Travels with John

I am reading straight back through the Gospel of John early in the morning these days. It's my second time this summer. I finished it once and paged right back to the start and savored the opening again: in the beginning was the Word. There are some books of Scripture  I want to learn as I would the mind and soul of a beloved friend; with concentrated and affectionate attention.I want their narrative to shape the story of my own days, their words to form my sight of the world. Isaiah is one of those. The Psalms. And definitely John. John's Gospel is a luminous book. The other Gospel writers seem to tell the story more from the outside in, relating the miracles, the teaching, those high and holy days of Jesus' life from the viewpoint of what was seen. John tells it from this inside. He tells what it means. At least that's the sense I get as I read. I feel often that he had an interior room within himself, a place where the Beloved spoke with him. From there he looked out on the spectacle and brilliance of what happened in Jesus' life and perceived, not just the events, but the meaning of each, the great Reality unveiling itself in each action, word, and miracle. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us...

The first time through this book I became aware of a certain theme in John's storytelling; the way that Jesus invaded sacred or traditional spaces and retold their meaning with his words. He walked straight into days and spaces like the temple, the Sabbath, a Samaritan well, and by his words, his narration you could say, cleansed them of the fear and false law that had obscured the living presence of God within them. Take, for instance, the cleansing of the temple, the significance of the statement, "don't make my Father's house a place of business," as if grace could be bought and sold, as if God's favor were an object for which we could barter. Clean out, not just the doves and coins and dirt, but the assumptions that attend their presence, the consumer idea of salvation. In the cleansing of the temple, Jesus was renewing not just the physical spaces, but the ideas of the people who inhabited them.

Because of this realization, on my second read-through of John, I encountered the story of the wedding at Cana in a whole new way. And it rather stole my breath. I had always assumed this first miracle ought to be special in some way. This was the first flung challenge in the darkness, a sword of light unsheathed as Messiah began his unconventional conquest of men's hearts. But the whole thing, if simply read straight through, is somewhat underwhelming. What's more, I've rarely heard this story taught with any sense of excitement. Maybe its simply my own perception, but I feel that we often view this first miracle as a practice run, the flexing of Jesus' miraculous fingers on insignificant wine before the real work of healing began. A divine token to mark the first try.

But early the other morning as I read this story for the second time in a month, read it with a mind not hurried, but willing to savor, I saw anew. I saw, I think, as John meant me to see, the way in which this story is is the prelude to the epic of the gospel, an embodied poem that told the tragedy of the world and hinted at a coming eucatastrophe. There is meaning, I think, in each word and action of this almost peripheral miracle. For it is the story of the very world told within the tale of a rural wedding feast. A feast that Messiah was about to save.

For in the beginning, not just of Jesus' ministry, but in the making of the very world he had come to save, there was a wedding. Body and soul, God and man, a joyous joining that was a feast of existence put on by God himself and called life. Joy was the order of existence. Laughter the beat of heart and gladness the thrum of the very earth. The wedding that was creation was meant to inaugurate a world of love, of harmony, of continuous new creation. But the feast was shattered by sin and the marriage  brought to the very brink of collapse. The wine of life ran short, and it was us, God's beloved who spilled it out, wasted his gift so that our own lives ran suddenly short. And the wedding feast of the world brought into being a whole human race of broken hearts.

But God was not a husband to be so easily defeated. No lover He, to be so quickly cast aside. The ages of the earth marched on and it seemed that the feast was  ended, the joy forever disrupted, the wine run short. But God never abandoned his Beloved. The feast was delayed, but by his own love it would be renewed, for even as we wept, he was planning the great gift that would save the wedding and cause the wine to freely flow again. The gift was himself, bundled up in flesh and blood, invading the earth so that he could take the hands and hold the heart of his beloved again. And when he came, the event he chose to announce his arrival?

A wedding feast. There was Jesus, the answer to the broken heart of the world. Just one more young man at a rural wedding party, he sat amidst a broken people and knew that he was the answer to every yearning of their hearts. The host and maker of the universe, if they but knew it, was the unassuming guest at a marriage that would become the event to announce the reconciliation of the world. All was set. The story was about to be renewed, the miracle announced.

I love it that Mary set the story in motion. She saw the lack of wine and she knew the shame at stake. But I think her insight carries a larger understanding. Perhaps in Mary's remarkable heart was a sense of the symbolism of that moment. She was the human mother of God, more aware than any other human on earth of what had come, what dwelt so silently among the fallen and was about to be revealed. Perhaps when she confronted her Son with the disaster, she knew she was speaking of a larger lack, speaking to the deepest void in the human heart when she said, "the wine has run short."

