The Finest Wine
Today, as we continue stepping more deeply into the Gospel of John—the text we will linger with all the way through Easter—we find ourselves at the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry. That feels especially fitting here, in the season after Epiphany, when we are encouraged to keep watch for what God is revealing and where God is at work.
Today’s story is Jesus’ first miracle—or, as John prefers to call it, his first sign. And that word choice matters. This sign is not a healing. It is not a confrontation with religious authorities. It is not a moment of public teaching or moral instruction.
It is a gift.
A gift of abundance to a community.
Gallons of the finest wine—where once there had only been water.
Before we dive into the story itself, it helps to remember that John’s Gospel is different from Matthew, Mark, and Luke. This is a little bit of Bible geekdom, but it’s important. If you’ve grown up in church, you likely have a mental picture of Jesus—key moments, a timeline, certain familiar teachings—that mostly comes from those three gospels.
John’s Gospel is likely to disrupt some of that.
And those disruptions can be not just unsettling—but deeply fruitful.
Matthew, Mark, and Luke are called the synoptic gospels. That word simply means that together they give us a shared outline—a synopsis—of Jesus’ life and ministry. John, by contrast, tells the story using a different structure and a distinct theological lens.
For instance: in the synoptic gospels, Jesus goes to Jerusalem for Passover once—and that trip leads directly to his death and resurrection. In John’s Gospel, Jesus goes to Jerusalem for Passover three times. His ministry as described in John’s gospel stretches over roughly three years.
In the synoptics, Jesus overturns the tables in the temple near the very end of his ministry—an act that seals his fate. In John, that moment comes near the beginning. And the final spark, in John’s telling, is not a confrontation in the temple, but the raising of Lazarus from the dead.
John is less interested in chronology and more interested in theology—ways of thinking about God. From the very opening lines—In the beginning was the Word—John wants us to understand something essential: that Jesus comes from God, is intimately connected with God, and reveals who God is to us.
And in John’s Gospel, that connection—with God, through Jesus—is the source of life. Not just someday. Not just after death. But life, here and now.
So with that in mind, we arrive at today’s story.
We pick up three days after Jesus has been baptized, and after some of John the Baptist’s disciples have followed Jesus at his invitation to “come and see.” Jesus and his disciples—however many that might be at this point—are attending a wedding. (And if you are taking note about literary clues, note that this is an event that happens on the third day… John likes to leave these little gems throughout the text.)
In first-century Judaism, weddings were not brief affairs. They were community-wide, multi-day celebrations. Hospitality mattered. A great deal. The quality of the feast reflected directly on the groom and his family.
And at some point during the celebration, the wine runs out.
This is not a small inconvenience. It is a social failure. A public embarrassment.
And it is here that we are introduced—for the first time in John’s Gospel—not to Mary who gave birth in a stable, not to serene Madonna image, but to Mary as a mother who knows her son. She notices the problem and names it plainly to Jesus: They have no wine.
We sometimes read this exchange with modern ears and imagine tension or disrespect when Jesus responds, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me?” But in its cultural context, this is not dismissive or harsh.
Still—it’s a wonderfully human moment, isn’t it?
Mary knows.
She doesn’t explain how she knows.
But she knows her son can do something.
Jesus says his hour has not yet come. What he's waiting for is unclear. But Mary doesn’t argue. She simply turns to the servants and says, Do whatever he tells you.
I imagine her walking away—calm, confident. And Jesus sighing, exchanging a glance with his friends.
Moms. What are you going to do?
John, who often gives us very little detail, suddenly becomes quite specific here. There are six stone jars—used for purification rituals—each capable of holding twenty to thirty gallons. Do the math.
That’s 120 to 180 gallons of water.
For handwashing.
Jesus tells the servants to fill them with water. And they do. Then he tells them to draw some out and take it to the steward. And they do.
And when the steward tastes it—
It is wine.
And not just wine.
The finest wine.
The steward is astonished. He calls the bridegroom and remarks on his generosity—saving the best for last. We all understand this, right? You bring out the good stuff early, and once everyone is settled, maybe a little tipsy, you switch to something… less impressive.
But not here. Not this time.
Jesus has provided the finest wine. From water.
Now, this sign doesn’t save a life.
It doesn’t heal a disease.
It doesn’t solve hunger or end oppression.
But it saves a family from shame.
It preserves dignity.
It fuels joy.
It keeps the celebration going.
Back in Advent, we brushed up against Isaiah 55, where God imagines a world where people are invited to eat and drink without cost, to delight in rich food, to truly live.
The first few verses of Isaiah 55 read:
Hear, everyone who thirsts;
come to the waters;
and you who have no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without price.
2 Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread
and your earnings for that which does not satisfy?
Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good,
and delight yourselves in rich food.
3 Incline your ear, and come to me;
listen, so that you may live.
In the Jewish imagination, the Messiah was expected to bring more than survival. The Messiah was expected to usher in a life that was vibrant, whole, deeply alive.
And into a world pressed down by Roman occupation, economic strain, and quiet fear about the future—Jesus shows up at a wedding. And provides wine. Lavish, beautiful, and wholly unnecessary wine.
Without fanfare.
Without explanation.
It just happens.
And maybe that is the good news we most need right now.
Not a God who merely gets us through. Not a God who rations grace or doles it out sparingly. But a God who notices a quiet moment of potential shame and responds with overflowing kindness. A God whose first public sign is not about power or proof, but about joy. About abundance. About making sure the celebration doesn’t end too soon.
In a world that constantly tells us there isn’t enough—enough time, enough security, enough hope—Jesus shows up with a surplus. Gallons and gallons of the finest wine. Not because anyone earned it. Not because anyone asked quite the right way. But because that is who God is.
A God who delights in giving good gifts.
A God who offers not just survival, but life that is rich and full and worth savoring.
A God who transforms the ordinary into something extraordinary when we aren’t even looking.
So as we continue our journey through John’s Gospel, may we learn to watch for where the water is becoming wine.
May we trust that God is still at work in quiet kitchens and everyday gatherings.
And may we believe—deep in our bones—that with this God, joy is never finished early.
Only the finest wine will do.
May it be so.
Amen.
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