When I served my seminary internship in Littleton, Colorado in 2012 and 2013, part of our congregation’s ministry was in partnership with New Beginnings, the congregation inside the Denver Women’s Correctional Facility. I got to know the chaplain there, at the time, an ELCA pastor named Emily. She was the perfect combination of deeply compassionate and tough as nails that I imagine is required for work in an environment as dehumanizing as prison.
One of the most useful things I learned from her was that, in pastoral counseling and especially during conflict mediation, it was required to say “beloved child of God” alongside the name of any person you were talking about.
So if someone was sitting with her, telling her about a disagreement they’d had with someone, they’d have to say, “and then, Casey, beloved child God, said” and go on with the story. You can imagine that, in the heat of the moment, or with the editorializing we might do as we recall a situation, this is difficult to do. And that there are perhaps other names we might want to attach to the people we disagree with.
I have tried to adopt this practice into my own life, whenever I am saying unkind things about someone who has harmed me or someone that I love. It is not meant to erase their harm or excuse their harm, but to remind me that they, too, are a beloved child of God, who receives grace upon grace from the one who created us and calls us good.
In Paul’s letter to the Corinthians this morning, I heard Chaplain Emily.
Paul writes that the same God who gave us life and who gave us every good and perfect gift that comes along with that, gave life and gifts to everyone else. That the people in the community with whom we have disagreements, conflicts, and otherwise strained relationships, are also beloved children of God, with a variety of spiritual gifts that differ from ours.
I see the church at Corinth squirming in their seats, grumbling as the letter is read aloud, perhaps not for the first time, as they struggle to live together in love.
The church at Corinth is a specific group of people from a specific time and place in history, but in this instance, stands in for all of us.
Professor Lincoln E. Galloway writes that “This was a difficult message to hear in a context of divisiveness that may have been based on philosophical differences, socioeconomic status, cultural markers, and competing constructions of the Christian faith.” [1]
It is possible that the different ideas they had about how to be church together were equally good and equally correct and equally faithful. But they had differing ideas, and they’d decided to define each other by those differing ideas, and harm each other with those differing ideas.
Nobody likes to be scolded into reconciling with their sibling. But we do need to acknowledge that sometimes, our differences are not changeable, we will have to agree to disagree, and that diversity of thought and opinion is necessary for our common life.
God is the source of diversity. This does not mean that our differences do not matter, or that we should minimize them in an “I don’t see color” sort of naivety. But rather, we should truly see each other for the beloved children of God that we each are, and collaborate to celebrate our diversity every chance we get.
It is perhaps cliché this morning, on the weekend we commemorate the life of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., to mention the God-given nature of our differences.
Dr. King’s vocation was leading people whose differences had been weaponized against them into the joy of equity and freedom in their belovedness.
Dr. King worked tirelessly to access voting rights for Black Americans, and for the fair wages and protections of labor unions, for the reality of his children to be judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
His dream was not for his children and their children to deny the color of their skin or the history they carried in their bodies, but for that to be a cause for celebration, not oppression. That we might regard each other as siblings, and build a common life together out of joy and abundance, not scarcity and fear.
In the Gospel According to John, Jesus tells us that he came into the world so that we might have life, and have it abundantly.
Professor Elisabeth Johnson writes that “abundant life does not mean a life of ease, comfort, and luxury or an absence of sorrow and suffering. But it does mean that in Jesus we have an abundant, extravagant source of grace to sustain us, grace that is more than sufficient to provide where we fall short and to give us joy even amid sorrow and struggle. Abundant life means that in Christ we are joined to the source of true life, life that is rich and full and eternal, life that neither sorrow, nor suffering, nor death itself can destroy.” [2]
Our Gospel story this morning is about that abundance. Jesus performs the first of many miracles, turning water into wine at a wedding. The physics, the chemistry, the exact “how” of the situation is unknown to us, so we’ll focus on the “why”.
Why does Jesus—after telling his mother that this was not the time—instruct the stewards to fill the ablution jugs with water, and then to draw that water—somehow, now wine—and serve it for the wedding guests’ delight. Does this wine fundamentally alter the guests’ lives? Contribute to their righteousness? Enact justice? Not this miracle, not yet.
The first place the adult Jesus reveals himself to be a worker of wonders, he does so in service of joy. He does so in order to allow a celebration to carry on into the wee hours of the morning. He contributes to more dancing, and more laughing, more sharing of stories, more healing of broken spirits, and more kinship.
Yes, perhaps, in the grand scheme of God’s earth, a wedding ceremony running short of wine is not an emergency. But it is a matter of life.
You probably expected me to say a matter of life and death, because that is the turn of phrase that is common. But in this situation, a wedding—whose, we do not know—is, like every wedding ought to be, a celebration of abundant life.
These people, through their experience of abundant joy, have grown closer to one another and closer to God. Abundant life is about more than surviving, but thriving. It’s about knowing and being known. It is to be so connected to God, to have such an intimate relationship with our Creator, that the giving and receiving never stops. This abundant life is represented by the joy of fine wine at a wedding. [2]
Before we take this image too far, I want to be clear that I do not mean that God insists we must consume a substance to have abundant life.
Alcohol is not a prerequisite for joy, and in many cases, it stands between us and the life God has called us to. In certain circumstances, drunkenness and levity and frivolity can be a source of fun and enjoyment for some people, but very easily, it can be dangerous.
It’s unfortunate that the story here involves alcohol, because that makes it just one degree harder to understand the real miracle. The real miracle is not six jugs of wine that nobody had to pay for.
The miracle is that it is one of God’s priorities that we experience joy together.
This is one of the first ways that God reveals Godself to us through Jesus. This is not a show of power and might, it is not a physical healing, it is not a political change, it is a moment simply of joy.
I wonder if you can remember a recent instance where you felt the presence of God in a moment of joy. These can be small moments, or significant occasions, but either way they connect us to each other and to God. Especially when we can much more easily recount recent instances of frustration, or fear, or grief. And perhaps we struggle to allow ourselves to feel joy, because we are so weighed down by everything else.
This may be going a little rogue in a sermon, but I am going to read you a poem. It is one of my favorites by one of my favorite poets, and when I started writing about joy I realized it was just the thing. It’s called “Don’t Hesitate” and it’s by Mary Oliver.
“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case.
Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.”
Joy is not made to be a crumb, dear ones. Mary Oliver understood this, and Jesus certainly understood this. Jesus will perform many more miracles during his life, and we will read about those in the coming weeks and months. He will go on to restore sight to the blind, to liberate the captive, to let the oppressed go free. He will restore people to their communities. He will show us how to open our doors and lengthen our tables.
But first, very first, before we get to all of that, he shows us what it’s all for. What is it that people cannot see? What is it that people are being excluded from experiencing? What is the abundant life that is possible, when we invite everyone in? Connection is for everyone. Kinship is for everyone. Community is for everyone. Healing is for everyone.
We know this because Jesus has shown us. Jesus has revealed himself to be about the work of transformation—both literal and figurative. His life and ministry usher in a new era, where justice rolls down like water, and righteousness like a mighty stream. Where we are all called beloved. Where we are all welcome at the table. Where we all know the truth, and the truth sets us free.
Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
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[1] Lincoln E. Galloway, “Second Sunday After the Epiphany” in Preaching God’s Transforming Justice: Year C, 62-66.