Why the events at Cana went down in history
PAUL JOHNSON ne of the reasons I believe the New Testament and regard it as an accurate record of those strange events nearly two millennia ago is its little touches of verisimilitude, of a kind the evangelists could not possibly have invented, even had they possessed the imaginative genius of a Shakespeare. A characteristic example is the story of the marriage feast at Cana, told by St John in ten terse verses in the second chapter of his Gospel. He describes it as 'this beginning of miracles', and one may well wonder why Jesus of Nazareth should have chosen to begin his career as a worker of wonders by a trivial piece of thaumaturgy enacted for the purely social reason of saving embarrassment.
But then Jesus did not choose. And this is the first note of truth about the episode. It was his mother who chose. One of the parties to the marriage, perhaps both, were family friends of hers, and I surmise that Jesus and his followers attended at her request, perhaps reluctantly, for it is clear that he did not wish to be identified too closely with the occasion. And can one blame him? Any bridegroom so inept as to invite a lot of people to his wedding and then fail to calculate how much wine they were sure to consume is not a person one would wish to provide the background to one's first public appearance. So when the Virgin Mary said to him, 'They have no wine,' with the obvious inference, 'Do something about it — I know you can,' he was brusque to the point of rudeness. 'Woman, what have Ito do with thee? Mine hour is not yet come.' This is an extraordinary reply for a loving son to make to his mother. Who has ever used the term 'woman' to a lady except under the stress of unbearable irritation?
The classic case occurs in chapter 13 of Trollope's best novel, The Last Chronicle of Barset, when the Revd Josiah Crawley, Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock, having been falsely accused of stealing, is summoned before his bishop, Dr Proudie. Their conversation, which they felt should be private, is imperiously invaded by Mrs Proudie, and she constantly interrupts both with inflammatory remarks, until the poor curate is driven to exclaim, 'Peace, woman!' We are told: 'The bishop jumped out of his chair at hearing the wife of his bosom called a woman. But he jumped rather in admiration than in anger.'
Now Jesus was not subjected to such provocation. Indeed, though clearly irritated, in so far as the Son of God can be irritated — perhaps 'nettled' is a better word, or even 'ruffled' — he does exactly what his mother asks. Moreover she clearly assumes he will do it when, without further words between them, she says to the servants, 'Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.' This is the second point of verisimilitude. Jesus, having expressed his pique in no uncertain way and said, authoritatively, 'Mine hour is not yet come,' changes his mind and alters his whole plan of campaign, obviously because he loves his mother and feels guilty at upsetting her by his blunt refusal and use of the word 'woman'.
He not only changes his mind and decides his time is come, but does so in a big way, and performs a miracle which, in quantitative terms, is indeed remarkable. It is his idea to get the six huge stone vats, used for purifying ablutions, and have them filled 'to the brim'. Then, though we are not actually told this, he changes the water into wine. And what wine! The governor of the feast (I prefer this title to the modem translation of 'steward', which seems to me plain wrong) pronounces it excellent, and being a PooBah type and in his bossy role of telling the hosts whether what they are providing is satisfactory or not, has the nerve to declare their behaviour unusual in keeping the best wine till the last. What would the fellow have said if the wine actually had run out?
As it was, the guests not only received the best vintage stuff but as much of it as they could possibly drink. There were six vats, and each held 'two or three firkins'. The experts say this means between 20 and 30 gallons. A gallon means eight bottles, so Jesus provided the revellers with anything up to 1,500 bottles of good (i.e. strong) wine, though they had already drunk up everything originally provided. How many guests were there? We don't know. But whatever the number, it is obvious the invitees would have been well lit by the time Mary, Jesus and his men took their discreet departure. Cana was a little town upon a rocky hill overlooking the Sea of Galilee, and most of the guests would have arrived by boat. I conclude there would have been some stumbling on the way back to the shore, and much unusual rowing and catching of crabs before night drew a veil over this memorable scene.
That brings me to my third point of verisimilitude. Jesus may have intended his first miracle to take place on a more dignified and proper occasion, one in which the beneficiaries would have been the sick, the unfortunate and the poor, rather than thirsty revellers at a nuptial party where, in the 1st century Al) as today, the tipsy jokes were likely to be unseemly for virginal and godly ears. But if, with hindsight, Jesus had been looking for an occasion likely to advertise the opening of his mission, he could not have picked a better one.
It is an unfortunate fact of human nature that parties where things go wrong are more likely to be remembered than shindigs where all goes smoothly. The painter Benjamin Haydon's hilarious account of the 'celebration' Hazlitt held to mark the baptism of his son is a notable case in point. It was gruesome. But it left its mark on literary history. Similarly, I recall an occasion when I was an undergraduate 60 years ago when a rather pretentious chap in my college gave a party to celebrate, as he put it, `the Glorious First of June'. He sent out beautiful gold and blue invitation cards but failed to provide champagne, or anything else, in equally lavish quantities. What with gatecrashers etc., the booze ran out early in the evening, and the event went down in Oxford folklore as `the Glorious Thirst of June'. We relish and wittily recall such fiascos. But we also remember parties when the drinks are unexpectedly jolly and plentiful. At Cana, the marks were hit with both barrels, and there could not have been a more talked-of launch to a career of wonder. That is why St John put it in, and I believe every word of it. Oh, and by the way, were the bride and groom happy? Did the Cana marriage end in divorce? We don't know or, I suspect, care. But we remember the business about the wine. Such is life.
Previous page
