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THE WATER OF LIFE
Once upon a time, three people were searching for the water of life, hoping to drink from it and live forever. The first was a warrior: he reckoned the water of life would be very mighty – a torrent or a rapid – so he went in full armor, with all his weapons, believing he could force the water to yield to him.
The second was an enchantress: she reckoned the water of life would be very magical – perhaps a whirlpool or a geyser, something she would need to manipulate with spells- so she went in her long star-spangled robe, hoping to outwit the water.
The third was a trader: he reckoned the water of life would be very costly- a fountain of pearl-drops or diamonds, perhaps – so he loaded his clothes and purses with money, hoping to be able to buy the water.
When the travelers reached their destination, they found they had all been quite wrong about the water of life. It wasn’t a torrent to be intimidated by force. It wasn’t a whirlpool to be charmed by spells. And it wasn’t a fountain of pearl-drops or diamonds to be bought for money. It was just a tiny, sparkling spring; its benefits were absolutely free-but, of course, you had to kneel to drink from it. This caused the seekers great consternation. The warrior was in full armor and couldn’t bend. The enchantress had on her long magic robe, and if that became soiled it would lose its power. The trader was so loaded with money that if he did no more than incline his head, coins would start rolling away into corners and crevices. All dressed up, the three could not lower themselves to drink from the spring of the water of life.
There was only one solution.
Our scripture story today is long, and deep, and full. There are layers upon layers that we could talk about and consider about this story from stories at wells in Genesis to the centuries of animosity between Samaritans and Judeans. But we don’t have hours and hours to look to go through it all.
And, I think there must be so much more to the conversation between Jesus and this Samaritan woman–she tells the people of her village that Jesus had told her everything she had ever done, and I don’t think that it was just that she had had multiple husbands.
There is a lot underneath knowing that–had her husband died? Was she then married to his brother as Levitical law says, to carry on the first husband’s lineage and keep the widow safe? and he died and she married his brother? and he died and she married his brother? Can you imagine the grief and the sorrow of so much loss? Can you imagine how unstable things must have felt being passed down to the family until there was one who wouldn’t marry her?
Or maybe she was divorced multiple times. A husband could divorce a wife if she “could not give him a child.” Can you imagine the shame of not being able to fulfill the responsibility that she is supposed to? Which isn’t to say that this is the responsibility of women, but for the time, it kinda was.
Whatever the reason, whatever the situation, whatever she had done, whatever they talked about, she ended it by saying to her community, “Meet the one who told me everything I have ever done.”
And here’s the thing we might not notice, or miss with the long history of people, leaders, theologians, condemning her marriage history, like it was in HER control, when they called her a loose woman for living with someone who she wasn’t married to, like she had very many options, the thing that we miss with people condemning her for hundreds of years from pulpits and books, is that Jesus didn’t condemn her. He told her everything she had ever done and… that’s it. She didn’t say that he judged her, didn’t say she was forgiven, didn’t say: “Go and sin no more.” He told her, he knew everything she had done. She was seen and known by the Christ, she was vulnerable, she was laid bare with all that she had done and was, and she was welcomed, loved, belongs.
And she was overwhelmed.
And I wonder if you have ever felt that. Have you ever been known like that? Have you ever been that honest and vulnerable? Have you ever carried a secret, one that you’ve told no one because someone told you should be ashamed, or connected your value to what happened, or that whatever happened is all you will be. It might not have been your fault, or your choice, or even felt like you had a choice. It might have been your choice, and you might have made that choice every day, maybe for years–good or bad, harmful or helpful. Like the confession we give at the beginning of service, for the things done and left undone.
To be seen and to be known… not when we put on best Sunday clothes and fake smiles; not just our perfectly curated online personas and families; not just the impersonal version of ourselves at work; not just the family friendly version that sits at Christmas dinner; not the us that denies the past, lives in hidden shame, replays regrets, and no one ever knows.
But to be seen and known in sweatpants and tears; messy houses and messier children; us when everything is personal; that is honest about the world, ourselves, our pasts, our trauma… even with our families; who names the past, forgives ourselves what we did to survive, and who doesn’t set up a tent and live in all that has been, but doesn’t pretend it isn’t there either.
Because all of those things–all the good, all the bad, all the complicated, all the grief, and joy, and pain, and celebration, led you here, to this well, to meet with the Christ, who knows you and loves you and welcomes you.
You belong because the Christ has had this conversation with you, is having this conversation with you, knows you and loves who you are and who you are becoming, because we are always becoming.
We are seen and known at your most vulnerable, most honest, most broken and healing–and loved and accepted. If you need to be forgiven–it’s already been offered, already been given, already there for you to forgive yourself. If you need to hear it’s not your fault–it’s not, and I’m sorry they did that. If you need to know you’re not alone–you are not. If you need to be affirmed that your pain makes sense, your anger is justified, that your grief isn’t too much–it is, it is, and it is not.
I hope you meet Christ at the well and you find yourself seen and known and loved. And I hope that knowledge, that deep trust bubbles up in you, like joy and laughter bubble up, like an old water fountain. I hope it feels like relief, and awe, and wonder. I hope it feels like coming home and belonging.
And I hope we learn to extend that to each other. That at our church’s watering hole, we might see and know each other. That we might risk being seen and known by another–risk honesty and vulnerability. We might risk being uncomfortable sharing our own stories and maybe even been uncomfortable hearing another’s. We take a risk and tell each other the stories of when we met Christ at the well, when did we know we were loved as we are and as we are becoming. And we take the risk here, we practice here, so we go into the world and practice seeing and knowing others, that we can be a place of welcome and love while others are figuring out and becoming who they are becoming.
A woman, a Samaritan woman, a woman with a complicated and pain-filled story, while she thirst and just doing her chores, when she was alone approached a man who was probably larger and stronger than her, and her ethnic enemy; and continued to talk to him anyway, told half the truth, was seen and known and belonged.
A woman, a woman with a complicated and pain-filled story went back to her community to proclaim the joy, awe, wonder, that had bubbled up in her of the Christ who was there to save them all, to free them from the way they told their own stories, from the past that they clung to, from feeling unknown and unloved.
A woman, unnamed, but not unknown, became the first evangelist–proclaimer of the good news–in John. She took a risk with Christ and a risk with her community. May we do the same.
There was only one solution.
So the warrior laid aside his armor.
The enchantress laid aside her magic robe.
And the trader laid aside the clothes he had stuffed with money.
And then each of them-naked-could kneel to drink from the water of life and receive its sweet, cool, startling benefits.
~ Kate Compston