Lent 3, Year A
March 27, 2011
John 4:5-42
(Begin in silence.)
Those of you who were here last weekend may have noticed that John and I and the vestry were not here. We were away on a vestry retreat from early Saturday morning until mid-Sunday afternoon. It was, I hope I can speak for all of us when I saw this, an incredible experience and something that I think you will see influencing this place in our future together.
A handful of folks from St. Aidan’s, including Lisa Richard, our senior warden, had recently received training in discernment from the Diocese. Lisa found the training meaningful and so suggested to John that she bring it to the vestry during our retreat. As I did just now, we began in silence, and that silence was repeated throughout the weekend. (At first, it probably felt uncomfortable for many. But by the end it was old hat.) And then we spent quite a while talking through, and buying into, a series of “listening guidelines.” The guidelines were things like: “Listen to others with your entire self.” “Do not formulate what you want to say while someone else is speaking.” “Speak for yourself only.” “Hold your desires and opinions - even your convictions - lightly.” Ideas that are both incredibly simple in theory and incredibly difficult to practice. As we worked through them together, they helped us to learn (or at least to begin to practice) how to really listen to each other, how to speak from what is deep within us, and how to find God in the spaces in between.
I think our weekend experience was not unlike what happened in our Gospel story this morning.
I imagine that Jesus and the woman at the well must have begun in silence. There is Jesus, exhausted by his journey and sitting close to the well, maybe under the shade of a nearby tree. His eyes are heavy, his breathing deep and slow, his mind (it was Jesus, afterall) probably fairly peaceful and prayerful. I imagine him watching this woman approaching. Water jug empty, but still a burden in her arms, weighing her down as she struggles with her long skirts, kicking up dust with her sandals, sweating under the hot, noonday sun. She gets closer and sees this stranger near the well. She has made this much effort to get to the well, she is too tired to turn around now. She averts her eyes, but not before quickly taking in the clothing that distinguishes him as foreign to Samaria. She goes about her business, attaching her bucket to the rope and lowering it down, the whole time uncomfortably aware of this unknown man’s gaze upon her.
And then, very suddenly and unexpectedly it seems to her, he breaks the silence by requesting a drink. And then the two begin a conversation that is the longest recorded conversation that Jesus has with anyone.
Our Gospel reading for this morning was a long one, but that wasn’t the main reason why I wanted to present it in a more dramatic fashion than usual. I asked a few folks to help with the Gospel because I wanted us to be able to hear the voices of Jesus and the woman at the well. There is an incredible back and forth between the two. We learn more about this woman and her relationship with Jesus than we do about most of the disciples!
But one thing we never learn is her name. She is a nobody, worth nothing, for so many reasons.
First, she’s a woman. That’s enough in itself to marginalize her in first-century, patriarchal culture. Jesus had no business being alone with her, much less talking to her. As we heard in our reading, when his disciples returned, “[t]hey were astonished that he was speaking to a woman.”
Second, she is a Samaritan, and therefore an outcast in Jewish society. Samaria was the capital of the northern kingdom of Israel, and although the Samaritans and the Jews were distant cousins, there was no end to the political and religious tensions between them. Samaritans were seen as ritually impure by the Jews. Again, as we heard in our reading, “Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans” – a very polite way of putting it.
Third, this woman had been “married” five times. (Not quite Elizabeth Taylor’s incredible collection, but a stunning number in those days.) Many commentators assume she was a prostitute, and that’s certainly possible. Or perhaps her husbands had died or left her – there is no way of knowing. All that we know is that she is viewed as shameful and immoral by the people around her.
And so, while the rest of the women in town will make their trek to the well in the cool of the morning or evening, this Samaritan woman of questionable morals, this anonymous nobody, comes to draw her water in the heat of the day. Avoiding gossip, perhaps, or so ostracized by her fellow townspeople that even the most basic necessity of life has become another way in which she is separated and broken.
Under Jewish law, she falls into the category of “unclean” -- outside the realm of God’s interest or humankind’s acceptance. Any Jewish religious leader with sense or self-interest would have avoided her like the plague.
But of course, we wouldn’t be gathered here this morning if Jesus were just “any Jewish religious leader.”
