Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but 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.” The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.” (John 4: 13-15)

It’s feeling a little like Spring these days. The weather is warmer. We morphed from a snow storm to freezing rain and all of the snow banks have a layer of road dirt that just makes everything look a little dingy. It’s too early yet to see the first bright green shoots of new growth, but there’s this whole hope that it’s just right around the corner.

So – I’ve started my Spring Cleaning. Not the kind of spring cleaning that my grandmother used to do when the whole house was turned upside down and washed until it gleamed. I’m definitely not that kind of housekeeper. But I have started the sorting and purging of my tired-looking wardrobe and pondering taking parkas to the dry cleaner and putting away the heavier mittens. I’m not going to; it’s only March, after all, and I’ve seen snow in April. So, the winter clothes that look like they’re at the end of their life are being boxed up and I’m trying to make decisions about whether it’s worth donating or just going to the rag bag. It really is a fine line in my household. I have clothes that are older than my (now adult) kids.

We’ve just finished with the Olympics in Italy. I have a close relation who went as a volunteer to the Olympics so I’ve had kind of an insider’s view into the whole process. I’m not a big-time athlete kind of gal, like you all have heard from me before – but the whole idea of countries coming together with joy and ‘sportsmanship’ appeals to my sense of what’s right in the world. I loved listening to the athletes talk about their commitment to their sport. More often than not I heard things like “I have sacrificed everything for this moment”; or “I can practically ‘taste’ the Gold”. The athletes also spoke about the sacrifice their parents, family or coaches made so that they could go to the Olympics. The commitment is huge by a large swath of people around each individual. All with the insatiable thirst for an almost intangible goal.

This week we have all watched in horror as the United States and Israel joined forces to wage war on Iran. The conflict has spread by the hour, and now most of the middle-east is under high alert. Children and schools are being bombed. The casualties are rising. And the rhetoric continues; “this is what’s ‘best’ for Iran and the Middle East”, “the children killed in the school bombing in Tehran were an ‘unfortunate casualty’ of the ‘necessary action’. There has even been rhetoric that this war is ‘God-ordained and God-sanctioned’; language that I really really don’t agree with. And all of this because of insatiable thirst for the intangible world dominance and power.

And so I wonder right now if we need to spring-clean some of our understandings of the world. I wonder if we need to look at the “rag bag” of our own hearts and see what we are clinging to that is actually just… dingy.

When I read the story of the woman at the well, I’m struck by the timing. It’s noon. It’s hot. She’s there alone because, well, her “wardrobe” of life choices has made her a bit of an outcast in her own town. She’s carrying her jar, doing the same chore she does every single day, just trying to get through the heat. And there sits Jesus. He doesn’t start with a sermon. He doesn’t start with a condemnation of her past. He starts with a simple request: “Give me a drink.”

He meets her in her thirst.

And isn’t that where we are right now? We are a world that is parched. We are thirsty for peace, but we keep drinking from the wells of power and retaliation. We are thirsty for security, but we keep trying to find it in the “gold medals” of our own achievements or the “parkas” of our own self-protection.

Jesus looks at this woman—and he looks at us, in the middle of our wars and our messy closets—and he says, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again.”

He’s talking about the “water” of the world. The water of “I’ll be happy when…” or “We’ll be safe if…” It’s the water that leaves us looking for the next thing, the next win, the next “necessary action.” It’s the water that, no matter how much we gulp it down, leaves us feeling like that dingy March snowbank—tired, grey, and waiting for something that actually brings life.

The woman at the well is practical. I like her. She says, “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.” She wants to skip the chore. She wants to avoid the heat. She wants an easier life.

But Jesus isn’t offering a shortcut. He’s offering a transformation.

He tells her that the water he gives will become in her a spring of water gushing up to eternal life. It’s not a bottle of water you carry around; it’s a well that opens up inside of you.

I think about those athletes in Italy. They “tasted” the gold. But what happens the day after the podium? What happens when the cheering stops and the medals are tucked into a drawer? The thirst returns. It always does.

And I think about the rhetoric of war. The thirst for “God-sanctioned” dominance. That is a thirst that can never be quenched because it is built on the destruction of the “other.” It is a thirst that drinks blood and calls it “necessary.” My friends, that is not the water of life. That is the bitter water of the desert.

So, what are you thirsty for today?

Are you thirsty for a world where “sportsmanship” isn’t just for the arena, but for the way we treat our neighbours in the Middle East?
Are you thirsty for a faith that doesn’t require you to box up your questions and hide them in the basement?
Are you thirsty for a love that sees your “rag bag” life and says, “You are enough”?

I was reminded this week that this story isn’t just about a “sinful woman” getting saved. It’s about a God who crosses boundaries—geographical, social, and religious—to find us where we are. Jesus crossed into Samaria. He sat at a well he wasn’t supposed to be at. He talked to a person he wasn’t supposed to talk to.

He went to where the thirst was.

Right now, our world feels like it’s at the “noon” of a very long, very hot day. The news is heavy. The “freezing rain” of international conflict is slick and dangerous. We are tired of drawing water from wells that don’t satisfy.

Maybe the “Spring Cleaning” we need isn’t about the clothes in our closets, but the “rhetoric” in our heads. Maybe we need to purge the idea that violence is “God-ordained.” Maybe we need to donate our pride to the rag bag and admit that we are, all of us, just thirsty people standing at the same well.

I’m looking out my window at those dingy snowbanks. They aren’t pretty. But I know that underneath that layer of road dirt, the earth is drinking. The snow is melting, and that water is soaking into the ground. It’s preparing the way for those “bright green shoots” that I can’t see yet.

That’s what the Living Water does. It soaks into the dingy parts of our lives. It softens the hard, frozen ground of our hearts. It doesn’t wait for us to be “gleaming” like my grandmother’s house. It meets us in the dirt.

Jesus says to the woman—and to the volunteer in Italy, and to the mother in Tehran, and to you, and to me—”The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up.”

Gushing. Not trickling. Not rationed. Gushing.

There is enough grace for the mess. There is enough peace for the war-torn. There is enough love for the outcast.

So, as we move through this messy, dingy, hopeful March, let’s stop trying to quench our thirst with things that leave us dry. Let’s stop believing the lie that power is the only way to peace.

Let’s sit at the well for a while. Let’s be honest about what we’re looking for. And let’s listen to the one who says, “I am the one speaking to you.”

What are you thirsty for?

I’m thirsty for a Spring that doesn’t just change the weather, but changes the way we see each other. I’m thirsty for a world where we put down the jars of our own making and drink from the spring that never runs dry.

It’s right around the corner, my friends. I can feel it in the air.

Blessings today, and remember you are Loved,

~Rev. Lynne