Isaiah 62. 1 – 5
John 2. 1 – 11
Fr Alex
Something that’s a feature of life in the vicarage over Christmas and Epiphany – as I’m sure it is for many others – are tubs and tubs of chocolates. Especially Cadbury’s Roses (though other chocolates are available).
We receive them as gifts, or we buy them ourselves, and each year the collection of tubs grows. Once the chocolates have gone, they’re used for storing biscuits, or Lego, or shoes for Barbie dolls.
In fact that’s usually all I ever see in these tubs, because by the time I get round to them all the chocolates have long gone.
And it’s not just because the kids get there first (it is mostly that, but not only that). But because, like so much else in the shops today, the tubs are getting smaller, and the chocolates are getting fewer.
It’s called ‘shrinkflation.’ The price increases along with inflation, as you would expect; but you get less for your money than you once did.
In fact I saw a post online recently from a family who had counted how many chocolates they got in their tub of Quality Street, every Christmas, for nearly two decades.
In 2006, those days of plenty, a tub of Quality Street contained a generous 137 individually-wrapped chocolates.
In 2024, this Christmas, the same tub only had a miserly 67 chocolates – and it cost twice what it did two decades ago! Half the amount for double the price: Mr Scrooge would be delighted.
Shrinkflation is not just a feature of economic life. The same could be said of Church life in many places over the last few decades. Parish churches close or amalgamate, and while there is less Church to enjoy, those who remain are asked to spend more of their time and money keeping the show on the road.
The world tells itself a narrative of scarcity. There isn’t enough money or resources or whatever it is to go around. This narrative can only lead to selfishness and isolationism, as we hold on to what we have. Less care and compassion for one another; and less joy in our experience of life.
But that narrative couldn’t be further from the truth that is revealed to us in our Gospel passage this morning. Because God’s narrative is not one of scarcity, but rather of abundance.
Jesus’ first sign, the first time he reveals his glory, is at a party – at a wedding of friends. And when they run out of wine, a terribly embarrassing turn of events in that culture of hospitality, Jesus doesn’t just make enough to last the evening. He makes gallons and gallons of wine, far more than they will ever be able to consume.
And not just any wine, but the very best wine. The chief steward is amazed: “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, in this sign, as in all his other signs, shows us what life with God is like. It is like a joyful party, to which all are invited, and provided with more than they could possibly want or need.
Not for God the narrative of scarcity and shrinkflation, where there’s a limited amount of grace to go around, and only a few may have what they want while the rest of the world goes without.
With God, as Fr Faber’s hymn puts it, “there is grace enough for thousands of new worlds as great as this.”
I’m sure many priests around the world will preach the same sort of interpretation of this passage this morning, pointing to the abundance of God’s provision. So why do we, in the Church especially, keep forgetting it?
We have bought into the world’s scarcity narrative, accepting that life in today’s Church is one of inevitable decline: and we accept the inevitable selfishness and isolationism that goes along with it, as we retreat from the parishes into small groups for like-minded people.
But in fact we have a precious message that the world needs to hear more than ever: the good news of God’s abundant love, and the joy and celebration that comes from life in him. That there is wine for all; and it is really good wine.
How can we share this powerful message? Some years ago Pope Francis reflected on this passage, and especially Mary’s appeal to Jesus: “They have no wine.” He draws attention to the care Mary shows at the Wedding at Cana, and points to her as an example of how we can help others share in the joy and celebration found in the Gospel. He said:
“[Mary] is attentive to everything going on around her. … So she notices, amid the party and the shared joy, that something is about to happen that might ‘water it down.’ She approaches her Son and tells him simply: ‘They have no wine.’
In the same way, Mary passes through our towns, our streets, our squares, our homes, and our hospitals … She notices all those problems that burden our hearts, then whispers into Jesus’ ear and says: ‘Look, they have no wine.’
Like Mary, let us make an effort to be more attentive in our squares and towns, to notice those whose lives have been ‘watered down,’ who have lost—or have been robbed of—reasons for celebrating; those whose hearts are saddened. And let us not be afraid to raise our voices and say with her: ‘they have no wine.’
And like the servants at the party, let us offer what we have, little as it may seem. … And let us allow Jesus to complete the miracle by turning our hearts and our communities into living signs of his presence, which is joyful and festive because we have experienced that God is with us; because we have learned to make room for him within our hearts.
May Mary … continue to whisper in the ear of Jesus, her Son: ‘They have no wine,’ and may her words continue to find a place in us: ‘Do whatever he tells you.’” Amen.