Jesus doesn’t just come near this woman. He doesn’t just break propriety by drinking water from her ladle. He bothers to know her. He talks to her and listens to her and responds to her questions. He continues to go deeper with her even when she repeatedly misunderstands him and sees only the surface of who he is and what he has to offer. And then he goes even further than that. He reveals his true self to her: “I am he,” the Christ. A confession that not even the disciples have yet been privileged to hear. And he offers her living water – water that will quench her deep and spiritual thirst forever.
I imagine that possibly for the first time in her life, this nobody of a woman felt like she mattered. I imagine that for the first time, she felt like someone had really listened to her. For the first time, she had been able to share what was on her heart, to speak about God and her deep yearning for a life different than the one she was living. We are told that the woman was so affected by her encounter with Jesus that she left her hard-earned water jug behind and ran back to the city to share her news with everyone: “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done!”
I think many of us left the vestry retreat feeling that way. Feeling known. Feeling like we had been able to speak about deep things. Feeling like we had been heard down to our cores. Feeling like we had connected in profound ways. Feeling like because we had made space for God, we had been able to sense God in our midst.
It was astounding to everyone around Jesus then that he would want to be with this nobody at the well. And from the way she reacted, I think it was just as astounding to the Samaritan woman herself. Frankly, when we allow ourselves to really believe it, sometimes it’s just as astounding now that God would want to be with any of us, with all of our imperfections and unrighteousness and (you fill in the blank).
All of us in our own ways are making our trek to the well in the heat of the day. All of us in our own ways have been broken to pieces. All of us in our own ways are unworthy. All of us in our own ways have failed to understand what Jesus has to offer us.
And that is right where Jesus finds us.
Next week in Godly Play with the kids I’ll be telling the part of our Lenten story about Jesus’ work in the world. As the story puts it: “His work was to come close to people, especially people no one wanted to come close to.”
No miracles were necessary for the woman at the well. She didn’t need to be healed or to have her sight restored or to be raised from the dead. (Not physically, anyway.) She needed to be seen, to be heard, to be loved. And that is what Jesus’ work was then and still is today. To see, to hear, to love. Even us. Especially us.
“Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did,” the woman tells everyone. But what she really meant was what she didn’t say: “Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did… and loved me anyway.” Amen.
March 27, 2011
John 4:5-42
(Begin in silence.)
Those of you who were here last weekend may have noticed that John and I and the vestry were not here. We were away on a vestry retreat from early Saturday morning until mid-Sunday afternoon. It was, I hope I can speak for all of us when I saw this, an incredible experience and something that I think you will see influencing this place in our future together.
A handful of folks from St. Aidan’s, including Lisa Richard, our senior warden, had recently received training in discernment from the Diocese. Lisa found the training meaningful and so suggested to John that she bring it to the vestry during our retreat. As I did just now, we began in silence, and that silence was repeated throughout the weekend. (At first, it probably felt uncomfortable for many. But by the end it was old hat.) And then we spent quite a while talking through, and buying into, a series of “listening guidelines.” The guidelines were things like: “Listen to others with your entire self.” “Do not formulate what you want to say while someone else is speaking.” “Speak for yourself only.” “Hold your desires and opinions - even your convictions - lightly.” Ideas that are both incredibly simple in theory and incredibly difficult to practice. As we worked through them together, they helped us to learn (or at least to begin to practice) how to really listen to each other, how to speak from what is deep within us, and how to find God in the spaces in between.
I think our weekend experience was not unlike what happened in our Gospel story this morning.
I imagine that Jesus and the woman at the well must have begun in silence. There is Jesus, exhausted by his journey and sitting close to the well, maybe under the shade of a nearby tree. His eyes are heavy, his breathing deep and slow, his mind (it was Jesus, afterall) probably fairly peaceful and prayerful. I imagine him watching this woman approaching. Water jug empty, but still a burden in her arms, weighing her down as she struggles with her long skirts, kicking up dust with her sandals, sweating under the hot, noonday sun. She gets closer and sees this stranger near the well. She has made this much effort to get to the well, she is too tired to turn around now. She averts her eyes, but not before quickly taking in the clothing that distinguishes him as foreign to Samaria. She goes about her business, attaching her bucket to the rope and lowering it down, the whole time uncomfortably aware of this unknown man’s gaze upon her.
And then, very suddenly and unexpectedly it seems to her, he breaks the silence by requesting a drink. And then the two begin a conversation that is the longest recorded conversation that Jesus has with anyone.
