John 4: 5–42
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May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be
acceptable in thy sight, O Lord our strength and our redeemer. Amen.
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You have to wonder what Jesus saw when he looked at an individual.
Certainly, he saw more than the Samaritan woman meant for him to
see when she approached him at the well. For Jesus took one look at
her and seemed to see into the depths of her soul, whether she wanted
him to or not.
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What he saw was a woman whose life had not been kind to her. He
could see that in the lines on her face and the way she held herself
as she walked – sort of bent over, as if she were used to being
beaten down. And he certainly could see that she didn’t mean
to speak to him or anyone else. That’s why she had come to
the well in the middle of the day – when everyone who held her
in contempt, everyone who disparaged her would already have drawn their
water and gone home. And we have to be careful that we are not
among those who look down on her.
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For when Jesus tells her she’s had five husbands and the one
she’s living with now is not her husband, we might imagine her
to be the Elizabeth Taylor of ancient Samaria, a woman who married
men and discarded them as easily as she changed outfits. But
women in those days did not have the option of divorcing men. More
likely, she has been discarded by a social system that, for
whatever reason, has passed her from man to man until she no longer
has even the dignity of marriage.¹ No wonder she sees
herself as an outcast: her community has judged
her . . . and discarded her — yet
again.
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But Jesus is seeing more to her than her past. When he looks
carefully at this discouraged woman what he is seeing is her deep
thirst, her real thirst – to be loved and accepted. So he
quickly shifts their conversation away from why he, a Jewish man, was
asking her, a Samaritan woman, for a drink of water. He shifts
their conversation onto spiritual ground. “What I have to
offer you,” he says, “is living water – a spring of
water gushing up to eternal life.”
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The woman is still wary, not sure whether to engage. But she
can’t help it. Deep down, she really is thirsty.
“Sir,” she says, “give me this water, this water
that will satisfy my thirst.”
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Now Jesus confronts the issue they have both been dancing around since
they first began talking. “Go,” he says. “Call
your husband.” And the woman tells him what he already
knows. “I have no husband,” she blurts out. And
right here, their whole encounter might well have floundered in the
depths of her shame.
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But in an act of divine jujitsu, Jesus uses this woman’s shame
as a means of lifting her up into dignity again. For when he tells
her to go and get her husband, and she replies that she has no
husband, Jesus makes one comment. Most of our Bibles translate
his comment as “True” as if he is simply affirming what
she has just told him. But the word he uses in Greek
is Kalos. And
Kalos means much more
than “true.” Kalos
means “beautiful — by reason of purity of heart and
life; and thus praiseworthy.” You see, Jesus is not
simply affirming what this woman has said. Jesus is affirming her
courage, her honesty, her trust in telling him the truth, and
he’s calling that beautiful.
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Do you see now why she was excited? She realizes that Jesus
has seen her whole disordered life . . .
but isn’t judging her for it. Without judgment or
condemnation, he is telling her that her honesty and her courage are
beautiful. And she knows his words are genuine. This is the
sip of living water he is offering her – the dignity of a life
made whole again. And as she tastes it, she steps into the Kingdom
of God. No wonder she can’t contain her excitement as she
runs off to share this good news with her
neighbors. “Come,” she cries. “Meet a man
who told me everything I ever did . . . and
loves me anyway.” She is a witness to the mercy and
compassion of God. And that is news worth sharing.
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Jesus was always doing something like this – inviting outsiders
in. People whom the respectable types would have nothing to do
with: poor people, demon–possessed people, Gentiles,
Samaritans, lepers, the blind, the halt, the lame, women of questionable
repute. He just had this thing for the outcast, the marginalized,
the sinner – people he saw not in terms of what they had done,
but as individuals God had created – and still loved to the
uttermost. And he didn’t simply see all
that had happened to them in the wear and tear of life. He reached
across boundaries to do something about all that
damage. And always, his kind and compassionate gesture sent them
dancing on their way, praising God to the highest heavens.
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The Samaritan woman at the well was one of these people. In those
days, Jews had nothing to do with Samaritans; to their way of
thinking, Samaritans were half–breeds whose faith was also
corrupt. But an even greater divide between Jesus and this woman
was the fact that she was a woman. In those days, pious
Jewish men didn’t speak even to their wives in
public – much less to women they didn’t know. So,
for Jesus even to speak to this woman was double jeopardy.
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Yet Jesus crossed both those boundaries, and in the process, I think he
was giving a lesson to us all. You and I are surrounded by people
whose lives have not been kind to them. Maybe they’ve been
caught in prejudice, in poverty, or maybe the dozens of wrong paths they
have already walked down. We know we’re surrounded by people
like this, but we don’t really want to cross boundaries and get
involved. “What could I possibly do?” we ask.
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We could do what we’ve often heard we’re to
do — to walk in love as Christ loved us and gave himself to
God – showing others the same kind of mercy and compassion
we ourselves have been shown. It might not take much – an
offer to hold a child whose mother is struggling to locate her wallet,
as she tries to pay the check–out clerk. A friendly greeting
to an elderly couple walking by your house on the street. An offer
to pray for someone you have just heard is facing steep
challenges. All Jesus asks us to do is to walk through this world
in love, looking for ways to engage one another.
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I bid you all a holy Lent.
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Amen.
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¹ Thomas Long “Words, Words, Words”
Whispering the Lyrics: Sermons for Lent and Easter
(CSS Publishing Company, Lima, Ohio: 1995)
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