On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” Now standing there were six stone water jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to them, “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim. He said to them, “Now draw some out, and take it to the chief steward.” So they took it. When the steward tasted the water that had become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), the steward called the bridegroom and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him. (John 2: 1-11, NRSV)
There is something so very typical about this scene. A mom states the obvious, implying the unspoken—that her child should do something about it. A son, annoyed at his mother’s expectations, responds curtly that this is not his problem, and then he does something about it, just as his mother knew he would. It is almost funny the way she turns to the servants and tells them to do whatever he says even though his answer seems to indicate he won’t do anything. She knows him; she has expectations for him. He may be the fully divine son of God, but he is also the fully human son of Mary in that moment.
After that moment, though, everything is atypical—miraculous even. Jesus turns the water into wine, not just any wine, but a fine wine that impresses even the headwaiter, who believes that the bridegroom has saved the best for last. This is the first of Jesus’ miracles—not to heal the sick, not to raise anyone from the dead—just to quietly provide for an anonymous person because it is expected of him. Yet, that, too, is a miracle—that when we think that something is not important enough to ask God’s help, we should understand that if it is important to us, then it is important to God.
Wondering: How can we find quiet opportunities to make the ordinary seem miraculous?