Our Gospel reading for this morning was a long one, but that wasn’t the main reason why I wanted to present it in a more dramatic fashion than usual. I asked a few folks to help with the Gospel because I wanted us to be able to hear the voices of Jesus and the woman at the well. There is an incredible back and forth between the two. We learn more about this woman and her relationship with Jesus than we do about most of the disciples!
But one thing we never learn is her name. She is a nobody, worth nothing, for so many reasons.
First, she’s a woman. That’s enough in itself to marginalize her in first-century, patriarchal culture. Jesus had no business being alone with her, much less talking to her. As we heard in our reading, when his disciples returned, “[t]hey were astonished that he was speaking to a woman.”
Second, she is a Samaritan, and therefore an outcast in Jewish society. Samaria was the capital of the northern kingdom of Israel, and although the Samaritans and the Jews were distant cousins, there was no end to the political and religious tensions between them. Samaritans were seen as ritually impure by the Jews. Again, as we heard in our reading, “Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans” – a very polite way of putting it.
Third, this woman had been “married” five times. (Not quite Elizabeth Taylor’s incredible collection, but a stunning number in those days.) Many commentators assume she was a prostitute, and that’s certainly possible. Or perhaps her husbands had died or left her – there is no way of knowing. All that we know is that she is viewed as shameful and immoral by the people around her.
And so, while the rest of the women in town will make their trek to the well in the cool of the morning or evening, this Samaritan woman of questionable morals, this anonymous nobody, comes to draw her water in the heat of the day. Avoiding gossip, perhaps, or so ostracized by her fellow townspeople that even the most basic necessity of life has become another way in which she is separated and broken.
Under Jewish law, she falls into the category of “unclean” -- outside the realm of God’s interest or humankind’s acceptance. Any Jewish religious leader with sense or self-interest would have avoided her like the plague.
But of course, we wouldn’t be gathered here this morning if Jesus were just “any Jewish religious leader.”
Jesus doesn’t just come near this woman. He doesn’t just break propriety by drinking water from her ladle. He bothers to know her. He talks to her and listens to her and responds to her questions. He continues to go deeper with her even when she repeatedly misunderstands him and sees only the surface of who he is and what he has to offer. And then he goes even further than that. He reveals his true self to her: “I am he,” the Christ. A confession that not even the disciples have yet been privileged to hear. And he offers her living water – water that will quench her deep and spiritual thirst forever.
I imagine that possibly for the first time in her life, this nobody of a woman felt like she mattered. I imagine that for the first time, she felt like someone had really listened to her. For the first time, she had been able to share what was on her heart, to speak about God and her deep yearning for a life different than the one she was living. We are told that the woman was so affected by her encounter with Jesus that she left her hard-earned water jug behind and ran back to the city to share her news with everyone: “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done!”
I think many of us left the vestry retreat feeling that way. Feeling known. Feeling like we had been able to speak about deep things. Feeling like we had been heard down to our cores. Feeling like we had connected in profound ways. Feeling like because we had made space for God, we had been able to sense God in our midst.
It was astounding to everyone around Jesus then that he would want to be with this nobody at the well. And from the way she reacted, I think it was just as astounding to the Samaritan woman herself. Frankly, when we allow ourselves to really believe it, sometimes it’s just as astounding now that God would want to be with any of us, with all of our imperfections and unrighteousness and (you fill in the blank).
All of us in our own ways are making our trek to the well in the heat of the day. All of us in our own ways have been broken to pieces. All of us in our own ways are unworthy. All of us in our own ways have failed to understand what Jesus has to offer us.
And that is right where Jesus finds us.
Next week in Godly Play with the kids I’ll be telling the part of our Lenten story about Jesus’ work in the world. As the story puts it: “His work was to come close to people, especially people no one wanted to come close to.”
No miracles were necessary for the woman at the well. She didn’t need to be healed or to have her sight restored or to be raised from the dead. (Not physically, anyway.) She needed to be seen, to be heard, to be loved. And that is what Jesus’ work was then and still is today. To see, to hear, to love. Even us. Especially us.
“Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did,” the woman tells everyone. But what she really meant was what she didn’t say: “Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did… and loved me anyway.” Amen.
Interesting. Where was the retreat?
ReplyDelete