Sermon — February 9, 2025

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

From time to time, when I’m just walking down the street, or halfway through getting a haircut; when I bump into a postal worker on the street, or someone calls to ask about a wedding, I’m asked a certain: “What are you again?” As in, “What do I call you?” Are you a priest? A pastor? A minister? Father? Reverend? Greg? And I often give the useless answer, “Yes!” Yes, I’m a priest, albeit not a Roman Catholic priest. Yes, I’m the pastor of this church. And yes, of course, I’m a minister. To most people that’s what “minister” means: an ordained clergy person in some kind of Protestant church.

But in its most basic sense, “ministry” means “service.” And the Episcopal Church believes that all of us, ordained clergy or not, are called to serve. And so if you turn in the Book of Common Prayer to our Catechism, as I’m sure you often do—You’ll find that when it asks, “Who are the ministers of the Church?” the answer is, “The ministers of the Church are lay persons, bishops, priests, and deacons.” (Nice order, right?) Clergy aren’t the only ones who serve the Church and the world. Laypeople have their own essential ministry: to bear witness to Christ wherever they may be; to carry on Christ’s work of reconciliation in the world; and to take their part in the life, worship, and governance of the Church.

You’re doing it right now! This is “life and worship.” In fact, if you stay for Annual Meeting, that’s “governance” checked off, too. And while I’ll do more than my fair share of talking, the Annual Report is full of shorter reports that reflect our ministry, not my ministry. And there are also many ways in which each one of us serves the world that will never be captured in an Annual Report—ways that we may never have thought of as “ministries” before.

And so I want you to think. How is it that you try to love people in this world? How is it that you participate in God’s work of reconciliation? And what rings true for you, in what I’m about to say about the Gospel, about what your ministry is like?

I see three miniature moments of what ministry is like, inside the church and outside it, in the Gospel today.

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First, we see Jesus navigating the dynamic of distance and closeness in his work. Jesus stands on the beach, trying to teach to a crowd. He’s down, on their level, and he can only see maybe ten or fifteen faces in front of him. He can only talk to a few at a time. The physics of sound mean that those who are closer in will block his voice from those who are further away. “The crowd is pressing in,” Luke says, (5:1) and I almost get the sense of Jesus being pushed closer and closer to the water’s edge, as the hubbub of those trying to get closer to hear completely drowns out anything that he’s trying to say.

Have you ever felt this way? Is the urgent noise of the world ever so loud that you can’t hear yourself think? Does the crowd of urgent tasks ever press in so close that you cannot see the big picture? Even if your calendar is more empty than full, even if what’s crowding in on you are your own thoughts, it’s just the same. Our ability to love and serve other people well can be drowned out by a thousand small demands.

So Jesus steps back. He boards a boat. And from up there on the deck, he can see the crowd in a new way. He can speak and be heard. But he needs to take that step back, to give himself a little from the people he’s trying to serve, in order to be heard by them at all. And I think that this is an important skill, for any of us who try to serve: sometimes we need to step back, in order to really engage.

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The second scene captures a very different feeling: the sudden lurch from unfortunate scarcity to dangerous abundance. Jesus finishes teaching, and tells Simon to head out from the shore to deeper waters, and to cast his nets. They’ve been fishing all night, and they haven’t caught a thing. That’s not good. But it’s not the end of the world. If you spend one night on the boat and catch no fish, you’re not going to starve. A month, or a year with no fish, that’s trouble. But one night? That’s just annoying.

A day with too many fish is actually a bigger problem. Simon starts to catch so much that the nets are going to break. If you break your nets, you have no fish, and no nets; you’ve only got what you managed to salvage from the catch, and some serious capital expenditures ahead. So the other boat comes to help them out. But now the problem’s even worse. Now there are so many fish that the boats begin to sink—and they’ve gone out to the deep water and there’s a pretty good chance that none of these guys can swim. The miracle seems worse than the problem to me.