Jesus, in a voice I fully believe was playful and grave at once, says, "what is it to me?" A lively challenge. A parry and thrust, a question that could be our devastation if she really had to answer. For in the end, what ought it be to God? God gave humankind the world and we, the Beloved, cast it away. We flung his love back in his face and by our own choice squandered life itself. We are a band of impossible ingrates forever choosing against the one lover in all the world whose great affection gave us our being. What is it to God? Why should he stoop to save us from disaster?

But the mother of God knows, and I can almost see her steady eyes in that face shaped by a lifetime of "pondering these things." This woman who has known the Holy Spirit and borne the baby God into the world knows that this is everything to God. For Jesus stands before her. Messiah came. If this weren't everything to God her Son would never have been born. She smiles and turns.

"Do exactly what he says," she tells the servants. And her words are an affirmation of faith in the action and grace of her God. He has come and he will save. Despite the stupidity of his Beloved, the fallen hearts, the corrupted loves, he has come to renew the feast, to save the marriage. We will be healed if we do what He commands and believe in the love of the great, redeeming Bridegroom.

Jesus, smiling I feel sure, acts. He points to six great vats set aside for... what? Ritual cleansing. Vats set aside to hold the water that has been our attempt to make ourselves enough before God, to keep the wine of mercy from running short. Throughout the long ages of sorrow, we have struggled toward God, reached for the mercy he still offered. Humankind has always attempted to become enough, to keep life and love and joy alive. But the wine always fails. And now, those symbols of man's struggle and man's failure to ever be clean or enough, the perennial symbol of his "fallen shortness" are what Jesus chooses for his first miracle.

"Fill them with water," he commands. Let them brim afresh at his command. "Then," he says, "take a dipper full to the steward and let him taste."

And the water is turned to wine. Because Jesus has come, the struggle is going to end, the thirst will be slaked, the wedding feast of the world will swing back into being and it will be a revelry such as the world has never seen. Because of the coming of Jesus, the wine of life will never run short again. The sign has been accomplished, the first miracle flung, the first note of celebration sounded. Jesus goes quietly back to his seat, meets the beaming glance of his mother, and knows that his doom, and his glory, have at once begun. With his own life he will stay the shame of the world, save his bride and renew the wedding feast.

"You have saved the best for last," sputters the astonished steward, stumbling up to the wedding party, holding out a wine finer than any he has tasted in his life.

And the best One in the world sits quietly amidst his people. Mary grasps the arm of her son, feels the pulse of his warm, sweet, human blood, touches the skin that houses God himself and knows that the wedding of the world has been restored. Perhaps she aches as well, knowing somehow that the wine required for this restoration is the blood of her son. But its giving is the seal of an eternal love, a marriage that never again will be broken. The feast begins anew, never now to end. The final word of the great lover God, the best word, is Jesus. And the wine of life will never run short again.

See what John is teaching me?

To Sally, the Valiant (and Beloved)

Dear Mom, We just don't seem able to manage a Mother's Day together, do we? Well. In your absence and decidedly in your honor, I have a story to tell. Perhaps you'll think it an odd one for a tribute to your motherhood. A workaday tale it may be, but in my mind it is a bright, unfading gem. For what you gave me one Texas morning almost twenty years ago remains a grace that forms the bedrock of my heart. Memories don't get much better than that, odd or not. Here goes.

I stood with munchkin nose pressed hard against the back door glass. Outside, the skies tumbled and fought, the rain fell in torrents for the fifth day, and the roar of newborn creeks called me even through the panes. Behind me, you gathered books and pencils for a morning of school work, switching on the lamps to battle the outdoor gloom. But even as you did, the boys slipped beside me, glued their noses to the window too and when you called we turned three small, grieved faces away from a world that seemed tailor made for splashing and exploration.

"Aww Mom," we groaned, timid but yearning for that alluring realm beyond, "can't we just go outside and explore today?"

I still remember my startlement at your "yes." The way you were silent for a second, took a deep breath, pushed the books aside, and put your hands on your hips.

"Old shoes and old clothes on before you go," you ordered and we hastened for our gear, grabbing boots and jackets, hearts pattering in elation at this wholly unexpected day. We were back in two minutes, and behold, so were you. A tiny jolt touched my heart at sight of you decked in scuffed shoes and old jeans, intent upon joining our expedition. I hadn't expected that; the Queen would lead the adventure, a queen who would also wash the several loads of muddy clothes resulting, mop up our bootprints on the kitchen floor, and defend our bedraggled state to my grandmother when we returned. But I was too little to know all of that. All I knew was that your presence hallowed the adventure. And ah, there was so much we longed to show you.

