The Landscape of Lent: Water

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March 23, 2014 -- The 3rd Sunday in Lent

John 4:5-29 

⁵So Jesus came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph.⁶Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon.

⁷A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” ⁸(His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.) ⁹The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?” (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.) ¹⁰Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.” ¹¹The woman said to him, “Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? ¹²Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?” ¹³Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, ¹⁴but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” ¹⁵The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.”

¹⁶Jesus said to her, “Go, call your husband, and come back.” ¹⁷The woman answered him, “I have no husband.” Jesus said to her, “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband’ ¹⁸for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband. What you have said is true!” ¹⁹The woman said to him, “Sir, I see that you are a prophet. ²⁰Our ancestors worshiped on this mountain, but you say that the place where people must worship is in Jerusalem.” ²¹Jesus said to her, “Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. ²²You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews. ²³But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father seeks such as these to worship him. ²⁴God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.” ²⁵The woman said to him, “I know that the Messiah is coming” (who is called Christ). “When he comes, he will proclaim all things to us.” ²⁶Jesus said to her, “I am he, the one who is speaking to you.”

²⁷Just then his disciples came. They were astonished that he was speaking with a woman, but no one said, “What do you want?” or, “Why are you speaking with her?” ²⁸Then the woman left her water jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, ²⁹“Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?”

Sermon: “The Landscape of Lent: Water”

We don’t even find out her name, this woman.  We know only her label – Samaritan – half-breed, Pagan, less-than-Jewish, less-than-human in the eyes of many. 

We don’t know everything about her past, but we know enough to believe she was no saint.  The fact that she went to draw water from the well at noon shows that.  Drawing water from the well was the equivalent of men “holding court” at the gas station in Cameron at the bottom of the hill each morning.  It was social hour.  But this Samaritan woman, well y’all, she wasn’t invited.

Perhaps having to do with her unconventional relationships with men, or the cliquish ways of the other women drawing water, she was forced to draw her water in the heat of the day, so as to avoid the scorching judgment of the other women in the community.

Perhaps this daily ritual was a painful reminder of her exclusion from her people.  Perhaps it was a welcome time for solitude, away from pointed stares and whispered accusations.  She certainly did not expect company.  But she got it anyway.

As she walked to Jacob’s well, she saw someone sitting by it.  A man!  One glance told her he was one of them, a Jew, and she got a bit nervous.  Talking to him was unacceptable. Sharing water with him was illegal, for she was Samaritan, unclean.  But he didn’t  seem to care much for legalities.

No greeting, no explanation for his presence at the well at high noon, just a demand, “Give me a drink.”

Was it a trap?  She thought it might be.  Surely he knew that was impossible.  Perhaps he worked for the government.  Answering like a student dutifully saying the Pledge of Allegiance, she said, “How is it that you – a Jew – ask a drink of me – a Samaritan?”  Then he said, “If you knew who I really was, you’d give me a drink.  I have a gift from God – living water, and I could give it to you.”

Not understanding any of this, she replied, ‘Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep.  Where do you get this living water?”

There are several wells she might have been referring to.  The deep cavern of emptiness failed marriages and social isolation had placed within her: that well was deep. 

The dark places within this society that were so adamant about keeping people separated, making sharing a simple cup of water with someone of another skin color or religion illegal: that well was deep.

The recesses of her own heart, tired of trying to find the love and worth that always seemed to elude her: that well was deep, too.

We also know what these deep wells are like.

The well of disappointment that we haven’t lived up to the expectations we, others, God have for us.

The well of spiritual emptiness amid material overconsumption, where buy as we might, worth doesn’t seem to come with that credit card statement.

The well of grief left after losing someone we love, or losing a way of life we loved, or a mobility we loved, or a career we loved.

The well of numbness that can’t seem to be sparked into feeling no matter how hard we seek after God.

The well is deep.  And you have no bucket.

That nameless woman knew this.  But still, though it was both impossible and illegal, she asked anyway: “Give me this living water, that I might never be thirsty again (and that I might never have to come to this place of gossip and judgment again).”

She did want that water.  What she did not want was for this Jewish stranger to know her story, for when he found that out, his eyes would grow as cold and judgmental as all the others.  He would leave her to her reputation, and she would be alone again.

So, imagine her dismay when he said, “Go get your husband and come back.”  Just in case he hadn’t heard the rumors, she clung to the tatters of her dignity and said, “I…I’m not married.”