I think this has a lesson for us, too. We often work for a long time, with relatively little in return. And then there comes a time when everything happens all at once, and it can almost be too much. Our lives are organized for the everyday and not for great success, and sometimes, if we can’t handle the sudden opportunity, we just don’t miss out on something good—we sink the boat.

This is true for churches that are growing, as they try to make sure that newer members feel welcomed, and no one slips through the cracks. It’s true for nonprofits, like the Clothes Closet, trying to navigate the huge volume of donations people want to make. It’s true, I think, for many parents, who spend so much of their time bouncing from good thing to good thing that, even though each individual activity or event is wonderful on its own, it’s hard to keep your head above the water. When our nets are so full of fish that our boats begin to sink, it can begin to feel like too much of a good thing.

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And so we come to my final, favorite scene. Peter—dear, dear Peter—is amazed. And he throws himself down at Jesus’ knees, and says, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” (5:8) Now, the main benefit of having a Rector who is learned in Greek is that you get to hear the funny parts of the Bible more clearly than you do in translation, and this is an important one: strictly speaking, Peter doesn’t “fall down at” Jesus’ knees, he “falls toward” them. It reminds me of an ancient posture of distress, that you find in Homer’s epic poems, among other places, in which a person would throw himself down and clasp the knees of someone else in supplication. I like to picture the scene that way: “Go away from me, Lord! I am a sinful man!” Peter says, falling toward Jesus’ knees. “If I went away from you, Peter, I would fall down,” I imagine Jesus thinking. “You’re holding onto my legs.” But what does Jesus say instead? “Be not afraid. From now on you will be fishers of men.”

Peter feels, as many of us have, a sense of inadequacy when confronted with the task at hand, and the abundance of God’s grace. How could I be enough for this situation, in which God has placed me? How could I be enough to do this work, to which God has called me? How could I be enough to deserve the amazing gifts that God has given me? Or, in the inmost thought of every parent ever sent home from the hospital with their first-born child, “Are you really going to send us alone home with this?” Get away from me! I’m not enough for this!

And yet God draws us in with the great paradox of grace. God’s goodness and perfection draw us closer, however inadequate and imperfect we may feel. And God doesn’t punish us for loving and serving one another imperfectly. God gives us even greater gifts: “From now on, you will be fishers of men.”

So maybe you wrote one of those Annual Reports. Maybe not. Maybe you’re just passing through today. But whoever you are, you are as much a minister as I am—God has some way for you to love and to serve, some way for you to bear witness to Christ, wherever you may be.

And when you find yourself serving, when you find yourself doing your best to love the people you find around you, I pray that you may have the space to step back from the shore onto the boat and take a breath; that when your nets begin to overflow, you do not sink; and that, no matter how much you may feel that you are not enough, you fall not away from but toward the God who trusts you and who is inviting you into even greater things. Amen.

Sermon — February 2, 2025

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

“This child is destined… to be a sign that will be opposed
so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—
and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” (Luke 2:34–35)

The next two weeks on the calendar are full of excitement. Next Sunday, the Kansas City Chiefs and the Philadelphia Eagles will duke it out for the title of Super Bowl Champions, just hours after we conclude our—hopefully less-hotly-contested—Annual Meeting. Later that week, on Friday the 14^th, we’ll celebrate the most popular day in the Church’s calendar of saints, when the Episcopal Church, always eager to remain in touch with the culture, observes the Feast Day of Saints Cyril and Methodius, known of course for their invention of the Glagolitic alphabet used to transcribe Old Church Slavonic. I guess some of us will be celebrating Saint Valentine’s Day, too. Then, a few days later, it’s Presidents’ Day. And of course, we kick it all off this morning with a holiday that’s not as well-known as the rest: the Presentation of Jesus Christ in the Temple, sometimes known as the Purification of Mary, and popularly as Candlemas—the day when, forty days after Jesus’ birth, Mary and Joseph bring him to the Temple.

