Ep. Mark 2:18–22 The Bridegroom, the Fast, and the Wineskins

The disciples of John and of the Pharisees were fasting. Then they came and said to Him, ‘Why do the disciples of John and of the Pharisees fast, but Your disciples do not fast?’

And Jesus said to them, ‘Can the friends of the bridegroom fast while the bridegroom is with them? As long as they have the bridegroom with them they cannot fast. But the days will come when the bridegroom will be taken away from them, and then they will fast in those days.

No one sews a piece of unshrunk cloth on an old garment; or else the new piece pulls away from the old, and the tear is made worse. And no one puts new wine into old wineskins; or else the new wine bursts the wineskins, the wine is spilled, and the wineskins are ruined. But new wine must be put into new wineskins.’ Mark 2:18–22, NKJV)

Step Back into the Scene

Travel back with me into Capernaum. The streets are quieter than usual. It’s a fast day. Pharisees walk past with solemn faces, uncombed hair, their hunger on display like a badge of piety. John’s disciples move with the same seriousness, keeping their master’s austere lifestyle alive.

But down one lane, through the open doorway of a crowded house, something doesn’t fit. You hear laughter, clinking cups, the smell of roasted fish and warm bread drifting out into the street. Jesus and His disciples are eating. On a day of mourning, they are feasting. On a day of restraint, they are rejoicing.

The contrast is impossible to ignore. And so the question comes, edged with accusation:

“Why do we and the Pharisees fast often, but Your disciples eat and drink?”

Fasting, Weddings, and Wineskins

For most Jews, fasting was more than personal devotion—it was identity. The Torah only commanded one fast: the Day of Atonement. But by Jesus’ day, Pharisees fasted twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays, making sure everyone could see their devotion. John’s disciples, too, carried fasting as a mark of seriousness. Not to fast was to look careless, unholy, even unpatriotic.

But weddings were the exception. A village wedding was a week of joy, music, and feasting. Even the strictest Pharisee agreed: you don’t fast at a wedding. The groom is present; joy is the law.

So when Jesus says, “Can the friends of the bridegroom fast while He is with them?” He isn’t dodging. He’s declaring. He is the Bridegroom. This moment is the wedding feast. Fasting now would be absurd.

Then comes the warning: “The days will come when the bridegroom will be taken away.” Taken away—violent words, hinting already at the cross. Then, yes, fasting will have its place again. But not today. Not while joy Himself is present.

And then the parables: new cloth on old garments, new wine in old skins. The message is sharp. Jesus hasn’t come to patch up the old religious system. His kingdom is new wine—fermenting, expanding, alive. The brittle skins of Pharisaic tradition can’t contain it. Try to fit Him into their categories, and both will burst.

Bridegroom Language: God in the Flesh

The first readers would not have missed the punch. Calling Himself the Bridegroom wasn’t just a nice metaphor. In Israel’s Scriptures, it was Yahweh Himself who was the bridegroom of His people.

“As the bridegroom rejoices over the bride, so shall your God rejoice over you” (Isaiah 62:5).

“In that day, declares the Lord, you will call me ‘My Husband’” (Hosea 2:16).

The prophets framed God’s covenant with Israel as a marriage, His love as a husband’s devotion. And now Jesus dares to stand in that place. He isn’t just saying His disciples can skip a fast. He’s saying: I am Yahweh, come for my bride. This is the wedding you’ve all been waiting for.

Background: Two Strains of Judaism

By the first century, Judaism wasn’t one stream, but two.

• Mosaic Judaism was rooted in the Law of Moses—Torah, priesthood, temple, sacrifices. It was national, covenantal, handed down from Sinai.

• Exilic Judaism grew up in Babylon, when there was no temple. With sacrifices gone, Jews developed new rhythms—synagogue worship, oral traditions, and strict fasting. Pharisees drew heavily from this stream. They multiplied rules, built fences around the Law, and turned visible devotion into survival tactics.

By Jesus’ day, most Jews lived in a blend of both worlds: temple sacrifices on the one hand, rabbinic rules on the other. But here’s the problem—Pharisaic tradition wasn’t Moses. It was exile theology. And exile theology had hardened into something robotic. Ritual over mercy. Rules over joy.