“You’re right,” he said. “You’re not.  But you were – 5 times! And the guy you’re with now isn’t your husband.”  She was about to just drop her jar and leave right then.  So, he was like all the rest.  All of that “living water” talk was just a prelude to gossiping about her.  Instead, she tried to change the subject – this guy clearly liked talking about God, so she brought up worship spaces for his people.  But he wasn’t having it.

“Those who worship God must worship in spirit and truth.” he replied.  Ah, truth.  Such a simple little word.  Such an extraordinarily difficult thing to do, being truthful.  For when she told the truth about what she had done, people were hateful to her.  Lies weren’t right, but at least they didn’t shun you at the well, or cross to the other side of the road when they saw you. 

She could worship God with her spirit – the part of her that felt clean, whole, happy.  It was a small part, and some days it was all but invisible, but she could at least offer God that.  But this man – this strange law-breaking man – said God wanted more.  God wanted all of her, even the shameful parts.  But wouldn’t God then shun her like everyone else?  She couldn’t risk feeling rejected by God, too. 

Denial was better than that.  Face burning with embarrassment as much as that noon heat she said, “I know a messiah is coming.  Maybe he’ll explain how to get this living water to me.” 

“I am he,” said this Jewish stranger.  And the crazy thing was (other than some random guy at the well claiming to be the Messiah), she believed him.  Especially when his followers showed up and seemed to mimic his actions, which meant they weren’t hateful to her either.  They didn’t even question his law-breaking. 

She couldn’t explain it, but somehow this Messiah made her feel like God welcomed her, just as she was, in a way no one else had ever done.  With that overwhelming acceptance, that irrational compassion, she felt something, like a first drop of rain in the desert place of her parched heart.  She felt hope.  Life.  Perhaps he had living water after all, and maybe he didn’t even need a bucket to reach it.  Just honesty.

So she ran, leaving her water jar behind, and into the city square, not even caring what people thought.  “Come see a man who told me everything I’ve ever done!” she shouted, much to her own surprise.  “He can’t be the Messiah, can he?” she asked herself as much as the bewildered crowd.

Honesty.  That was what reached this living water.  This Messiah was honest about who he really was, even showing his nature despite cultural and religious customs.  He didn’t hide who he was, even if it meant being arrested.  And so in response, in the face of such honesty, she could be who she really was.  Then, and only then, could she began to experience this living water, not as something that covered up her past, but as something that washed it clean. 

She became the first preacher to call Jesus the Messiah, that nameless woman.  She told everyone who would listen.  And perhaps it was her bravery at being honest about her checkered past, perhaps it was the fire in her eyes, perhaps it was something God stirred within the listeners, but people believed her.  They believed that this Messiah was not just the Savior of a random Samaritan woman, he was their Savior.  And they believed that he wasn’t just their Savior, but the Savior of the whole world. 

All because of a noon encounter at a well, a bit of loving law-breaking and a whole lot of honesty.  Worshipping God in spirit and truth.

Salvation, you see, isn’t just for our souls, those parts of us that feel most connected to God.  Salvation is for our guilt-ridden, queasy stomachs, for our weary, tired hearts, for our calculating, skeptical heads, just like it was for that Samaritan woman’s deepest regrets.  Salvation is for all of us, because this Messiah still comes demanding nothing less than every part of who we are.

And salvation isn’t just for our pious churches, or our prayerful community.  Salvation is for the midnight Walmart shopper who can only buy groceries after getting off work at the fast food joint at eleven.  Salvation is for the prisoner who feels that their entire life now centers around what might have just been one mistake.  Salvation is for the systems that reward the greedy and reduce the poor to statistical burdens.  Salvation is for a planet plagued by overpopulation, pollution and the disasters they cause. 

This Messiah doesn’t just demand the most comfortable or seemingly-holy parts of us or this world.  He demands all of it.

All must be filled with the living waters of salvation.  And so this story of that unnamed woman must be told, alongside our own stories.  We call this testimony.  Testimony is not saying how perfect God has made us.  Testimony is saying how God knows our imperfection and loves us anyway.  And such counter-cultural honesty changes things.  Honesty about the way we and the world really are.  Honestly about all the places where salvation needs to be found. 

Such holy truth-telling starts first, a few drops of hope, then a trickle of change, and then a flood of salvation, not just of souls.  Saving souls is just the beginning.  These waters of truth seep into the most deserted places of this world and our lives, leaving salvation in their wake, until all we can do is testify with a question, “He can’t be the Messiah – can he?”  Amen.