Out we tromped into a world all a-whisper, the air tingling with rain, the sky swift and changeful as the rivulets below. In an ecstasy of abandon we jumped in every puddle to be had within the first ten feet, twirled and whooped and ran all out, limbs loose and swinging, to the pasture gate that led to the flooded tank. There the real drama awaited, a real flood down by the giant oak, now up to his waist in new-made rivers.

"Come on Mom!" we screeched above the roar of the water, picking our way through the mud of the old cattle-trails, ducking beneath cedar branches and wintered vines. You came. Smiling, eyebrows arched in interest at every fossil we pointed out, every yell of false-alarm when a branch turned out not to be a snake. You came right into the streams, splashed us with the cold, swift water, and when we eyed the swiftest torrent with daring, hungry eyes, you nodded your permission. In we went, right up to our short little waists, fighting against the current in an overjoyed grapple with the one joyous fact of the water.

I remember that for one instant I looked back at you. Already in the current, I turned and sought your face. I was a little in awe that you would let us dare the flood. I was proud that you were there to see us do it. And if I was also a little afraid of the torrent, well, I had you at my back. You caught my eye. And to this day I cannot forget the glint of fun that blazed in your glance. Then the slight nod of reassurance that told me I would never be out of your sight. Then the smile, like a whisper between those who know the great camaraderie of adventure. I laughed. And dove straight in.

And that Mom, is one of the clarion moments for which I will thank you all my days.

For in that instant you gave me your own heroic view of life. I know now that courage was always your mark. You were a dreamer; lover of the underdog, a missionary in communist Poland, a writer, a teacher, daring in faith and fierce in friendship. And even when three squirmy children invaded your life, you kept that courage strong. You brought it right into your motherhood and determined that we should learn it too. That rainy day adventure was a lesson in valor, in gladness, in dreams. You wanted your children to taste the haunting grace of the world, so you freed us to heed the cry of the rain. You knew that danger is always close, so you came too. You knew that life is full of risk, so when we met the dare of the water, you let us hope, and reach, and try, and you taught us the boldness with which this thing called life must be met.

Only now, grown up as I am with the demons of oughts and shoulds ever breathing down my neck do I understand the import of the choice you made that morning. You could have said no. You could have resolutely shut that door, glared down our yearning little hearts, rebuked our impractical imaginations. You could have insisted on an ordinary day and a checklist of chores. But you saw that our hearts were ripe for the forming. You saw that holy hunger for far horizons, you saw our need to try, to dare, to reach for something just beyond our grasp. So you opened the door. Be bold, said your eyes, be joyous. Be brave with my blessing.

But you also gave us yourself. Your presence was the strength at our back, your laughter the song that sent us leaping through the rain. You stood there on the creek bank, eagle-eyed, cheerful, strong, and the sight of you glimpsed through the splash and rain sent a courage like blood pulsing through our veins. We tried all the harder because you were there. We dared because we knew you would await us at the end. And when we tromped home, gloriously wet and utterly exhausted, it was you who sat us by the fire, brewed the cocoa, and lingered with us in the flickering light. Your interest made us heroes. We told of the current that nearly got us, the branch that nearly broke, the newest fossil found, and it was your admiring words that turned us into knights at battle's end, triumphant and ready to fight again.

To know that life is a great quest is one thing. To be given the love to meet it is another altogether. You, my precious mother, gave us both.

Courage in living and love that does not fail -  these themes defined my childhood. That one bright day was a note in a larger song. When life was dark, you lit candles. When times were grim, you made a feast (even if it was only homemade bread and cheese). When the battle I faced was doubt of God, you looked me in the eye and said "He's bigger than your doubts." But then you took my hand; "don't worry, I'll have faith for you until yours lives again." When sickness came, when friendships failed, you challenged me to write, to love, to hope with every fibre of my being. When Oxford seemed a dream beyond all grasping, you said "just try." And when once there, I thought for sure my essays would be flops, you ordered me to take a good long walk, drink tea, and "give it one more go."

Meet the battle and face it with a song. Light a candle and lay a feast in the very teeth of darkness. Dare, always, to try once more. To love again. That's what you taught me.

So here's to you beloved and valiant mother o' my heart. You make me think of Tennyson's line in Ulysses, "we are, one equal temper of heroic hearts." To have shared your heart and learned your courage is a gift that will follow me all my days. I hope I learn to be as brave as you.

Happy Mother's Day.

Love,

Sarah