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Clouds in the Sky

Dive deeper into the life of our church with reflections and devotions from pastors and members.

  • Jan 17, 2022

Last night, as I was doing some Bible and Baking on our church Facebook page with a dear friend and colleague of mine, she said something that surprised me – something I’ve never thought about before.

We were talking about the story of Jesus at the Wedding in Cana, while we mixed together cake batter; the story of Jesus’ first public miracle where he turns water into wine at a wedding reception that has run dry.

It’s a text that I’ve studied a lot, from my very first preaching class in seminary right up until now, and I’ve considered a lot of aspects of it. I’ve looked at it from Mary’s point of view – she who tells Jesus pointedly that “they’re out of wine,” and clearly expects him to do something about it. I’ve considered the disciples, the steward, the servants who fill these giant jars with water and then watch, dumbfounded, as it gets turned into really good wine.

But I haven’t ever really thought about it from the perspective of the water turned wine.

Maybe that’s silly, you think. It’s just an object. An inanimate thing without feelings.

And you’re not wrong. But it’s a thing that Jesus works on, and displays his power through. A thing that he changes from commonplace, ordinary water into (the story suggests) some really spectacular wine.

As my friend Sarah pointed out, Jesus can do the same with us.

He can take commonplace, ordinary us, on days when we don’t feel like much at all, and he can turn us into something incredible.

It took my breath away for a second – because these days, if I’m honest, I feel a LOT like water; like nothing all that special. I’m worn down, like the rest of you, from COVID; sick of watching numbers rise and swapping out my mask for the latest recommended model; exhausted from staying away from my friends so we can all stay healthy. I don’t have a lot of energy or imagination. It’s all of the normal post-holiday, midwinter slump, exacerbated tenfold by a long-drawn-out pandemic.

So the idea that Jesus can take my tired, depleted self and turn that water into wine – well, it’s extraordinary. It’s something I needed to hear.

And as I have thought about it, I have realized that I believe it’s also deeply, powerfully TRUE.

When I think about the witness of scripture, all these remarkable people in the Bible who did amazing things; most of them started out pretty ordinary too.

A shepherd in a field.

A teenage girl.

The youngest among a bunch of talented, strong, older brothers.

These people became leaders who brought God’s people out of Egypt, or led them as King, or carried Jesus as a baby.

God took them and turned them into wine, so to speak, and God can do the same with us.

Not to say that we all need to rise to such publicly acclaimed heights. Being turned into wine, I think, can be a lot smaller and still be really powerful. It can look like showing up to a hurting friend and being the one who gives witness to their pain. It can mean solidarity and presence with someone who is lonely. Healing to someone who feels broken.

All it takes is the willingness to show up, and to let God shape and mold us. Allow God to work through us and in us.

And we, too, can be turned from water into wine. Maybe for just one person – but isn’t that enough?

It’s a small thought, but one that gives me hope. And on days like these, perhaps hope is just what we need.

With love,

Pastor Jen

P.S. If you didn’t get a chance, watch Bible and Baking here!

 
 
 

I’m sitting on the red couch that is old and sags in its middle. I look west at the setting sun out the window, past the artificial Christmas tree. The ornaments are gone, but it remains there, stubbornly lit up to face the winter ahead. Battery lit candles light the window panes. the setting sun shines gold through the bare branches of the big locust tree in our from yard.

I have that heavy feeling in my chest. A new worry saturates my spirit. It’s been a tough day.

Watching the turning world do its thing settles me, along with the quiet and what I see hanging on the wall to the left of the window — the baptismal cloth belonging to my grandmother, Lydia, safely encased, entombed almost in a clear glass case. Its faded fabric still shines a bit with ornate gold crosses threaded in. My guess is that it dates to the year 1900, when she was born and surely baptized by her father, Ole, who was the pastor.

One hundred twenty-two years of life’s twists and turns, ups and downs, sorrows and thrills. I wonder how many homes the case has hung in, and what was going on in the lives of those who were coming and going from wherever it happened to be. Now, finally, it stays with us. Wonderful.

I’m reminded as the sun sets and the tyrannies of the urgent moment rage, that the God of all life is present, still as ever. I’m brought back to the words of the Psalmist:

“The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time and forevermore.”

I’m contemplating how issues and problems of the moment pale when compared to the realization that “My help comes the Maker of Heaven and Earth.” Though there are so many unknowns for us to face, we face them in touch with the Holy One, the Lord who will not let your foot be moved, and doesn’t slumber, and who promises to keep us.

It’s enough! And I’m looking forward to the sun rising on another day after slumber.

Love From Here

Peter Hawkinson

 
 
 

I’m sitting on the red couch that is old and sags in its middle. I look west at the setting sun out the window, past the artificial Christmas tree. The ornaments are gone, but it remains there, stubbornly lit up to face the winter ahead. Battery lit candles light the window panes. the setting sun shines gold through the bare branches of the big locust tree in our from yard.

I have that heavy feeling in my chest. A new worry saturates my spirit. It’s been a tough day.

Watching the turning world do its thing settles me, along with the quiet and what I see hanging on the wall to the left of the window — the baptismal cloth belonging to my grandmother, Lydia, safely encased, entombed almost in a clear glass case. Its faded fabric still shines a bit with ornate gold crosses threaded in. My guess is that it dates to the year 1900, when she was born and surely baptized by her father, Ole, who was the pastor.

One hundred twenty-two years of life’s twists and turns, ups and downs, sorrows and thrills. I wonder how many homes the case has hung in, and what was going on in the lives of those who were coming and going from wherever it happened to be. Now, finally, it stays with us. Wonderful.

I’m reminded as the sun sets and the tyrannies of the urgent moment rage, that the God of all life is present, still as ever. I’m brought back to the words of the Psalmist:

“The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time and forevermore.”

I’m contemplating how issues and problems of the moment pale when compared to the realization that “My help comes the Maker of Heaven and Earth.” Though there are so many unknowns for us to face, we face them in touch with the Holy One, the Lord who will not let your foot be moved, and doesn’t slumber, and who promises to keep us.

It’s enough! And I’m looking forward to the sun rising on another day after slumber.

Love From Here

Peter Hawkinson

 
 
 
Winnetka Covenant Church    |   1200 Hibbard Rd, Wilmette, IL  60091   |   Tel: 847.446.4300
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