Jesus said, “The truth will set you free.” Plato urged us to “have the courage to speak the truth.” And Orwell pointed out that “in a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” However, on this matter, I find Mark Twain much more convincing: “If you tell the truth, you won’t have to remember anything.”
I’m late writing my usual Saturday column for my friends at The American Spectator. If I wanted to sound good, I’d tell you it was a domestic accident, that I went hiking and was eaten by a bear, that I was abducted by an alien spaceship on my morning walk, or even that I’d been called up to the Spanish National Football Team for the World Cup and was preparing for the match against Saudi Arabia. But the truth is much less heroic: I’ve had a hangover for four days now, so immense that not even Winston Churchill, Ernest Hemingway, and Hunter Biden combined could match it. The surprising thing is that, despite faithfully following Mark Twain’s postulate, I’m telling the truth and still can’t remember a thing.
Three days ago, one of my best friends got married. Since the wedding was held in La Coruña, in Northwest Spain, and most of the guests came from Madrid, they organized a pre-wedding party the day before. This is a modern invention consisting of getting the guests drunk enough the day before so that at the wedding reception, everyone wants to drink sparkling water and non-alcoholic soft drinks, thus reducing the terrible expenses of the bride and groom on free wine and drinks. I suppose my friends tried to do it this way, but it didn’t work. Everyone was completely drunk at the pre-wedding party and got drunk again the next day at the wedding.
I’ve always interpreted the miracle at Cana as a kind of sanctification of joy.
You might think this is a rather wild way to get married, almost disrespectful to the bride, the groom, and the ceremony. I couldn’t disagree more. There, as Chesterton taught us, we drink because we are happy, never because we are miserable. Although you might think it was a huge pagan festival with hallucinogenic brews, strange rituals, and human sacrifices, the truth is that the collective drunkenness only brought to mind the Wedding at Cana. As you’ll recall, the Virgin Mary, always attentive to what matters in our lives, tells Jesus that they’ve run out of wine and the wedding isn’t over yet. Jesus tries in vain to get out of the commitment, claiming that his time hasn’t come yet. But Mary, who is both Virgin and mother, completely ignores him and says, “Do whatever he tells you.” Obviously, Jesus ends up performing the miracle of the wine, which will be the first of his public ministry.
There are many amusing things in this passage. First, that the Virgin is worried about the wine running out, which could dampen the ceremony. Then, that she confidently asks Jesus for a miracle that, just so you understand, isn’t world peace, or raising Lazarus from the dead, or anything like that, but rather what many would consider a frivolity. And the mother-son scene, where the boy tries to avoid performing in front of so many people, and the mother simply ignores his excuses and forces him to do it, reminds me so much of when my mother is determined to get something from me: no matter what I do, I know she’ll get it, however much I resist.
And on a theological level, if you’ll allow me to intrude into an area outside my expertise, I’ve always interpreted the miracle at Cana as a kind of sanctification of joy. Christianity has never been a sad religion. On the contrary, it is the religion of joy. And joy, in this case, the joy of a wedding, is more important than many other things that Catholics consider essential in our creed. I’m often surprised that God hasn’t dedicated a commandment of God’s law to joy. We Catholics have an obligation to be happy, even in the midst of this vale of tears.
Now, after three days of celebrations, laughter, toasts, emotions, dancing, and hugs, after three days of blessing a beautiful love story between two people I admire and love, I have only one objection, one plea, I would almost say a demand: I want them to get married again. Perhaps this is the first time in my life that a wedding hasn’t felt long, embarrassing, and tiring. Let us celebrate, then, my friend, the love of good people. And afterward (do as I do), let us blame the damned devil for the hangover.
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