In a visually saturated world, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed and become desensitized to beauty. Visio Divina, Latin for “divine seeing,” encourages us to slow down and engage in visual contemplation, using art as a profound tool for connecting with the Divine.

A Guide to Visio Divina

Begin by making the sign of the cross and inviting the Holy Spirit to guide your contemplation. Spend a moment meditating on The Marriage at Cana, ca. 1530-32, by Jan Cornelisz Vermeyen, located at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. Then read John 2:1-11.

Background

Jan Cornelisz Vermeyen was born in 1500 in the Netherlands. As a child, he watched his father paint and eventually followed in his footsteps to become an artist himself. In 1525, he began his career by painting for Margaret of Austria, the governor of the Netherlands, and later for her successor, Mary of Hungary. He also worked for Margaret’s nephew, Charles V, who became King of Spain and then Holy Roman Emperor. Painting for the royal and imperial families, Vermeyen became a highly regarded portraitist. He was also skilled in printmaking and tapestry design.

The artistic movement of his time and region was known as Romanism, a style that blended the Italian Renaissance influence with the rich Dutch and Flemish painting traditions. Unfortunately, much of his religious artwork was destroyed during the iconoclastic upheavals of the Protestant Reformation. His work is remembered for its expressiveness, attention to detail, and masterful use of light and shadow, through a technique called chiaroscuro.

Enter In

After the wedding, everyone gathers for dinner to celebrate the newly married couple. As the sun sets, guests take their places at intimate round tables, the candlelight’s soft glow gradually illuminating smiling faces. Servants weave through the crowd, delivering plates of food and glasses of wine. The atmosphere is joyful and light, the wine adding a gentle warmth to the evening’s merriment.

At one table, you see Jesus sitting beside His Mother and a few of His disciples. Nearby, a musician strums a lyre-like instrument with a soft and inviting melody. Laughter rises as glasses are raised in celebration, clinking together in shared delight. But as you step closer, the warmth of their smiles fade, replaced with looks of concern and confusion.

A servant in white hurries to Mary’s side, whispering urgently that they’ve run out of wine. Mary turns to her Son. Jesus doesn’t seem to share the concern and responds with a curious question. She doesn’t argue, but calmly turns to the servants and says, “Do whatever He tells you.”

Behind, movement stirs. Servants rush to fill large stone jars with water, setting them near the table. Jesus gives quiet instruction: pour and serve.

As they tilt the jars, you notice that the water has become a deep red. One servant carries a glass to the head waiter, who lifts it to his lips and pauses in surprise. No longer water, but wine. And not just any wine, the best.

Vermeyen offers a unique, intimate vision of the Wedding Feast at Cana, through soft candlelight, close-knit proximity, and a slightly elevated perspective that makes the viewer feel a part of the scene. Close enough to catch the whispered crisis, we witness the moment the feast’s joy begins to shift.

Upon hearing the news, Mary, dressed in red and blue, twists around to see for herself—visibly engaged in the unfolding conflict. When she looks to Jesus for help, He replies, “Woman, how does your concern affect me?” Though jarring to modern ears, Venerable Fulton Sheen explains that “woman” was a formal and respectful way of speaking: “He now addressed her, not as ‘Mother’ but as the ‘Universal Mother’ or ‘Woman’” (Sheen, 78).

Then, Jesus adds, “My hour has not yet come.” He knows Mary is asking for a miracle, but it would be His first public miracle, and revealing Himself publicly would begin the path that leads to His Passion. As Sheen writes, “The moment He showed Himself before men as the Son of God, He would draw upon Himself their hatred” (Sheen, 78). Jesus’ words and posture reflect a moment of inner hesitation because “His mother … was virtually pronouncing a sentence of death over Him” (Sheen, 78).

Looking more closely at the guests around the table, just behind the musician, two men appear deep in conversation. The man on the left, dressed in gold, with gray hair and defined features, resembles Peter—the eldest disciple. Leaning in beside him is a slightly younger man, clothed in modest red and green garments with gentler features, believed to be Andrew, Peter’s brother and fellow disciple of Christ.

At the table’s center sits a beardless man in white and red—John the Evangelist, the youngest disciple. He gestures toward the meal’s main course: a roasted duck placed beside a roasted lamb. John deliberately points at the lamb, but his eyes remain fixed on Jesus.

Seated between John and Jesus, and directly across from Mary, is a woman in red. Her face is calm, perhaps even unfazed, her gaze steady and intent on Christ—Mary Magdalene. With John and the Virgin Mary, she is among those seated closest to Jesus—the same three who would one day mourn Him at the foot of the Cross.

Reflection

In Vermeyen’s The Marriage at Cana, the importance of shared food and drink at a celebration is shown through Mary’s quiet concern when the wine runs dry. More wine was necessary to sustain the joy of the gathering: “A marriage feast is an occasion for much joy; and the wine is served as a symbol of that joy” (Sheen, 75).

But there is more happening here than just replenishing wine—and John seems to notice. His gesture in the painting suggests more than simple participation in a meal; it shows his recognition of Christ’s choice to reveal Himself. John realizes this decision will come at a cost: a lesser sacrifice that foreshadows a far greater one. He sees Jesus for who He truly is—the Lamb of God, the Sacrificial Lamb.

Food and drink have a way of bringing people together— especially when paired with a shared love of something, a reason to gather, a celebration worth holding. They mark moments of joy, communion, and connection. The wine may have saved the celebration, but the Lamb is what will save the world.

Every Sunday, we are invited into a similar kind of feast. At Mass—like in the painting—Jesus enters the ordinary. He meets us at the altar, offering us what were bread and wine—His Body and Blood. We are invited to eat and drink—not alone, but together, united by a shared love for the One who offers Himself to us. And again, a miracle takes place, joy is sustained, and something ordinary becomes eternal. ✣

This article appeared in the September 2025 edition of The Catholic Telegraph Magazine. For your complimentary subscription, click here.