So when Jesus calls Himself the Bridegroom and dismisses their fasts, He isn’t breaking Moses. He’s breaking Babylon’s grip on Israel’s soul. His kingdom isn’t another layer of rules; it’s the fulfillment Moses pointed to all along.

The Shock for First Readers

For the Pharisees, this was unthinkable. Fasting twice a week was a sacred badge of holiness. To reject it was to reject Israel’s survival playbook. To claim you were the Bridegroom of Israel was to put yourself in God’s place—since in the Old Testament, it was Yahweh who was Israel’s husband.

For John’s disciples, it was confusing. They longed for the Messiah, but they couldn’t imagine devotion without asceticism. Joy felt suspicious.

And for the crowds, it was electric. A rabbi who turned fasting days into feasts? Who claimed God’s wedding banquet had begun? Who warned that the old ways couldn’t stretch to hold the new? No wonder people followed Him—and no wonder the leaders hated Him.

What Feels Strange to Us

We miss the scandal. For us, fasting is private, optional. But in their world, it was public, defining, and national. To skip it was to look disloyal to God and country.

We miss the sting of Jesus’ “bridegroom” claim. To them, that was Yahweh language. He wasn’t comparing Himself to a nice groom at a village wedding—He was claiming to be the covenant God in flesh.

And we miss the tragedy in Luke’s add-on:

“No one, after drinking old wine, wants the new. He says, ‘The old is better.’” 

We assume new = better. They clung to old = safe. And we do the same when we choose comfortable tradition over risky joy.

Application

This story slices through every layer of religion.

If you’re a Pharisee at heart, hear the warning: you may be mistaking tradition for truth. Twice-a-week fasting looked holy, but it was Babylon’s invention, not God’s command. Jesus won’t be crammed into your wineskin of respectability. He breaks skins. He spills old wine. He refuses to be your patch job.

If you’re like John’s disciples—sincere but confused—hear the invitation: joy is not your enemy. Mourning has its place, but the Bridegroom is here. His kingdom is not a funeral march but a wedding dance.

And if you’re standing in the crowd, torn between the fasting faces and the feasting disciples, hear the decision: cling to the old, and you’ll miss the kingdom. Say “the old is better,” and you’ll die in exile. But embrace the new wine, and you’ll find yourself at the wedding feast of God.

I know this tension firsthand. My wife grew up in a very conservative holiness tradition where alcohol was absolutely forbidden. Drinking equaled sin. For her, that was the air she breathed, the world she knew.

But I grew up different. My stepfather was French Canadian, and wine was simply part of life. At family meals, even the kids were given a splash—sometimes watered down—but it was normal, not scandalous. I never grew up thinking a sip of wine was wrong. And when I studied Scripture, I saw that the Bible warned against drunkenness, but it never forbade drinking.

That cultural clash came to a head when my dad once sent me a package with a small bottle of cognac in it. For my wife, that was nearly a dealbreaker for marriage. Later, after I’d entered ministry, my parents came to visit. They brought a bottle of wine, slipped it into our fridge without telling me. When I opened the door and saw it, my stomach dropped. I knew that if a parishioner from that holiness tradition ever walked in and saw it there, my ministry would be over in an instant.

Even later, after I planted a church on my own—outside any denomination, supposedly free of those rules—the same spirit showed up again. People would attend our church and insist I draw lines Scripture never drew. They wanted me to go further than the Bible went, to treat wine itself as sin rather than what God actually said. Different context, same wineskin.

That’s when it hit me: you can walk away from a denomination, but you can’t escape the Pharisee spirit if people still cling to it. The wineskin follows you. And unless you’re willing to stand with Jesus—the Bridegroom who brings joy—you’ll always be trapped by traditions that add burdens where God never placed them.

Final Gut-Punch

Maybe your wineskin isn’t alcohol. Maybe it’s worship music. Or politics. Or the image of “respectable Christianity” you guard more tightly than the gospel. Whatever it is, Jesus won’t fit in it. He’s the Bridegroom. He’s the new wine. And He will burst your skin if you try to keep Him boxed in.

The question still stands: are you clinging to the old because it feels safe—or will you risk everything for the joy of the wedding feast?