When Jerusha married well, the whole family had been glad. The last few generations had been hard on them. During the days of the Hasmoneans, they had lived in Jerusalem. Chana claimed that she did not miss it, that the Galilee was a good place to live and Judea was too full of strife, of infighting among old families, the eternal struggles between factions and all of them vying for the affections of the high priest in power and then, when that high priests were no longer in power, vying for the favor of that foul and murderous Herod.
“Coming into the Galilee was the wisest thing we ever did,” Chana said.
But life was different here, poorer for sure. Chana had longed for neighbors who understood what a good silk cloth was, or appreciated an expensive roast, not that there was much in the way of expensive roasts in Nazareth. More than anything, Mary knew, her mother had wished for those who understood the rank and the age of their old family, family which could trace its roots back to the High Priest Joshua on one hand, and to the Prince Zurubabel on the other.
Chana had been glad when Mary had returned from her schooling at the Temple to be engaged and eventually wed to Joseph. To be sure, there had been hiccups in that whole business that were never spoken of now, and Joseph was a mason, a carver and crafter of things, no prince as his ancestors had been. But he was wise, and he was educated, and his pedigree was impressive. Not of a priestly line, no, but of the line of David the King.
When Salome had married to the half Greek and very well off Zebedee, that had been a cause of rejoicing, and when Jerusha, the niece of Chana, had attracted the eye of one of the most respectable families in Cana, they had all rejoiced. To be sure, the Tolmai family was not as rich as it had once been, and yes, they may have occasionally seemed to be trying too hard, but they were good folk, and when Jerusha had borne two sons and lastly a daughter, Rizpah, whose wedding this was. Rizpah was marrying the son of a high up Canaanite official, and she sat laughing and drinking wine, having no idea of what Jerusha, in the presence of the servants was telling her cousin Mary as she pointed to an empty jar.
“We have no more wine.”
How to remember that time? It was the first time there was nothing to say and everything to see. Looking back things are pieced together. Mary, dressed like a virgin and a bride though she was a grandmother and a widow, laughing and looking young though so many had seen her mourning and all in black for two years. There she was, clapping her hands. And there is the arresting figure of the Magdalene, noble and all draped in red like the whore priestesses of ancient times though she was certainly a virgin. And Marta was there, beautiful, rich and noble, coins in her elaborately coiffed hair veiled in gossamer. No man could take his eyes from her, and already they had forgotten she had made a widow of herself, being the wife of the Baptist. Who is that handsome man, tall and lean with the tracing of beard along his jaw? Lazaros the Merchant. Oh, and who are those? The jug eared one, and the one with the cap on his head? Who is that rough one? Those are the friends of Jesus. Friends? Disciples? Disciples.
And who are those men, who look like brothers, but not brothers, the one with the springy halo of hair and that black beard along his jaw and mouth, so handsome, all in white with a crown of roses? He dances with the fellow in white who has black hair and long lashes like a maiden. That is Jesus, the one who has disciples. That is Jesus and his… Hush now. Hush. Be careful of the things you say. See how they dance, the one with the black hair like a raven’s wing, pale as ivory, his head always on the taller one’s chest? Yes. Well, men love each other. Best friends love each other. You know what was said of Jonathan and David. Your love is better than the love of men. And look, look at them deep in drink.
They were late to the wedding, but now it had gone into its second day and seemed to have no signs of stopping. In the courtyard, Magdalene danced with Nathanael, and he who had known whores and known desire was filled with nothing but love for her. Jesus and John swayed together, and it was some time before Jesus felt the tapping on his back.
He shook his head and turned to see his mother, and his mother stood with Marta, and Jesus raised a finger as if to tell John to wait, but then simply pulled him by the hand through the feasters and out of the house to where his mother was leading them for whatever it was she had to say.
“They have no more wine.”
Jesus blinked at his mother.
“I suppose that means the feast is ending then,” John said, puzzled. “A little early, I imagine but.”
“They will be in disgrace,” Marta said. “And I would gladly purchase more, but we would have to send to Sepphoris. We’d have to wait till morning.”
Mary turned to see her niece laughing at the great table while her brother clinked cups with her new husband.
But what could be done? By them? They were not Lazaros or Marta with their money. There were no wine shops with enough wine to supply a great wedding.
But in the last few days had they not thrilled to hear the words of Jesus? Had they not seen the heavens open and declare him the Beloved Son? Had he not seen Nathanael under the fig tree? Whatever that meant. And now here was Nathanael, and here came Andrew and Philip.
John cleared his throat.
“What?” Jesus looked irritated, even a little frightned.
“The birds.”
Jesus’s brow furrowed.
“The birds. When we were boys. The birds. And… everything.”
Jesus could still remember the wilderness, the man sitting across from him turning rocks into bread.