The Church and the world rank the importance of these days in different ways. So, for example, polls show that in a typical year, more Americans are interested in the Super Bowl than in Valentine’s Day, or even than Saints Cyril and Methodius. Church annual meetings are relatively low in the cultural order of priorities, and in this country, at least, Candlemas isn’t very well known.

For the Church, things are the other way around. The Presentation is a major feast. The Annual Meeting is a canonical requirement. Saints Cyril and Methodius don’t have the most devoted followings, but we don’t even list Saint Valentine on our official calendar of saints. While we always pray for the President and the leaders of the world, we don’t observe Presidents’ Day as a holy day; and of course, Super Bowl Sunday isn’t really a religious event, although many prayers will be offered, I’m sure.

But  there’s something that unites this wildly disparate sets of religious and secular occasions, something that draws them all together, nevertheless: each one of these days provides us with an example of the vulnerability that comes from love.

This year, there will be many people whose Valentines are sick or gone, or someone whom they haven’t yet found, but wish they had. This year, there will be Annual Meetings all around the country where congregations will grapple with the reality that the community of worship that they love can no longer be sustained—not ours, this year, thank God. There will be grown adults who cry on Super Bowl Sunday—in joy, but also in despair. Presidents’ Day can be hard, in its own way, for those who love this country and its traditions of government. These days express our love, in many different ways, and anything that we love has the potential to cause us pain.

That’s what speaks to me this morning about our Gospel reading. It’s not the ritual of purification that Mary is there to carry out. It’s not the prophecy of Jesus’ destiny. It’s what Simeon has to say to Mary, as she celebrates the healthy arrival of her firstborn child, once they’ve all made it through forty days of life: “a sword will pierce your own soul too.” (Luke 2:35)

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“A sword will pierce your soul.”

That’s certainly been my experience so far of parenthood. Even with a child who isn’t the Messiah. To love a child is to have a sword pierce your soul, again and again. Not because they’re mean to you, or rude—although they sometimes are, especially as they grow. But because it is a heartbreaking thing to love someone who is soft, and innocent, and small in a world that is hard, and cruel, and big. To see your child insulted, and rejected, and mocked by the most powerful people in the land—as Mary did when Jesus was on the Cross—is to have a sword pierce your soul. It’s true of all the struggles of life, small or large. To see a child whom you love left out by other kids, or benched by a coach; to see them neglected by a teacher or addicted to a drug, is to feel that soul-piercing pain.

This isn’t limited to parent-child love. Everyone in this room, I’m pretty sure, has felt the pain of seeing a person whom you love suffer, and not being able to fix it. Maybe for you, it’s been a sibling stuck in an unhealthy relationship. Maybe a friend with an eating disorder. Whatever it’s been, if you have loved another person, I’m pretty sure you’ve known what it is to have a sword pierce your own soul too.

We often talk about “vulnerability.” In Latin, vulnus is a “wound.” So vulnerability is the ability to be wounded. And this wound-ability comes inevitably with love. When we open our hearts to one another, we leave them exposed, and the very words we use to express the best of love reveal the possibility of pain: “compassion” and “empathy” mean, “suffering with” or “being in the suffering of” another person. To allow ourselves to love is to allow the possibility that our souls will be pierced.

I don’t want to be too frivolous, but as a kid, I loved watching sports. This may come as a surprise to some of you who know me now, and who have seen how little attention I pay to sports; last week at Coffee Hour, I somehow managed to segue a conversation about football into one about grammar with only the single line, “You know what I think about when I hear ‘buffalo’?” But as a kid, I used to stretch the Globe Sports section out and read the whole thing. I could spend an hour reading the standings for every high-school football league in the state. The first thing I did every day was to look at the final score from the Sox game, since I usually fell asleep before the end. I spent the years up to 2004 experiencing the agony of the Red Sox fan, and the next few years in the ecstasy of the Red Sox fan, but at some point, I realized that it just wasn’t working for me to start my day happy or sad depending on the fate of the Sox, or the Pats. I also no longer owned a TV, which helped.

