.

The First Miracle

The First Miracle

2 On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. 2 Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. 3 When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” 4 And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” 5 His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” 6 Now standing there were six stone water jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. 7 Jesus said to them, “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim. 8 He said to them, “Now draw some out, and take it to the chief steward.” So they took it. 9 When the steward tasted the water that had become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), the steward called the bridegroom 10 and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” 11 Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

During my three years of seminary, I held two work-study jobs to help me pay for school. One was pretty boring--I sorted mail every morning into the boxes of students and faculty and staff members. But the other was a bit more interesting. Every Friday, as the seminary community gathered for our chapel service, I set up for our celebration of communion. I placed paraments on the table, placing the bread on the plates, and grape juice and wine in the cups. The fun part of the job, though, was buying the wine, bread, and grape juice—now this was before I realized the joys in different kinds of wines, and I was on a budget—so I usually just bought a jug of white wine at the store that would last for several weeks. I would inevitably walk down the hall in front of the Old Testament class carrying the jug of wine. Some folks would look at me funny, like: “Why is this crazy woman carrying a jug of wine down the hall in front of these Bible classes?” But other folks were more fun: “Where’s the party? What time should I be there?” I always smiled and said something witty like, “The blood of Christ given for you,” or, “Hey, it was the first miracle, after all!” And it was the first miracle, this gift of wine that Jesus gave the wedding goers, gave to all of us—this miracle of water turned into wine, this gift of grace, this sign of welcome at the banquet feast.

In those days, it was customary for wedding celebrations to last for seven days—no honeymooning as is typical today—but a lavish banquet for family and friends filled with purification rituals and food and drink and the best wines available. It was customary for the best wine to be served first, and then the not-so-good wines served as people drank more and wouldn’t necessarily care about quality. The groom’s family served as the hosts, and they cared greatly about hospitality—about making sure their guests were fed and welcomed and cared for.

Maybe the family during this wedding celebration was too busy to notice that the wine was running out, but Mary caught on, knowing that Jesus, the miracle maker, was the one who could do something about it, asking him to help. This is one of my favorite parts of the passage—Mary said to Jesus, “’They have no wine.” His response: “’Woman, what concern is that to you and me? My hour has not yet come.’” And, as Kathy pointed out to us a few weeks ago, Mary, who always lived in the tension that her Son was Lord—but still her child—completely ignored his response and said to the servants, “’Do whatever he tells you.’” They responded, and so did Jesus. He might’ve been the Savior, but he still obeyed his mom.

Jesus saw the jars used for purification and asked that they be filled with water, 6 jars of 20-30 gallons each—not small, and he turned the water into wine. It was his first miracle, according to John, the water turned into wine, the good wine of purification, the good wine that would keep the guests happy and filled, the good wine that would inevitably point them and all of us from the banquet table to the communion table. The party continued, and the guests were filled with joy, happy to be feasting at the table, enjoying life together as a community.

As I was preparing for this sermon this week, I read an interpretation of this wedding feast at Cana, this first miracle, that was so fascinating to me. In the Feasting on the Word series, Robert Brearley suggests that

Sometimes the church has forgotten that our Lord once attended a wedding feast and said yes to gladness and joy. Prompted by his earthly mother, Jesus turned water into wine to point us to his heavenly Father, a God who loves to hear the laughter of people celebrating people. Sometimes the church has forgotten to live the joy of such revelation…God does not want our religion to be too holy to be happy in. Throughout his life and ministry, Jesus of Nazareth celebrated people—people getting married, people being healed of disease and deformity, people enjoying meals together. He carried a spirit of celebration with him wherever he went as he proclaimed a God of mercy and peace and joy. This joyous feast at Cana is still a sign to the church that we are to rejoice in the people of God and to toast the world with the amazing good news of grace.

In talking about this kind of grace, Brearley quotes another pastor, David Steele, who refers to this kind of grace as a spirit of celebration, a spirit called “’Cana-grace,’ the knack for throwing parties that combine food, decorations, music, and laughter to create an atmosphere of welcome, of well-being, and love.”

Cana-grace. I love that—the kind of grace where lavish feasts are set and where people are welcomed, where doors are opened, where food and drink are shared with everyone and there is always enough to go around, for everyone to be fed, for everyone to be filled. Friends, we live in a world, especially in a country, where Christians are often known more for what we’re against than what we’re for, where we are known more for who we’re against than who we’re for, where we commonly live in fear of the other instead of living in the joy of our neighbor, where we are more commonly called “judgmental” than “welcoming,” where folks are turned away from our church doors because of who they are or how they live or who they are called to be. Wouldn’t it be incredible to be known instead as people of Cana-grace, as followers who have been welcomed to the table and invited to the feast? Wouldn’t it be incredible to be known as folks who extend incredible grace and welcome to others because it has first been given to us? Wouldn’t it be incredible to be known as people who have been given liberty from fear and given the gift of life? Wouldn’t it be incredible to truly embody the name by which we are called—CHRISTIANS—to embody the welcome, joy, and love of Christ in all that we say and all that we do?

We so often tend to live in fear, in judgment, in apprehension of the world and its people around us—but through this first miracle, we are called to remember and follow a Christ who, from the beginning of his ministry, said no to fear and darkness, and instead said yes to gladness and joy. We are called to revel in that joy because we have been created by God and redeemed by Christ who lived in joy for all of us. This Cana banquet points us ultimately to Christ’s table, a table of community, a table of welcome, a table of grace, a table where we are reminded of Christ’s life-giving sacrifice for us all. This Cana feast inspires us to live as people of Cana grace, people who revel in a Christ who welcomed and provided for us—and took joy in us. This Cana celebration reminds us to live as people who respond to that welcome and provision by providing welcome and provision for every other single one of God’s children. This first miracle was given for all of those who were invited to that week-long wedding celebration, and this first miracle is given for all of us, who are always invited to the feast of Christ. Thanks be to God. Amen.