“I’m running on empty.”
How many of us have heard or said something like these words in just the last few weeks? The past two years have taken so much from us—from each and every one of us. They’ve taken our health, our loved ones, our lives, our hope. The pandemic has sapped away so much of our energy—our will to live. It’s drained away so much of our joy. And now, as yet another variant of the virus rages around us, we’re seeing the tiny glimpses of “normal” that we’d caught slip away before our eyes. And it’s crushing.
It’s understandable that we would feel desolate, worn down, forsaken. This is hard. It’s so, so hard. The heartbreak from canceling plans and refusing hugs. The sadness from covering our lips that long to smile and sing. The exhaustion from trying to nurture our children in the midst of this storm. The frustration from struggling to keep patients alive. It’s okay to feel like you’ve got nothing left to give to feel like you’re running on empty. Because our emptiness is not the end. The story doesn’t end when our wells run dry
“Emptiness” probably isn’t one of the first words we’d associate with today’s Gospel. Artistic depictions of the Wedding at Cana usually emphasize the plentiful bounty at the end of the story, the jars full of water that’s turned into wine, the joy and the wonder when Jesus saves the day. But before that—before we get to the gallons on gallons of delectable drink—before that, there is emptiness. There’s emptiness in the banquet hall—in the cups of those thirsty wedding feast guests.
Anyone who’s hosted a party where the drinks have run out will know something of the feeling the chief steward must have felt. But John’s Gospel points us deeper: to more than the crisis of a mid-party liquor store run. Through his image of the guests’ empty cups, John is painting a picture of a spiritual dryness, of the moment we learn that what we have — it just isn’t enough.
The wine just gave out. The bounty they thought they had dries up before they’ve reached the finish line. They’re running a different course than what we face today, but much like us, they’re running on empty too. And what’s more, there doesn’t even seem to be help on the horizon. The wine is truly gone, and the only containers left on the scene are these six hulking, stone jars. At the best of times these would be filled with water, not wine. They wouldn’t exactly give the thirsty guests what they need. But even these haven’t been filled. They’re there, but they do nothing to quench the thirst of the crowd.
Until, that is, God intervenes.
At Jesus’ word, these jars are “filled to the brim.” The shadow of emptiness vanishes, as water cascades into them, filling them up until they nearly overflow. Last week we saw Jesus master the primordial waters of creation. In his baptism he conquered the terrifying depths of the flood. By his royal presence, he sanctified that ancient symbol of death and the unknown. And today? Today we see those waters used for our transformation. Not only does God promise they won’t overwhelm us, today they turn into the river of his delight.
Jesus fills the jars with the waters of his love and pours out gallons of wine for the wedding guests. He fills their hearts and their cups with wine that’s even better than what they had before. In the moment when all that they had has run out, the guests at the wedding of this bridegroom in Cana are showered with an unexpected and absurdly abundant joy. Jesus replenishes their emptiness and quenches their thirst giving freely from his delight in the ones that he loves.
And Jesus fills our hearts—so dry and empty today as our strength gives out—he fills our hearts with the joys of his love. At the word of our heavenly Bridegroom and savior, we are filled to the brim with the water of our baptism and the gift of his Spirit. God delights in us—in me; in you; in each and every one of us—even in the midst—especially in the midst—of our dryness. When we have nothing left of our own to give, he offers us himself and nourishes us from his well of life. He pours out gallons of grace into our hearts and reveals his glory by filling us with love.
Many of us are running on empty, friends. The pandemic—the world in general right now—is pushing us to our limits to the edge of what we have it in us to handle. The frustration, exhaustion, sadness, and heartbreak are real. And by the logic of the world around us, many of us would be well within our rights to give up. But we know—the Gospel today shows us—that the story doesn’t end when our wells run dry.
The real end of the story is an abundance of God’s delight in us. An abundance that comes from Christ. It doesn’t just rest on our efforts. It doesn’t depend on how far we can push ourselves. When we are running on empty, when our own efforts have given out, God promises to meet us; to inundate our lives with Water and Spirit; to nourish our weary hearts with streams of love and new life. “We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness… We will know peace… We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.”
Thanks be to God.