This I Believe

WATER INTO WINE

In May of the year my husband died, I returned to my work as a minister at a Congregational Church in Arizona. Nothing unusual in that, except that I was a woman in a profession from which women had been excluded for two thousand years.

I sat in my office enjoying the view outside my window–a desert scene of manzanita brush and hearty wildflowers–thinking of the NEW TESTAMENT story about Jesus transforming water into wine at a wedding in Cana.

I heard a knock at the church door and opened it to a small man in grimy clothes. “Where’s the preacher?” he asked. “I got these troubles. Need money.”

“I’m the minister here,” I said. “I can offer you some. . .”

He took a step back, as if confronted by the evil eye. “You ain’t no minister! I wanna see the REAL minister!”

“I assure. . .” I started.

“You’re a WOMAN, for Christ’s sake!” he shouted.

I held on to the doorjamb, trying to look clerical. “Well, yes, but. . .”

“I can’t talk to you. You ain’t even got a Bible.” He took some furious breaths and moved unsteadily away.

I’d been challenged before. Earlier that year, at an ecumenical service, an Anglican priest had muttered to the other clergy that I was wearing a reversed clerical stole. “I’ve never approved of women clergy anyway,” he added, opening his hymnal to sing “In Christ There Is No East or West.”

* * *

People take me to be more of a renegade than I take myself to be. I’m a plain schoolteacher type, brown eyes behind glasses. I never intend to irritate people; I’d always dreamed of being a movie star. Still, I wear upside down stoles, and I’m critical of the church I’ve served. For one thing, Christians can exclude people, fight with each other, and obstruct progressive change. And, I despise the watery safe sermons I’ve heard (and given myself). Most shocking of all: I cannot believe Jesus was a savior sent to redeem the sinful world.

On the other hand, the church stands in the midst of our gas stations and fast-food outlets as a place where goodness is promoted. Water is transformed into wine within its walls. I was there and saw it. In John Upkike’s novel, A MONTH OF SUNDAYS, I read that the churchs should “let its adamantine walls explode, releasing us to the soft desert air.” I don’t agree. In churches people try to transform their lives into nutritious rich wine. I think the radical Jesus would be pleased.

After my husband’d Memorial Service, a church friend, Charlotte, came to my door with a chocolate sheet-cake. “They say it’s a ‘Better than Sex’ cake,” she said. We laughed. Water into wine.