Celebration and delight
Clare L. Hickman
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Ferndale
January 16, 2022—Epiphany 2C
Isaiah 62:1-5; John 2:1-11
It used to be that your name told people something very concrete about you. What city you came from: as with Leonardo Da Vinci. Whose child you were: as with anyone named, for instance, Johnson, whose name tells us that way back in their family line, there was a son of a man named John. Or the job you did: Baker, Miller, Fisher, Smith … the list goes on.
Some cultures get even more descriptive, giving names that not only locate someone socially, but also describe talents, habits, or personality traits. Those of us with European background have some hazy “Dances with Wolves” idea of the way this happens in Native American tribes. But we have direct examples of the way that the Biblical Hebrew people did this. In the Bible, people’s names tell us something about who they are, about their life story. Adam means “earth.” Isaac’s name comes from the root of “to laugh,” because Sarah laughed when she heard she would bear a child in her old age. Jacob’s original name means “one who supplants,” to describe his constant battle with his twin, Esau; then later, after his struggle on the banks of the river Jabbok, he is also named Israel: “one who strives with God.”
Names tell the tale, and they set the stage. They describe who people are; but
surely they also shape a person’s life. If you are a Miller, after all, you are raised to grind grain, not make horseshoes. Just so, if your nickname from childhood has been Eeyore, it might well be difficult to shift to a more positive energy. Not only do you need to alter your own habits, but other people’s expectations of you: the name they know you by.
The Biblical model is useful in this, actually. Because the names change a lot, as realities shift, and through it all, we see the hand of God shaping those realities. In Isaiah today, we hear just such a story. “…you shall be called by a new name that the mouth of the LORD will give. You shall be a crown of beauty in the hand of the LORD, and a royal diadem in the hand of your God. You shall no more be termed Forsaken, and your land shall no more be termed Desolate; but you shall be called My Delight Is in Her….” (Isa 62:2a-4).
It is a tale of restoration after a long period of suffering. It is God speaking salvation and transformation to a people who had perhaps long given up hope. Who had resigned themselves to desolation. Who had decided that they must surely deserve to be forsaken.
So late, the voice came. Too late, for some of them. And yet … it came. A new name, a new life. One that would come with its own hardships, and the many challenges of living into a new self. But still, one in which they understood themselves as forgiven and reclaimed by God.
Which is cause, we see, for an overflowing delight! Our gospel, too, brings us a similar story of joy. In this season after the Epiphany, when we explore the idea of God being made manifest, active, and visible in this world, we are given the story of Jesus’ first sign in the gospel of John. And it’s not a story about healing a leper, or exorcising a demon, or some other extremely religious-looking activity: rather, it is simply a story about celebration and delight.[1]
How does that feel, to imagine that enjoyment might be a sign of God’s presence? To hear that God does not simply wish obedience and restraint from us, though we might need both. To hear that God does not even want merely to bind up our wounds, though our wounds might be deep. But to hear that God wants even more for us than that. God longs to bring us all the way to delight.
Imagine, if you will, that wedding feast. It’s been a great party, but more people showed up than even the hosts could have hoped, and the wine is running low. Or perhaps the family is of limited means, and they simply don’t have enough money to provide the hospitality that’s expected of them. The hospitality they wish to offer. And so Mary tells Jesus it’s time he shows everyone who he really is: it’s time for him to give everyone a glimpse of God’s kingdom breaking in.
He transforms the water into wine, so that the celebration can continue. Good wine. Wine that makes the steward exclaim that they’ve saved the best for last. It is generosity beyond what it needs to be. It is a gift that arrives long past the point that anyone had thought it would arrive.
Delightful!
This past week, my spiritual director invited me to imagine Jesus plunging his arms into those big jars of water, blessing the water as we do the water for baptism: stirring it up … actually getting wet in the process! There is an intimacy, she suggested, in this process of transformation, that parallels the intimacy that happens when we invite Jesus to transform us.
Which then leads us to imagine how God might be made manifest in our lives. Even if we’ve reached a point where it feels like things are winding down. When we’ve been asked for more than we had to give. When we’re tired, and drained, and old. And so maybe we think the party’s over, and God’s done with us.
But then Jesus walks through. Jesus, whose very nature is to enter in, plunging his arms deep into the water jug, transforming everything (everyone) he encounters. To give us new names. Here, to open up avenues of delight and awaken joy. To assure you that there is still celebration and fellowship and generosity within you.
Because God is never, never done. And maybe He has a new name for you, ready to be brought out. And maybe he has a new name for us, the people of St. Luke’s, as Jesus moves in our midst, bringing us gifts that are more generous than necessary, to transform us into something that we could never have expected. May it be so, Amen.
[1] Karoline Lewis, Sermon Brainwave podcast, episode 824. “Second Sunday after Epiphany (Ord. 2C) – January 16, 2022.”