followed was the witnessing of the cheder yichud. The new husband and wife were ushered alone into a closed room and left there together, which act concluded the legal requirements of the marriage.
Meanwhile the party began in earnest.
Apparently while I had been dealing with my sister Mary, fully half of the Galil had joined the festivities. Apart from the pilgrim feasts in Jerusalem, I had never seen such a boisterous, exuberant crowd. Platters of roasted meat held aloft by servants disappeared into the throngs and reappeared moments after, miraculously empty as by some conjuring trick.
Calls for “Wine! More wine, here!” echoed and reechoed around the community. Hiram of Rumah, standing beside me, noted, “That wine of yours, David? Excellent. Exceptional. Too bad it’s already gone.”
“Already?”
Hiram nodded, waving his arm over the mob that swarmed the village like locusts, even spilling down the hill into the orchards. “I don’t think the wedding party expected this.”
It was clear that the families of the bride and groom were disconcerted. I observed them from a distance, their heads together in animated conversation with the servants and the cooks. Much gesturing and finger-pointing followed.
Nor was there any letup in the cries of “More wine, here!”
At the far side of the scene stood Jesus of Nazareth, a nearby torch illuminating him, though all around was in shadow. Beside him was a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman, whom I took to be his mother by the similarity of their features. That she was entreating him to do something was evident by her earnest, imploring look.
What could he possibly do to remedy this situation?
Involuntarily, I moved closer to see what would happen. I had heard that Jesus was a carpenter by trade. Could that information be wrong? Was he, perhaps, a merchant, with storehouses of wine that could be opened in an instant?
I saw Jesus shake his head, but he was smiling gently.
Proving that she did not take his refusal to heart, his mother summoned a squad of servants to her side. Gathering them around her as if she were the mother hen and they the chicks, she extended both hands. First she waved toward them and then in the direction of her son. Her command was clear: “Do whatever he tells you.”
Jesus took the lead, marching ahead of the servants, who trailed along in evident confusion. I followed the file as it disappeared into the darkness down the hill, lighting their way with a pair of torches.
We soon came to a place with a well. The small, level plaza was surrounded by a ring of tall, stone jars designed to hold water for ceremonial cleansing. Each would contain some thirty gallons.
From a distance close enough to observe and yet not be seen, I heard Jesus say to the servants, “Fill the jars with water.”
“But, sir …,” one of them protested.
It was not a servant’s place to question orders, but I know the attendants were as confused as I was. What was he doing? What could this exercise possibly accomplish?
The servants dropped the leather bag for drawing water into the well, then hoisted it aloft. Each pouch contained no more than five gallons at a time. The task Jesus gave them to fulfill was not easily or quickly accomplished. The women filled one jar, then hesitated. Surely he did not mean for them to fill all six! How would that remedy the problem?
“Sir, we have trays of food waiting …”
When Jesus did not reply, the servants understood he had not changed his mind. He meant for them to continue.
Five gallons drawn from the depths of the well. Cranked aloft, each was carried to a stone jar and emptied. Six jars. Six waterskins each. Thirty-six trips from well to jars until water sloshed out the top of each.
Satisfied at last that his design had been fulfilled, Jesus said to the head of the group, “Now draw some out and take it to the master of the feast.”
“But, sir!” the woman argued.
Once again, Jesus met the dissension with silent firmness.
With one of the empty wine pitchers in hand, the lead attendant shrugged. By loud sighs and rolls of her head and shoulders, she conveyed to her colleagues that the one giving the instructions was crazy, but what could you do?
She dipped the pitcher into the first stone container and filled it. She turned and marched with the stiff-backed dignity of manifest disapproval back toward the feast. Stepping back into the shadows, I waited until the servants had passed, then I returned to