This week's readings come fromIsaiah 62:1-5 and John 2:1-11.

Isaiah 62 is filled with the promise of restoration for Zion. The prophet speaks of a future where desolation is replaced by delight, and a broken people are given a new name and identity: 'You shall be called My Delight Is in Her, and your land Married' (v. 4). It affirms a vision of God's faithful, unrelenting work to bring His purposes to fruition - a global, geopolitical assurance that history has meaning, and that God's plans will not be thwarted.

But how does this immense promise connect with the much smaller concerns of the individual and domestic? How can we meaningfully talk about when, and how, God is at work in our daily lives? John's account of the wedding at Cana bridges this gap beautifully. Here, Jesus' first miracle - turning water into wine - reveals the power and care of God in an ordinary moment: that heartsinking moment when you realise you've forgotten to do something really important, and it's too late to do anything about it.  Luckily on this occasion Jesus, God incarnate, was on hand to do something incredible.

Rather than being a reassurance, though, when we try and relate to moments like these in the gospels, often further questions are raised. Many of us long for unmistakable signs of God's power, moments where the divine breaks into the mundane in miraculous ways. Yet, the reality of our experiences often feels more complex. What about the prayers that seem unanswered? Or the moments when one person's gain, or answered prayer, seems to come at another's loss?  

The wedding at Cana is a straightforward miracle: a family is saved from social embarrassment, and no one appears to lose out. But in 'real life', our stories often involve tangled webs of cause and effect that are harder to understand. Imagine if this wedding had played out a different way - if there had been two wine suppliers in Cana on the brink of liquidation (no pun intended), praying desperately for a big order to keep them afloat, and a local wedding suddenly discovers they're running dry. One of them is likely to receive a 'miraculous' call that answers their prayer, but the other is going out of business... 

It's not unusual to hear people tell stories of miracles like that, in which they, or someone close to them, got the order, or the job, or the winning goal, after praying for it. Often, though, those stories are told without recognising that they're also affirming that God intentionally caused someone else to miss out on those things in that moment.  Now, it certainly is within the bounds of our faith to view both sides of such outcomes as part of God's will - even as good - trusting that we cannot foresee the long-term consequences of either (our imaginary failed vintner may discover a new and happier calling as a vet, say); the intricate webs of causality implied are undoubtedly within God's infinite capacity to navigate.  If, though, we choose to make those sorts of claims our focus, we should do so knowing the complexities they can raise, and ask ourselves whether, given the capriciousness and incidental suffering they may seem to imply on the part of God, they truly are a useful focus for us in understanding Him, or ourselves - or being able to share our faith with others.

There is another layer to the story of Cana, though, that may offer us a more helpful and relatable perspective from which to share our experiences of God at work. This layer focuses on the transformation not only of water into wine, but also of Jesus himself in that moment. His initial response to his mother is presented here in a less than flattering light - as reticent, insolent, and preferring to put off until tomorrow the things that can be done today: 'Woman, what concern is that to you and me?  My hour has not yet come!'  (I suspect I'm not alone in at times having exhibited those same responses to the prompts not only of God, but of those around me.) 

It is precisely these things of the heart that get transformed alongside the water.  When Jesus acts upon the promptings of God, made manifest to him through the mediations of another human being, he himself becomes transformed: from onlooker to participant, from reticent to active, from hidden to revealed.  Jesus' disciples believe in him as the wine becomes sacramental, an outward sign of an inward grace.  

This story invites us to ask not only where we see God's miraculous activity in the world, but also where we see it transforming our own hearts and lives. Do we notice growth in the fruits of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control? How has knowing we are loved by God shaped our attitudes, relationships, and worldview? What experiences have been key to this growth? When have we been empowered to help others, even becoming part of the answer to our own prayers? 

If we begin to recognise the answers to these questions, then rather than trying to explain the intricacies of divine intervention in the wider world - where outcomes often remain a mystery to us - we can speak with integrity about how we've experienced God's presence in our own lives. These become not only our personal stories to be treasured, but stories that we can use to invite others into the hope of restoration that Isaiah proclaims and that Jesus manifests at Cana. When we share these personal stories of transformation, they carry an authenticity that resonates deeply. They remind us that the God who has history in hand also has our lives in His care, bringing transformation, discovery, and growth.

So let's be mindful not only of the grand purposes of God, but also recognize His subtle, transforming presence in our everyday.  Let's be bold in sharing the discoveries we make with others, as we tell our stories. And let us always pray, with honesty and hope: How might I fill the cup of my heart with the water of life, that I may become the wine of the Kingdom?