The groom had a name. He was tall, dark haired with a quick smile. He had worked hard for the past year, built a home, saved money, always looking forward to this day, this week, of celebration.
His beloved had a name, the slender, demure beauty by his side. They had been true to each other through the year of betrothal. She had planned this event – the location, the guests, the food and drink, the entertainment. They agreed that she had planned it perfectly.
The mother of one of the guests had a name. She was widowed, approaching 50 with wisps of gray hair and an observant eye. She noticed the wine was almost gone. Ending a wedding celebration on the third day would be unheard of - would reflect poorly on the bride and her groom, both of their families, even their whole village.
The servants had names. It was more about a paycheck than a party to them. They filled the glasses and the plates, moving quickly and quietly. They knew exactly how much food and drink had been consumed. They had been hoping to work a full week with this event but clearly the drink wouldn’t last until the end of the day.
“Do what he says.” The gray haired widow commanded the servants, she gestured towards her son. They filled the large pots, each of the three servants making 6 trips to the well, bringing in almost 200 gallons of water. One of the servants filled a cup and headed for the front of the room.
The Master of the Ceremony had a name. He was middle aged, bearded, always cheerful. He was a leader in the synagogue, in the town. He spoke with the voice of the community. He took the cup and drank deeply, tipping it up. There was an authoritative thud as the empty cup landed on the table. A wide smile creased his lined face.
Jesus has a name. He enters this story when asked by his mother. He meets the need, saves the day, almost anonymously. You know this story. You know it well. You can read it in John chapter 2.
You and I have names, we have stories. We have times of joyful celebration. We live through seasons in which our best is not enough and we look outward and upward for help. Each of us naturally sees the story as being about us. And yet, the question is not how Jesus fits into our story, rather how we fit into His.