Sermon – Wedding in Cana

( I preached this sermon at Christ Lutheran Church in Harrisburg, PA on January 11, 2026. The audio link is here.)

Let’s get this straight – John’s Gospel starts with some abstract deep thinking sounding verbiage.  Then we hear Jesus’ call of his disciples through the urgent call to action – “come and see.”  And then Jesus first act comes here in John 2 at a wedding.  

Which is why this story is almost laughable.

This is how John starts the Gospel?

Not with power. Not with confrontation. Not with a grand display of authority.

But with a quiet act at a wedding.

Turning water into wine.

An act that pushes attention away from Jesus. An act that only impacts a small group of people. An act that most of the guests probably don’t even fully notice—because, let’s be honest, many of them are already drunk.

This is the antithesis of a power move.

And that’s exactly the point.

John is not just showing us what Jesus can do.

John is showing us who Jesus is.

To understand what’s really happening here, we have to remember what else is happening in the world while this wedding is going on.

Israel is under Roman occupation.

People are being taxed into poverty. Violence is always close at hand. The empire demands loyalty, fear, and obedience.

And the temple—the very place that is supposed to embody God’s justice and mercy—has become entangled with that empire. It’s benefiting from collaboration. It’s doing the dirty work. It’s helping maintain the oppressive status quo.

This is not a peaceful or neutral moment in history.

And that is what makes the wedding so important.

Because a wedding, in this context, is not escapism.

It’s resistance.

Empire wants every gathering to be about it—its threats, its demands, its urgency, its version of reality. Empire wants your attention at all times.

But a wedding refuses that.

A wedding says: today is not about Rome. Today is about two people choosing life together. Today is about family and community. Today is about food, laughter, music, dancing, joy.

Empire runs on fear, anger, conquest, and control. A wedding runs on love, relationship, and the stubborn belief in a future and hope.

This wedding doesn’t overthrow Rome.

It does something far more dangerous.

It ignores Rome.

And that brings us to John’s gospel itself.

John tells this story in a way that feels almost frustratingly slow. There’s no rush. There’s no sense of urgency. There’s dialogue. There’s delay. There’s silence. There’s waiting.

That alone makes John deeply countercultural.

Because we live in a world that is constantly accelerating. Crisis after crisis. Outrage after outrage. Power flooding the zone so fast that we can’t keep up, can’t think, can’t respond.

That’s not an accident. That’s how domination works.

But John refuses to let empire set the tempo.

John slows everything down.

And here’s the striking thing about this story: empire is doing what empire does—and it’s as if John has forgotten about it entirely.

Not because empire isn’t real. Not because oppression doesn’t matter.

But because empire does not get to define what is most important.

Instead, John focuses on something that seems insignificant.

A wedding.

Running out of wine.

A quiet, almost invisible act of generosity.

This is Jesus’ first sign.

And it has no obvious political implications. No public recognition. No immediate impact beyond this small community.

Which should tell us something about how Jesus understands power.

Now, this is usually where people start getting uncomfortable.

Because whenever joy shows up in the Bible—especially embodied joy—someone feels the need to explain it away.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard people argue that Jesus didn’t actually make wine here. That it must have been grape juice. That Jesus wouldn’t really do something like that.  That Jesus would never participate in getting people drunk. 

The mental, theological, ideological, and semantic gymnastics required to make this story say what some people want it to say rather than what it actually says are honestly impressive.

And revealing.

Because what’s really happening isn’t about alcohol.

It’s about control.

It’s about protecting an already-established worldview at all costs.

We see this same logic everywhere.

We saw it almost immediately after the ICE shooting in Minneapolis this week—the hoops people jumped through to defend what they already believed.

I see it every time conversations about women in ministry get derailed into prooftexts, dress codes, and titles—anything to avoid actually engaging the substance of the topic.

Some people just aren’t interested in conversation. They’re interested in being right and winning.  

And there is always a psychological bottom line that must be protected.

That way of thinking is deeply shaped by empire.

Because empire teaches us that control matters more than compassion, and correctness matters more than community.

Jesus refuses that framework.

Look closely at what Jesus actually responds to in this story.

There is no emergency. No one is dying. No moral crisis. No theological debate.

Just this:

“They have no wine.”

The need is not survival.

The need is joy.

The need is for the celebration to continue.

The need is for life—not merely to endure, but to be shared.