And it works, for sports, to cut yourself off. If you find, like me, that you have become overly attached to the ups and downs of your favorite team, you can just stop, so that the New York Yankees cannot pierce your heart, no matter how much money they may spend.

This works for sports. But we can’t let it become true in general for love. The things that make us vulnerable in life are the things that make our lives most worth living: they are the bonds of love that unite us with one another. And in the end, we have to choose, in this life, whether we’re going to act like Peter or like Mary. We can protect ourselves like Peter does when Jesus is arrested, and he denies ever having met him. We can look away, we can isolate ourselves, from the pain of other human beings. Or we can be like Mary. We can follow Jesus to the Cross, and we can stand there, bearing witness to the suffering of this world, and letting our souls be pierced by love.

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Christianity is a frustrating religion, because God is frustrating sometimes. Life in this world is hard. There are many things that simply are not right. And we would rather live in a world in which God simply didn’t allow them. A world in which nobody got sick, or died before their time; a world in which no evil deed was done. But we don’t live in that world. And I don’t know what’s true for you, but for me, because I live in this world, as it is, the Christian story is good news.

Because it’s a story that begins, not with our love, not with our wounded hearts, but with God’s love for us—a love so strong that God’s own soul was pierced, a love so strong that in Jesus, “Love came down at Christmas,” as my favorite carol goes. God became one of us, like us in every way, as Hebrews says. Jesus enjoyed the best of human life, and he endured the worst of it—and “because he himself was tested by what he suffered,” Hebrews goes on, “he is able to help those who are being tested.” (Heb. 2:18) When our hearts are broken, God’s heart is broken too. And it’s because God knows what it’s like to be human and to suffer, that God can comfort and help us in our suffering.

But the Christian story doesn’t end there. Jesus suffers and dies, but he dies “so that through death he might destroy…the power of death.” (Heb. 2:14) Jesus’ own death somehow transforms death—Jesus’ own suffering somehow transforms suffering—in a way that we cannot yet fully see. Jesus rises from the grave, with that tantalizing sign: he rises from the grave, still bearing his wounds, still shaped by the things that he’s been through, but no longer subject to their pain.

This promise isn’t enough to soften the blow. We will still feel that ache. But we can also hold fast to the hope that God is drawing us forward into a world in which death will be no more, mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.” (Rev. 21:4) And we can hold on to our love for one another, knowing that in the end, God’s love will reign supreme.

Sermon — January 26, 2025

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

What are we doing here?

That’s a rhetorical question, to be clear. But it’s one that’s worth asking from time to time. In a world that’s full of urgent needs and pressing demands, what are we doing when we pause for an hour and gather here on Sunday mornings for worship? Our Scripture readings this morning happen to tell two stories of worship. They happened hundreds of years apart from one another, and thousands of years ago, but they have something urgent to say to us about why we do what we do, and what it can mean for us in the coming months years.

And so I want to invite you to come with me on a little journey through time today: to read these two stories as the pattern for our story as we try to understand God’s vision for this world.

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We begin with the Book of Nehemiah, which describes events that took place about 2500 years ago. It comes at the beginning of what’s called the Second Temple period. The First Temple, built by the great King Solomon, had been destroyed about seventy years before. The Babylonians had besieged the city of Jerusalem, and demolished the Temple, and kidnapped the leaders and many of the people and brought them into exile for many years. After the Babylonian Empire fell, the people were finally allowed to go home. They began to rebuild the city. They began to rebuild the Temple. And as they tried to rebuild their life together, they gathered to hear the scribe Ezra read from the scroll of the Law.

