Deep Wells in Desert Places

Many fears and feelings swirl around us and our communities as COVID-19 reeks havoc on our lives and communities. We may wonder—where is God? Where is hope? Are we going to be okay?

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.

John 4:13-14

A reflection for The third sunday in lent

Note: I wrote a version of this reflection last fall as a part of new student orientation at Wake Forest University School of Divinity. The lectionary text for this Third Sunday Lent is from John 4:5-42 and narrates the story of Jesus meeting a woman at Jacob’s well. I revised my reflection as I thought about this ancient encounter in light of the COVID-19 crisis that continues to unfold in our communities and across the globe.

Thirst. High noon. A well. And a water jar left behind. 

Jesus is on his way somewhere else. She is collecting water. As she does everyday. Alone. At noon. To survive. 

They meet. And when they meet? So do their personal stories. And the realities of their lives. A Jewish man. A Samaritan woman. And a long history of cultural, political and religious clashes between their peoples. A long history of too many assumptions. Too many prejudices. A long history of conversations never shared, of possibilities and mysteries never set free. 

They meet at Jacob’s well. A well that holds stories. Maybe even secrets.

They meet. And when they meet. Something happens. 

Don’t be fooled by the misogynist veneer too many sermons have put over this story. Sometimes we are too quick to think and act like we know the woman in this story—what she lacks and what she needs. And yet—we don’t even know her name. How can we know what she needs if we haven’t gotten close enough to her even to know her name? And Jesus? We think we know about Jesus too…and yet…

They meet. And when they meet? A conversation. 26 verses. The longest conversation Jesus has with anyone in the Gospel of John. Not one of those kinds where one person is a submissive listener while the other waxes eloquent with spit-shined but unsubstantiated advice. This is a real conversation. Not small talk. A lively dance of words between two thirsty people. Words that dip and weave around complex theological topics—living water, worship, spirit, truth, salvation, the identity of the Messiah. 

The woman? She is wise in her life-weariness, and she asks questions, insists on clarifications, offers her opinions. She is bold. Fearless, in a way, too. Because she chooses to have conversation with him. In spite of who she thinks he is and in the face of all that other people have assumed she is.

And Jesus? Even as he talks about living water he is bone tired, thirsty, vulnerable—dependent upon her hospitality because he has no bucket and she? She has the water jar she carries with her everyday, and she offers hospitality—the thirst-quenching water in her jar mingling with water offered by Rachel and Zipporah and countless other women right here at Jacob’s well…

They meet. And when they meet? Something happens. Jesus—talks about living water and invites her to look again at what she thinks she knows about water. About life. And Jesus—the thirsty one who has no bucket—could it be that as she offers him water, he sees her? And sees in her the spirit and truth she bears with courage to that well everyday? Does he see in her something he needs to know about himself?

She sees him. He sees her. Shared vulnerability. Mutual regard. No distancing stares or objectifying gazes. She sees him. He sees her. Both are changed. Redeemed somehow. Jesus claims his identity as Messiah—in her presence. She is the first person in the Gospel to whom Jesus makes a bold statement of self-revelation. She is a witness. And she goes on her way—to proclaim new truth.

Many fears and feelings swirl around us as COVID-19 reeks havoc on our lives and communities. We may wonder—where is God? Where is hope? Are we going to be okay?

Perhaps we can become witnesses to Gospel hope as we encounter our humanity in unexpected ways in these uncertain days. Indeed, perhaps Gospel hope for our communities—for our world—can be found in our capacity to recognize our shared vulnerabilities and then offer to each other thirst-quenching, healing, life-restoring hospitality and care.

Jesus and the woman at Jacob’s well shared the depths of their humanity with each other the day of their unanticipated encounter. The outcome? Because of what she and Jesus shared, the woman saw something in herself she had never seen before. A new strength. A story to tell. A word to proclaim—-

May we know God’s healing presence and peace in these days. And as we come seeking water in wilderness places, may we encounter in each other the mysteries and wonders of our own fragile and beloved humanity and share with each other God’s grace and love.

beginnings and endings

We begin at the end—or do we end at the beginning?

This is advent

Isaiah 11 offers a peculiar vision of wolves and lambs and leopards and goats frolicking together on God’s mountain of peculiar peace. All of this year’s Advent lectionary texts turn expectations upside down. Sprigs grow from dead stumps. Crocuses blossom in desert places. And a little child leads God’s people into a peace-land of radical love. That is a gift of Advent—God invites us to see life in new ways, and I, for one, am eager to encounter the new way of God’s upside down, inside out peace and love.

The shortest distance
between two points?

a straight line—
begin here;
end there.

But the straight way?
Not the only way.

Beginnings cradle endings—
​first drop of rain
page one of a favorite novel
hello

Endings are the womb of beginnings—
last line of a poem
one lingering summer tomato
amen

​This is incarnation.

Sharp sword edges
learn to plow fertile soil.
Lions and lambs 
choreograph a dance of peace.
Green sprigs grow from
axe-worn roots.
Tender crocus shoulders push
up through winter ground—

This is Advent. 

We begin at the end—
Or do we end at the beginning?

Or do we pause just now
held in a promise— 
God with us.