And Jesus steps in.

Quietly. Without spectacle. Without credit.

He takes water meant for purification—water tied to religious systems that divide clean from unclean—and turns it into wine meant for delight.

Not cheap wine. Not barely-enough wine.

Abundant wine.

The good stuff.

This is not indulgence.

This is revelation.

This is a foretaste of the feast to come.

Which matters deeply in John’s gospel—where Jesus will later say that his flesh is real food and his blood real drink, and where the last meal will carry the weight of everything that comes after.

From the very beginning, John is telling us: God’s future is not scarcity.

God’s future is abundance.

And that brings us to us.

Because if joy and humanity are how Jesus resists empire, then they are also how we are called to resist what is killing us now.

And this is where it gets harder.

Because seeing the humanity of those we love is easy.

Seeing the humanity of ourselves—especially when we are tired, afraid, or ashamed—is already harder.

But Jesus pushes us even further.

We are called to see the humanity of those we call our enemies.

And let me be very clear about what this is not.

This is not a call to pretend that everyone agrees. This is not a fantasy where we all just get along. This is not ignoring real differences around morality, power, violence, or harm.  And it’s not a call to put oneself in harm’s way with people who have every intent on hurting you or what you represent. 

Seeing someone’s humanity does not mean excusing what they do. It does not mean giving up on truth. It does not mean abandoning accountability.

It means refusing to let dehumanization have the final word.

And if you want a very human picture of that, just think about this wedding.

Do you really think everyone at this wedding agreed with each other?

Do you think politics never came up at the reception? Do you think religion wasn’t argued about? Do you think family tensions magically disappeared—especially once the wine started flowing?

A wedding brings together all kinds of people. Different beliefs. Different loyalties. Different wounds.

And yet, in the middle of all that difference, there is a deeper unity.

Everyone is there for the couple. Everyone is there because life is being celebrated. Everyone is there because a future is being claimed.

That’s not sameness. That’s shared humanity.

And that is exactly what Jesus refuses to let empire destroy.

Which is why in the very next chapter of John’s Gospel we will hear John the Baptist say of Jesus, “He is the bridegroom.”

No wonder this gospel begins with a wedding.

John is preparing us to see who Jesus really is.

The bridegroom who gathers a broken, divided, imperfect people. The bridegroom who invites us—not because we agree, not because we are pure, not because we are right—but because we belong.

This is not naïve unity.

This is covenantal joy.

And it is resistance.

Jesus is certainly fully divine.  But he is also human.  And in this story Jesus listens to his humanity.  

And he invites us to do the same.

Which is why joy, celebration, and worship matter so deeply.

Because worship is resistance.

In worship, we hear good news preached to the poor. In worship, we are reminded that we are not alone. In worship, we hear that we are loved by God, that we matter, that there is hope, and that hope has a future.

In worship, we learn that peace is not a destination we arrive at, but a way of living we practice. That the wholeness, justice, right‑relationship of shalom is what a healthy community looks like.

In worship, we tell the truth about what is, both individually and collectively. We confess. And then we hear words we desperately need: you are forgiven.

In worship, we share the peace by breaking down barriers so that nothing stands between us and communion with one another.

And in communion, we gather as one body. Not as perfect people. Not as people who have it all together.

But as people who come hungry, seeking joy.  

This is a party.

A holy one.

And it is resistance.

Because it tells a different story than empire ever could.

Because we are living under forces that are once again trying to strip people of their humanity through fear, through cruelty, through rigid ideology, through Christian nationalism, fascism, toxic individualism, and unchecked greed.

And here’s the hard truth:

We are not going to out–fact-check this moment.

That road leads nowhere.

Jesus doesn’t respond to empire by arguing harder or reacting faster.  He doesn’t take on the methods of empire either.

He responds by being fully human.

By centering relationships. By feeding people. By celebrating life. By refusing to let joy be stolen.

Weddings aren’t about being right. They aren’t about conquering. They aren’t about power.

They are about love. Community. Future. And new life.  

They are the antithesis of empire.

And that is exactly where Jesus chooses to show up.

Jesus’ first sign is not power over demons.

It’s the power to keep the party going.

And that is not small.

In a world obsessed with fear, control, and urgency…joy is resistance.

Community is resistance.

Love is resistance.

And Jesus is already there, quietly making sure there’s enough.

Thanks be to God.