There are echoes of what we still do here today. Ezra opens a book in the sight of the people. They stand. He says a blessing, and they offer a response. He reads. And this is a lot like what we just did. (Although we’re all glad that the Gospel reading didn’t last “from early morning until midday.”)

The people read from the book of the Law “with interpretation,” the Bible says.  And we do the same thing. We’re doing it right now. We listen to readings, and we hear them explained. And we do it within a context of community, and ritual, and prayer.

The “Law” here is the Torah, the first five books of the Bible. Christians often think of Biblical law as being mostly concerned with ritual and purity, food laws and obscure commandments. And it does have all of those. But throughout the Law that they heard read that day, you also find a clear concern for people at the margins of society: most especially for people who are poor, and for the gerim, “strangers,” people who are not citizens, not members of the Twelve Tribes of Israel, but residents in the land.

And there’s an unusual characteristic of this law. Over the next few thousand years, the Jewish people rarely had an independent state. But the Law that Ezra read wasn’t something that needed to be enforced from above. It was something that the people could follow for themselves, even as the political authorities changed. It didn’t matter whether the ruler was Persian or Macedonian, Seleucid or Ptolemaic or Roman. Because the Law didn’t lay out an immigration policy that those authorities needed to enforce: it said, “You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Deut. 10:19) You or your ancestors have known what it is to be new to a place; so love the people who are new, as you would love your own family.

It didn’t matter who was king, because the social safety net the Law described didn’t rely on an official bureaucracy: it told the people, “When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap to the very edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and for the alien: I am the LORD your God.” (Lev. 23:22) The edges of your property, God said, really belong to the poor and to the strangers in the land. And whatever decisions whoever’s in charge may make, there cannot be a law against generosity and mutual aid. That commandment’s from Leviticus, by the way, a book we sometimes dismiss, but you know what else comes from that book? Jesus’ second-favorite law of all: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” (Lev. 19:18) When Ezra reads from the Law, it isn’t for the Persian emperor to hear, it’s for the people gathered there: This is who we are, and in this society we are trying to rebuild, this is how we’ll live, whoever sits on the throne. 

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Ezra’s reading of the Law happened once. But that same kind of holy reading would go on, in synagogues and study houses around the Holy Land and around the world.

Jesus did it all the time. He does it in our Gospel reading today. He goes to the synagogue to worship on the Sabbath day. And when he stands to read, they give him the scroll of the prophet Isaiah. “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,” he reads, “because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” (Luke 4:18-19)

And they wait. Is there a sermon? Is he going to explain?

And Jesus simply says: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled.” (Luke 4:21)

He’s announced the agenda for the rest of his short life. God has sent me, Jesus says, to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives, sent me to let the oppressed go free. He has announced the year of the Lord’s favor, the year of the jubilee, when debts are forgiven and injustices are made right. “He has anointed me,” Jesus says. He makes his claim to be the Messiah, the Anointed One of God, and he does it by recalling people’s attention to the Biblical values of equity, and justice, and liberation.

This is sometimes called Jesus’ “Nazareth Manifesto,” but he’s not making a speech. His comments on the text are brief. He doesn’t lay out policy ideas. He reads from a holy text, and he reminds the people of God’s vision for the world, a vision of good news for the poor, release for the captives; sight for the blind, and freedom for the oppressed.

You might ask what the point is. Does Jesus really think that word will spread from his little synagogue in Galilee down to Pontius Pilate’s palace, that news will travel across the sea to Rome; that suddenly Herod Antipas will say, “Maybe we’d better do something to help the poor,” that the Emperor Tiberius will let his oppressed subjects go free?

News will spread all right, not of Jesus’ values but of his claim to be the Messiah. Will they accept his claim to rule? Will they accept his word as law? No. He’s gonna be crucified for that.

But Jesus’ words aren’t really for them.

Jesus’ words aren’t for the powerful people, the rulers of his day and age. They’re for us. For all of us who hear his words and are reminded that there is another way to look at the world: through the eyes of a Messiah who spent his life among the people at the margins of society, the Word of God made flesh, the Law of Love in human form.

