The good news catches us by surprise; John 2:1-11; February 22, 2026

Lent is traditionally practiced as a season of repentance.

Repentance is a word often associated with severity, austerity, and sobriety.

And of course - we do encounter moments in our own lives when it is appropriate to have a clear-eyed reckoning with poor behavior, a harmful error, or destructive habits.

But what if the groundwork for any size moment of sober self-examination is best laid with gentleness, not terror?

In many stories at the beginning of the gospels we hear Jesus calling onlookers and would be disciples to repentance. We hear him telling his disciples to follow him, to take up his work and his example.

We’d be forgiven for assuming that after proclaiming the onset of repentance, the story would veer toward rigorous purification rituals or plunge into ash heaps of recrimination. 

But in our scripture passage today, Jesus’s first miraculous sign draws us nearer to the tender heart of human vulnerability, in a quiet act of protection and provision. 

Our passage opens with an oh-so-relatable exchange between Jesus and his mother. Jesus may be the son of God eternal, but he is the son of Mary while he’s here on earth, and she firmly enlists him for her purposes. She knows that if a family hosting a traditional multi-day wedding party runs out of food or wine halfway through, it would be humiliating, a stain of shame on an incredibly important celebration. She also knows what the rest of the people in the story don’t know yet - Mary knows that Jesus is capable of miraculous provision.

We don’t know why Jesus is hesitant at first, but Mary doesn’t entertain his refusal. With a knowing look, she confidently tells the servants - do whatever he tells you to do.

And without another word, Jesus obeys his mother. Since infancy, Mary has been raising Jesus, steeped in the Jewish prophetic tradition, certain of the justice and abundance of God, the liberation and joy that mark God’s coming. She knows who God is. She knows Jesus will follow through with kindness and generosity. She’s right.

This miracle isn’t about more for the sake of more. It’s not a miracle of excess. 

Jesus’s first miracle is a response to Mary’s loving, humane plea. He quietly saves a happy couple, a celebrating family, from humiliation and shame. He shields their vulnerability with provision, a physical manifestation of God’s longstanding promise — I’ll turn your mourning into dancing. 

Far from either squelching the party, or scolding someone for not being prepared, God shows up in this story as exuberant, and protective. Our Lenten focus on repentance begins with this revelation - we’ll need to expand our minds to make room for God’s goodness.

What becomes instructive or exemplary for us is first how we can receive tenderness like this ourselves, but also, how we can participate in it. 

Consider a moment - in your real life, when you witnessed the vulnerable being protected and provided for.

I think about the volunteers who have been waiting outside the Whipple Building these past few months. Every time one of our neighbors is released, without a coat, without their IDs or phones, without a ride home, a group of volunteers is there to greet them with physical and emotional warmth, a temporary phone, and a ride home to their waiting loved ones. 

Consider - when have you been the conduit of grace or protection for someone else?

I know this room is full of stories of comfort extended - to loved ones, students, patients. I know this room is full of decency and service - to clients of all kinds, to people in need of food or housing or honesty in business dealings. I know this room is full of stories of lunches made, skinned knees kissed, and bed time stories. 

Consider — when you have needed, and received, a quiet act of care, offered behind the scenes and without fanfare, a gentle alleviation of shame or humiliation?

These stories probably lie closer to our hearts, we’re a little slower to share them right now, more precious with the vulnerability of our need, more appreciative of the loved ones, friends, strangers, who covered us when we were running low. 

I recently heard a human interest story on the radio about a journalist suffering from claustrophobia. One day he arrived at his recording studio as usual, needing to get up to the 16th floor. But he was having a terrible time with his claustrophobia that day. A burly, no nonsense doorman noticed his distress. Quickly intuiting what was happening he said, “Sir, I’d be happy to ride up with you. If you need to hold my hand, I’d be happy to do that too.” Dan, the journalist, was much relieved by the offer. Bari, the doorman, didn’t need to take Dan’s hand, but he rode up to the 16th floor with him, re-directing his attention and relieving his fear by chatting amiably about his family and friends. For years now, whenever Dan goes to this building to record, whether he’s having a good day or a bad day with his claustrophobia, Bari rides the elevator with him. 

In the stories I’ve told, in the stories you’ve witnessed, tend and prune the faith and love that enabled them – believe in the benevolence threaded throughout. Be moved by demonstrations of dignity and protection. Let whatever is exemplary solidify, point you toward God, and plant new seeds of possibility in your mind.

For some of us, noticing human kindness is well and good, but a call to change our minds about the nature of God may feel like a bit too much. Maybe, in a prior religious setting, God’s goodness has been extended toward you as a bait and switch - God is only good so long as you stay in line, but that tenderness can be withdrawn in the blink of an eye if you make a mistake or harbor a doubt. 

For you, for all of us, the foundational repentance of Lent is to allow a tendril, a mustard seed of possibility, that maybe God is the one who extends the Divine essence toward us in moments of beauty, goodness, and care. We as human beings do run out of grace, we do run out of the proverbial wine before the party’s finished. But God is in the business of attending to our vulnerabilities. God anticipates our needs with blessing and renewal. So I invite you to begin this season of repentance. Change your mind a little bit. Even a tiny, quiet yes, a few fingers uncurled toward the acceptance of what’s good, sets us on the road toward looking for God’s care around every corner. I pray that we may become, ultimately, like Mary - certain that God is willing and able to act on God’s promises and fill us right up to the brim.