“If you are the son of God, you will command these stones and they will become bread…”
What witchcraft was this? What…? Even if he could… do anything. How would he do it? And for the sake of a wedding? Was this the way to use the gift of God? Not like this. Never like this. He looked away from John and from Nathanael, from all those waiting for some sort of sign. He looked to his mother, who would know, who had hidden so much in her heart he didn’t dare ask her.
“The birds, indeed,” Mary said to him, “and so much more.”
He felt betrayed almost. This was unlike her. Jesus spoke roughly to his mother because he could not plead with her.
“Woman,” Jesus asked, and the question was not unnatural, “what concern is this to us?”
My hour has not yet come.”
Rizpah had no wine. Mary had never believed in the God who stormed through the scrolls of her people’s history, awful tales built around him, confusing in his rage, his spite and his taste for blood. This was the God of David, her ancestor, perhaps the first Meshiach, and little better than a blood soaked crook. All of his stories were evil, and the stories of his God were sick as well. David had, undoubtedly, and beneath all the ink wasted on the scrolls that lauded him, murdered the family of Saul, the king before him, anointed by Samuel, anointed by God. Anointed in blood. Rizpah had no wine, Rizpah named after an ancient woman made to suffer like so many of their ancient women, may their names be for a blessing.
The story was long and gross and complicated, how David had offered her sons and the sons of Saul’s family to death, at the advice of God, a murder to prevent a famine and appease an enemy, and Rizpah had mourned for months over the decaying bodies of her sons, those two of many losers in the story of God’s fickle love for his strange devotees.
“This Rizpah’s day must be the opposite of the woman whose name she bore,” Mary said.
“The son of David must be better than David. The Son of God better than David’s bloody and fickle God.”
She was remembering the sky being torn open, and a melting in her body, the Star descending in her mouth, something hot like molten gold poured down her throat, solidifying, curdling into life. She remembered the cherry tree and shepherds and kings and things she never spoke about and gently, as she had done when teaching him how to walk, Mary led her frightened son—for there was fear in him—away from the disciples and to the servants who seemed to be awaiting her instructions.
“My hour has not yet come,” he had said.
Mary pulled Jesus’s face down and kissed him on both cheeks and then, squeezing his hand, said to the servants: “Do whatever he tells you.”
Mary bowed and left.
There had been very few times in his life when Jesus was genuinely angry, and certainly never with his mother. But today was close. He was flummoxed and felt like an ass. He took a breath, and the devil taunting him about stones into bread, stons into bread did not matter, and his ideas did not matter, and in a way, he, Yehoshana of Nazareth did not matter. He was more than that, wasn’t he? He was even more than his expectations. He was more than the idea of what a Messiah should be.
Nearby stood six stone water jars, the kind used for ceremonial washing, and each could easily hold twenty to thirty gallons.
The servants blinked at Jesus, waiting for something, treating him like he was, in fact, a great lord instead of the son of a carpenter from Nazareth with not a penny to his name, and Jesus, acting the part of the noble said to the servants, “Fill the jars with water.”
He said it so expertly that they went about filling them, and he half laughed, half wished to bang his head into a wall as, returning from the water pumps, they began to pour into the half full or nearly empty jars, great quantities of splashing water.
As the water splashed and splashed, all fear left Jesus, and he began to chant:
“He sends forth springs in the valleys;
they flow between the mountains.
They give drink to every beast of the field;
the wild donkeys quench their thirst.
The birds of the air nest beside the springs;
He waters the mountains from His chambers;
the earth is satisfied by the fruit of His works.
He makes the grass grow for the livestock
and provides crops for man to cultivate,
bringing forth food from the earth:
wine that gladdens the heart of man,
oil that makes his face to shine,
and bread that sustains his heart.
The trees of the LORD have their fill.”
And now he understood exactly what concern this was to him. Now he knew. Joy was his concern. How had he not understood? Joy and…
His disciples had found their way to him and were circling him now. Magdelene stood on one side of him and Marta on the other, and Jesus said to the servant who had poured in the last pitcher of water, “Now draw some out and take it to the master of the banquet.”
The servant blinked at Jesus as if he was mad, but Jesus’s gaze was unrelenting. He had forgotten for a moment whom he was, but he would not forget again, and the servant, frowning, took a dipper and a cup, and obeyed, though he nearly shouted and dropped it when he saw and smelled and now was smelling from all the jars, rich dark wine.
The servant hurried off and Jesus led the others back into the courtyard, to the dancing and to the music. Later, as the roast was brought out to the accompaniment of dancing girls, John, blinking and drinking the wine in wonder, feeling its tartness and sweetness on his tongue, heard the master of the banquet call the bridegroom aside and say, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”
John was shaken with wonder and joy, and he looked to Nathanael whose eyes were wide, and who was weeping with gladness. Jesus though, stared into nothing, and it was only when Marta touched his hand that he came back to himself.
“No one must know,” he whispered, quickly.