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These words are good news for us who hear them, rich and poor alike, in any day and age, because they remind us that God’s vision of generosity and love does not depend on human politics; that we can live according to that heavenly law whatever our earthly laws may be.

Laws change. Leaders come and go. The Episcopal Church as a whole Office of Government Relations that advocates for our values, whoever the government may be. But whether their words are heard or not, we can live our values now. We can treat our gay and lesbian and transgender neighbors with dignity and respect, love them and protect them as ourselves, as God has commanded us. We can welcome people who are strangers in our land, not because of our opinions on how they arrived, but because we’re all human beings, and it’s really freaking cold, and the only way that we can survive in this land is to welcome one another, and help each other out, as locals have been helping newcomers out for four hundred years and more. We can choose to leave the edges of our fields unreaped to share with people who don’t have enough—even if these days, that takes the less-romantic form of writing a check. We can glean things from our closets that we’d forgotten were ever them, and drop them off at the Clothes Closet to be harvested with joy. There’s a bonus perk for church members: you can even drop them off on a Sunday morning. I won’t tell you came outside the scheduled time.

We can live, in other words, as people of faith have always lived, with our feet in two worlds: governed, yes, by the laws of the land in which we live—but guided by God’s holy law of grace, and mercy, and love.

Sermon — January 19, 2025

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

We often imagine ourselves as the main characters of whatever story we tell. Kids read Harry Potter and imagine that they would be among the few Muggle-born children to receive a Hogwarts letter. College students look back on the Gilded Age and throw Great Gatsby-themed parties. Adults watch Downton Abbey and imagine what it would be like to live in that place and time, and when we do, we almost always imagine ourselves “upstairs,” living the glamorous lives of the aristocrats. I call this “the Downtown Delusion.” While the overwhelming majority of our ancestors were ordinary people who spent their time in drudgery, in the Disney movies of our own lives, we are usually the princes and princesses, but only rarely the peasants.

The same goes for Scripture. Like any good book, most of the Bible follows the main character. And as readers, we have a privileged view. We hear the stories of Jesus’ birth that only the shepherds, Mary, and Joseph knew. We hear the explanations that he gave when he took the disciples aside, away from the crowd. We see the miracles he did without anyone realizing at the time. When you read the Gospels, you know more about what’s going on than anyone else but God. And that makes sense: a story that followed some ordinary guy who occasionally bumped into Christ on his journeys around Galilee would be great; but it wouldn’t be the Gospel of John, it would be The Life of Brian.

But most of us live ordinary lives. We are the Muggles who have no idea about the battle against Voldemort happening all around. We are the unseen scullery girls scouring the pans, or the shopkeepers meeting for third-hand gossip about whatever’s happening up at the Big House. Our experiences of life are more like my favorite painting by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, his “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”: a ploughman walks behind his horse; a shepherd stands, gazing up at the trees; the business of a city goes on, and over their shoulder, not quite in the background but hard to see if you aren’t looking, Icarus drowns. He’s flown too close to the sun, melting his waxy wings, but they know nothing of that. Astounding things of mythological proportions are happening all around them, but they go unnoticed.

So I want to re-tell this story, not from the point of view of Jesus and his disciples, but from the point of view of one of the guests. Jesus wasn’t the main character in this story, after all; Jesus was just “also there.”

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You, the wedding guest, weren’t there for him. No, you were there because your second cousin Ben was finally tying the knot with Becca, and you were glad, because you’d known them both since you were all kids. You’d all worked together in the fields during the harvest. Ben’s dad had often helped to mend your fishing nets. Becca’s mom made the best bread in the village. And here you all were, with what seemed to be a couple hundred other people, too, and no surprise. These village celebrations sometimes grew and grew, and it had been a hard winter, and everyone seemed to have brought another friend of a friend to join in the feast.

