Have you ever come to worship, or entered a new community, and tried to hide yourself out in the open? Ever heard the word of forgiveness at the beginning of worship and thought to yourself, “well, maybe, but if you really knew my sins you wouldn’t forgive me.” Or heard “given and shed for you” and doubted it because, you know, if anyone found out that secret you’re carrying you’d never be welcome back?
I wonder about this woman of Samaria - she’s pretty clear about who’s allowed to talk to whom and why. Jesus asks her for a drink and she says, “you’re talking to me? You’re a man. A Jewish man. I’m a woman. A Samaritan woman. This conversation should not be happening.” But Jesus is thirsty. God in the flesh experiencing basic human need, Jesus simply asks the woman for a drink. And it seems the woman is thirsty, too. Experiencing a basic human need, a need for connection, for community and conversation and welcome. Which Jesus offers her when he begins the conversation.
It sets up that way, at least. First this random Jewish man asks this solitary Samaritan woman for a drink, then he tells her he can give her living water. The kind that never runs out, that springs up from within and lasts forever. Clearly he’s crazy for even presenting the idea, and this woman has had five husbands, so she knows from crazy. She’s not lived a typical life. We don’t know why she’s had five husbands - was she sold into marriage young and then widowed? Purchased out of prostitution? Abandoned by a man or two? We don’t get the details, or the reasons, but a woman in Jesus’ time being married more than once was far from ordinary. And this woman is offered an end to her thirst. By the very God who knows every thing she is thirsty for.
Jesus offers this woman living water, and she takes him up on it. Because who isn’t tired of being thirsty? It’s a constant struggle in the desert, for sure, but even with tap water available, and bottled water, and sodas and juices and coffees and teas, we have some pretty deep thirst, too. Which is different from being hungry. We can last a lot longer without food than we can without water. We say we can fight for whatever we’re hungry for. Athletes are encouraged by coaches to be hungry to win. Activists often speak of being hungry for justice.
But thirst? Thirst is hard to ignore. Our brains sometimes confuse thirst with hunger, so we eat when we’re thirsty and then just end up more thirsty, as well as full of food we didn’t need. Sort of like when we want to feel secure in a relationship so we buy stuff we can’t afford, to prove ourselves worthy, only then we end up with more anxiety about money, but still haven’t talked about it, so we do more or buy more to avoid facing our anxiety. It’s not difficult to mask the real questions with lighthearted trivia. But thirst - thirst is a great and powerful image for what’s really going on in our depths. It’s like how Saint Augustine described our condition: “God, you have made us for yourself. And our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” Restless. Thirsting. Behind all of the distractions, underneath every layer of struggle, remains this constant thirst we cannot seem to put our finger on. What is it for you? Where does your thirst lie? What happens when you sit in your thirst and just get to know it for awhile?
When the woman hears of a way to get away from her thirst, this living water which will never run dry, she asks for it, and Jesus gets to the heart of the matter in a bit of a sneaky request: “Go, call your husband and come back.” He knows she has no husband, knows she has had five husbands, he knows what a life of close relationships grown and lost is like.
And in his seeing her, she sees him as a prophet. But he is more than a prophet, so much more. She just hasn’t seen him that way, not yet. So he has patience with her, and engages her in the conversation as she continues. He does not chastise or berate her for her life, but meets her where she is and welcomes her questions. He does not take back his offer once she admits to living with a man not her husband. He does not shun her for her race or her gender, but shares of himself freely with her. She may greet him only as a foreign man, not knowing from the start that he is the Messiah - after all, the disciples barely get it even after the Resurrection - but Jesus, he knows her, and her history, and with that knowledge he finds a way to create community with her.
And there’s an amazing thing. This God who seeks to be known, who created the world and walked in it and blows through it, knows every bit of us. Every last secret we keep. Every label and status we carry. Each embarrassment and shame and anxiety and struggle. Before we know who this God is, God claims us. We proclaim this when we baptize infants who are still figuring out their own fingers and toes, much less who anybody is. Before we know Jesus, Jesus knows and loves us. Before we even have the desire to have faith, the Spirit breathes into our thirst a refreshment, a new thirst, a desire as deep as any well; to know the One who knew us before we were born.
So when you have those thoughts of “I’d never be welcome,” or, “I can’t let anyone see that side of me,” know that you are already known in your fullness, and the One who knows more about you than you know about yourself is the One who offers you living water, who not only welcomes you but claims you, who has poured out his own life for your thirst, that you may trust his forgiveness, grace, and love. That you may have his life, as a deep well springing up within you, cleansing, purifying, refreshing you. The human body is over three quarters made of water, it is inside of us even as it is poured over our heads in blessing at our baptism. The living water is the resurrected Christ whose love - for you! - will never run dry. Not now, not ever, no matter what.
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