Prodded Into Action

The Rev. Jeffrey A. Geary

Second Sunday After Epiphany

John 2: 1-11

January 18, 2004

One of my mother’s stories about my childhood that I never tire of hearing her tell is about the year we moved across town. I was in kindergarten. My school followed the educational ideas of Maria Montessori in which I was allowed to be creative and curious and in which I was very happy. And my teacher was Mrs. Diewald.

Midway through the school year my parents sold our home on Vollmer Road. The home we were leaving was the only home I had known. My grandparents, my father’s parents, lived right next door to us, and our church, the church my grandfather helped to start, was just down the block. We weren’t moving far, in fact we were moving within town, only about eight minutes away. But what made it feel like a whole world away for a five year old was that in moving, I would have to change schools.

I liked our new house. And it was a new house. The basement was huge and unfinished and dark and drew my childhood curiosity like a cave draws an explorer. I got a room of my own, a corner room almost as large as my parents room, with a view of the whole neighborhood. And to top it off, Mrs. Diewald, my Montessori teacher, lived on my street.

But I was not happy. In fact, to those around me I seemed upset. And to my parents I appeared worried, scared, and afraid. My parents couldn’t figure out why this would be, and though my mother doesn’t remember exactly what I did or said that made it clear, it became clear that I was terrified about going to my new school. So my mom took me down to visit Mrs. Diewald’s house and left me to play and to talk and, it was hoped, figure out what was bothering me. When my mom returned, the reason for my fear was revealed. Probably because our first home was located near the high school, the only other school I knew of at age five, I had become convinced that our move to a new house and my move to a new school meant that I was moving on to high school. And with tears running down my face I explained that I wasn’t ready. I was too young. The other high school kids were too big and I was still so small. And though everyone around me seemed to feel that I would do fine in my new school, I knew that it wasn’t my time yet.

I’m not sure if it was because of this obviously-significant-early-childhood-experience, or simply because during this past week I was looking forward to the parenting workshop which Bill Grimbol led here yesterday afternoon, but all week long I have been thinking of our scripture story about the wedding in Cana not as a religious story or a the story of Jesus’ first miracle, but as a simple story of a young man feeling pushed into the world before he is ready, and by none other than his own mother.

I called my mom last night and asked her if she could remember ever pushing me into something I was reluctant to do. With the obvious exception of my move from kindergarten to high school, she didn’t think so. And my father confirmed this. I called because one of the subjects that we spoke about during the parenting workshop yesterday was the tendency of American parents to turn their children into what Bill Grimbol calls people-pleasing, perfectionistic performers, when what children really need from us as adults is permission to be ordinary, fully-human, human beings

I know many kids who, for example, love to play piano but dread a visit from their grandparents or neighbors because they are always be called on to "perform." Not wanting to upset their parents by expressing this directly, they wheedle around, tell jokes, make faces, delay and delay. They get nervous about playing for others - not only because they don’t like to make mistakes, but because they don’t want to perform poorly and disappoint or embarrass their parents.

I wonder if the adult Jesus felt like his mother was pushing him to perform at the wedding at Cana. She gives him an obvious hint, "They have no wine." To this less than subtle suggestion for involvement, Jesus retorts, "Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come." But Mary doesn't give up. Indeed she puts him on the spot by whispering to the servants, "Do whatever he tells you."

Perhaps Jesus thought that his mother was more meddling than helpful. Or maybe he thought everyone had had enough to drink. Or maybe providing party supplies at a wedding was not his image of how to inaugurate his ministry! Whatever Jesus thought, he clearly didn't want to get involved. But Mary finally won out.

Now I know that this story is often held up as an example of Jesus enjoying a good time and blessing a human celebration. In fact I have done so myself. But this morning I want to dwell on Jesus’ reluctance and Mary’s insistence. While I hope it will be clear that I don’t want to bless our culture’s push for performance, I can’t help noticing that the bible is full of stories replete with human as well as divine dynamics that prod and poke the best and worst out of their characters. For good or ill, most of us get our start in the world with a gentle, or not so gentle, push from someone else. Few of us feel ready when it happens, or know where it will lead. When the push comes from God, we tend to say it is a call, or as Jim called it last week, a vocation.

When I think about those who have pushed me into action I think about the pastor who invited me to preach my first sermon at the age of sixteen after I had returned from a ten day visit to the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church which was meeting in Minneapolis. I literally cried all night because the words I was putting on paper could not convey my excitement about being part of the Presbyterian Church and my profound awe and the ways God was active for good in our world through 2.5 million ordinary Presbyterian men and women and children practicing ordinary Christian goodness. I think about Fred Feiner, my first ‘real’ patient when I was a chaplain at Somerset Medical Center in New Jersey, who died before ‘I’ was ready for him to die, with a note beside him instructing his family that I was to ‘perform’ his memorial service. My first memorial service. I think about the members of Newman chapel in Illinois, a congregation of eleven who I had the occasion to preach for when I was in college every time their pastor (who was a huge soccer fan) got tickets to a professional soccer game. Once during my junior year in school they allowed me to set aside my normal sermon one Sunday to simply ‘preach’ a confession of profound sadness about the fact that none of the friends I had at school who were gay had ever shared that with because they were afraid my aspiration to the Christian ministry entailed a rejection of them. We shared together the ways in which our baptism into a living tradition of faith prods us ‘make-that-faith-real’ in a changing world, and that morning began my commitment to accompany and support lesbian and gay Christian in ‘our’ church.

Think about the people who have prodded you into action. Who are they? What gifts did they help you to uncover? How did they help you to find your own voice? When did they encourage you to stand up for what you believed? How integral have they been to who you have become, or are becoming?

John's story about the wedding in Cana, which says so much while ironically leaving so much unanswered, underscores both the mystery and the joy of Jesus' ministry. In the coming weeks between now and Good Friday, as we follow the career of Jesus in our scripture readings, remember that no journey of faith, not even one so manifestly human and divine as Jesus’, begins without a prod or push or pull. Give thanks to God for those who have played that role in your story, listen for new voices, and trust that all things happen in God’s good time. And for that, we must always be ready.