“Everyone will know,” she told him, “Before the night is out. This had to happen. Your mother knew. I told you, this is the beginning of all things. This is the wedding feast. A nd you are the bridegroom.”
What Jesus did here in Cana of Galilee was the first of the signs through which he revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.
While one star and then another and then another budded in the darkening sky, and the lip of the moon came up over the eastern hills, Jesus went into the empty streets and out into the fields and climbed a hill to be with the breeze and the darkness. His mother always surprised him, and he was almost irked at her for being able to move so quietly through the grass and sit down beside him.
“They’re talking,” he said.
“And will continue to do so.”
“This is your doing.”
Mary nodded.
“I own it. If I must.”
Jesus had nothing to say to this, and then his mother said, “What did you expect? To put all of your light, the light of the whole world under a bushel basket? What did you think was the reason you came into this world? You as you are? Doing what you are doing?”
When Jesus still said nothing she said, “It had to be this way? How in the world did you ever expect to be a secret Messiah? A secret Son of the Living God?”
“Mother!”
“What?”
“That is blasphemy.”
“When was truth ever blasphemy? Thirty years I sealed my mouth and kept all things in my heart because how could I say such a thing to a child? Or to anyone? If you were what you were you had to find it on your own, and so you did, and now it is known and I am not the first to say it and I will not be the last.”
Mary stood slower, feeling the new ache in here knees. In the night she was no longer the bride, but the mother of sorrows, the mother of necessity and a dark cloak hooded her and was wrapped about her shoulders.
“No longer can you sit in the shadows and pretend to be what you never were. We have a wedding to attend. Everyone is wondering about you. That Nathanael has been weeping all night. Up, my son,” she held out her hand.
Jesus looked up at her, nearly sullen because around her he could never be truly miserable.
“Up,” she commanded.
Nodding, Jesus grunted, and gripping his mother’s hand, he rose, and when they returned to the village of Cana, and to dancing and singing, he walked ahead of her.
If you are the Son of God, pick up these stones and they will become bread…
If you are the Son of God…
This is my beloved son in whom I am well pleased….
Behold the Lamb of God….
You are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!
Whatever he says, listen you him.
Where are you going?
Come and see?
“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”
Come and see…. Come and see…
Come…
And see.
In those last days, when everything was muddy and blood red replaced the shining white, when only a few of them could dare to look at the fearful vision Jesus held in his hand like a bloody thorn, turning it this way and that, bidding them like a madman to behold it, they would look back on these first days of innocence, when their eyes were clean and fresh. They would remember the words of the prophecy:
There will be no more gloom for those who were in distress.
In the past he humbled the land of Zebulun and the land
of Naphtali,
but in the future he will honor Galilee of the nations,
by the Way of the Sea, beyond the Jordan—
The people walking in darkness
have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness
a light has dawned.
You have enlarged the nation
and increased their joy;
they rejoice before you
Andrew, Philip, Nathanael and, yes, John… every single one of them was a blighted land suddenly struck with light.
John would think, “This was our wedding, and this wine was the first taste of another wine, and all our minds were Galilees.”
On that day their faces were clean as the noon sky and every room, every courtyard, every heart was charmed by the sun and the sun was the Son of Man and the Son of God and John would say, “All of our thoughts went in and out dressed in white like the very robe of Jesus in Cana’s crowded rooms, at Cana’s tables.”
God is love. God is love. God is…
He rose and turned slowly, slowly now, arms out, twisting in slow circles with the rhythm of the earth, while into the night the shawns wailed and tambours and zithers plaed, it came to him. This love.
Father, Father, Father… They will say it this way. They will not understand. In years to come wars will be raged because there is no Father without the Mother, and they will not have the Mother. Father, Father, and the Son…. That’s the way they will have it, and what can you do? They will not understand this moment when you take a cup of the wine you made, that you have not bothered to drink till now, and you lift it to your lips and it… is… divine. It is you, and you drink deeply again and pass it to John, and he is full of the divine drunkenness, and he passes it to Nathanael, and Nathanael passes it... None of this will make it into the books. He knows this now. The ones to come won’t understand, and they will not try to.
They are dancing slowly, out of their private lives and into history. Magdalene will be a whore, and though sometimes they will refer to his Jonni, they will not dare –not the official ones, not the ones in power—to say who John was to him. They will think the disciples were these stupid, selfish dull things, listening to him say the same words over and over again, and they will know nothing of this night, this night, when a smile of drunken holiness was plastered on his divine and silly face as he lifted it to God and they swayed in circles, and then moved in lines, touching hands, Jesus to John, now Nathanael, now Philip, now Lazaros, and they raised their voices in divine praise. The wedding of Rizpah and Noah had ended, and the end of Rizpah’s tears and that old sad covenant with a vengeful god of one desert people. All the old covenants were over, and here, in Cana, the wedding feast of the lamb had begun.