In fact, the crowd had clearly gotten bigger than the happy couple had intended, because murmurs started coming back from the bar that the wine was running low. And that was before the dancing even began. The new couple began to worry—Would people remember this wedding as the one that ran out of steam halfway through? That’s not a very auspicious start to a marriage. But no! Thank God. The bartenders must’ve misplaced a few big jugs, or something, because the drinks began to flow again, and the murmurs turned to renewed delight, and no one would remember this night as anything other than the joyful celebration of Becca and Ben that it was.

A couple weeks later, perhaps, odd rumors may have started: your friend Sue said that her brother Mike said that Nate and Phil were going around saying that the wine really had run out, but Jesus—you know, Jimmy’s brother, Mary and Joe’s kid—these are all real, Biblical names, by the way—that Jesus had just stretched out his hand, and ta-da! the day was saved. Water into wine.

You might just politely back away. Or you might enjoy the delicious feeling of being in the know, being an eyewitness to the events, someone who really had the scoop: “Come on, Sue, I was there! Don’t you think I would’ve known if Jimmy’s brother was doing miracles? I saw him. He didn’t even get up from his seat.”

That’s the baffling thing about this story. On the one hand, it’s a miracle of superfluous proportions. It’s hard to even comprehend the scope. Six stone jars, twenty to thirty gallons each: that’s 120 to 180 gallons of wine. Can you picture 180 gallons of wine? Let me do the math. 180 gallons is 23,000 fluid ounces—that’s 4,600 glasses of wine, ready to be served—after all the wine that had already been drunk. And this wine, the steward is surprised to note, is good. In quantity and quality alike, this miracle is remarkable.

But no one notices. Even the steward doesn’t know where this new wine comes from. He’s impressed at the groom’s generosity, not at Jesus’ power. (John 2:9-10) But the groom doesn’t know what’s going on either. The servants filled the jars with water, so they understand; Jesus and his mother know, of course, and his friends. But this is a quiet miracle done reluctantly. Jesus doesn’t give a speech to explain the theological meaning of the sign. He just handles the situation, as his mother seems to know he will. And so it is that “Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.” (John 2:11) His disciples believed in him. Not the crowd of wedding guests, not the bride and groom, not even the servants who see what he has done; but only that small group really see what’s going on.

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In the season after the Epiphany, we reflect on all Christ’s “epiphanies,” all the ways in which God becomes manifest in the world. We hear stories of miracles, small and large, of wondrous events that reveal something about God’s love. But the world doesn’t always seem like a miraculous place. And even when we do have a reason to thank God, we sometimes wish that God had acted sooner. So for example, I’m giving thanks, right now, as many people are, for the emergence of a fragile cease-fire in Gaza, and yet it’s hard to see a miracle in the end of yet another episode in a cycle of violence and destruction, in a world that seems to promise the prospect of more to come.

But I wonder how many miracles are like the wedding at Cana. I wonder how often we play the role of the shepherd in the Bruegel painting, peacefully gazing off in entirely the wrong direction while something amazing happens behind us. I wonder how often we’re like those wedding guests, in fact, who actually receive the gift of the miraculous thing that Jesus has done—who drink the wine, and enjoy the wedding that nearly went awry, without ever realizing who’s saved the day.

I wonder what it would be like to assume that the real story is going on somewhere else. To look for epiphanies everywhere. Not only in the huge, world-changing events, even though they sometimes happen. Not only in the amazing cures, even though they sometimes happen, too. But in the everyday miracles that too easily go unnoticed—in the grown-up son who actually does what his mother suggests, in the gracious guest who compliments the host, in the joyful celebration of a new life begun, in all the smaller ways in which God moves in ordinary life. For all the grief and pain and fear that are in this world, we are surrounded also by grace, and these moments of grace can be new signs every day of Jesus’ presence; little glimpses, every day, that still reveal the glory of God.