Stay Thirsty

John 4:5-42 (Exodus 17:1-7)

Anybody thirsty?

It would be a natural reaction after listening to the long, complex discussion of water in today’s gospel story, and that story about Moses having to break water out of solid rock for a bunch of cranky, thirsty refugees. So I’ll understand if you’re sipping coffee now, or slip out to grab a drink of water this morning.

After all, today even Jesus is thirsty.

So when he meets a woman with a jar, come to draw cool water out of the well in the hot, dusty sun,

Jesus starts the conversation with, “Give me a drink.” 

(I’m sure it’s very polite in the original language.)

Now this breaks all kinds of barriers and taboos – religious, moral, cultural, etc. 

So she’s shocked, and he’s still thirsty – and in the gospel, it turns out this is the perfect set up for a profound, holy theological discussion. 

(That always happens to you when you’re running errands, right?) 

It’s a conversation that reveals Jesus as the Messiah and turns an outcast woman into an evangelist.

And it’s all because they’re thirsty.

Jesus – hot and dusty – needs a cool drink of water.

She – lonely, ignored, probably victimized – needs living water, the flowing of God’s grace that fills up all the dry and painful cracks in our throats and souls, the water that never runs out.

She’s probably thirsty, too, for community. 

For love, connection, security, hope.

Have you ever been thirsty for those things?

I have.

We get hurt sometimes.  Get excluded in one way or another, become vulnerable, feel alone, get anxious….

Sometimes it’s because of a tragedy, a great loss.  Sometimes it’s the dusty grind of everyday living.  Either can make you so thirsty for love, assurance, community, or hope that you can go to the well – spiritually or physically – every day, and still be thirsty.

So if you know what that’s like, you can imagine what it’s like for this woman when the stranger at the well offers her “living water.”  Running water, bubbling up and flowing continuously – unending abundance for a woman who has probably never in her life had “enough.”

It’s not his own water he’s offering, either.  She can plainly see that he has no bucket, nor even a drop to drink.  She can see he’s not drawing on his own resources for her, he’s offering God’s.

Jesus does that all the time, and he’s always trying to teach us to do it.  And on that particular hot, dry day at the well, it works beyond imagining.

That lonely, vulnerable woman who hasn’t got friendship or regular water to spare barely even hears about that “living” water of God’s abundance and off she goes to pour out hope and wonder over her whole village of indifferent neighbors.

She herself – poor, dry, and despised – becomes a well of living water, the free-flowing evidence of God’s abundant grace.

And her neighbors do take notice.  They want what she’s got, and they invite Jesus to stay until they’re confident they’ve absorbed that living water for themselves.

It’s absolutely delightful to me, this image of bubbling water flowing through that woman, transforming her from outcast to apostle, full of grace.

But I’m willing to bet that it wasn’t all that easy for her.

Quick, maybe.  Compelling, certainly. 

But to confront all the fear and resistance she must have felt in trying to break down a lifetime of barriers with her neighbors had to be a challenge.

Last weekend, our vestry spent time discussing welcome and hospitality, here at Calvary.  And I heard several people say things I’ve said myself, more than once:

“I just don’t know if someone is new, and I’d hate to embarrass anyone.”
“Don’t people just want to be left alone to worship?”

“I went to coffee hour, but I just didn’t know who to talk to.”

That’s what happens when we think that welcoming guests and greeting regulars – or even meeting people in a new church as you visit – means you have to befriend everyone out of your own resources. Means you have to neglect your own needs to tend to others.

It’s the way many of us feel, because we’ve been taught for most of our lives to depend primarily on our own resources.  So to offer so to offer love, joy, peace, welcome, whatever, when you don’t feel like you have enough can feel like jumping off a cliff (or trying to climb that cliff with your fingernails).

It doesn’t just happen at church, either.  School, work, volunteer groups, clubs can trigger the same reactions, the same uncertainty and stress, when the time comes for changes, new people, new efforts, or anything else you don’t feel ready for.

The difference here at church – I hope – is that here we’re reminded that we don’t have to do it alone. 

It’s God’s welcome, not yours or mine, that we’re supposed to offer.  God’s friendship, God’s peace, and God’s healing – all of it God’s spring of living, flowing, water, not just your own jug that you, too, are longing to fill at this well.

That’s a darn good thing, because the truth is that many people come to a church when they’re thirsty.  Regulars come to get filled up for the work of the world.  We come as guests when we’re thirsty for healing, community, love and hope.

Thank God it’s not my bottle, or yours, that has to quench that thirst – we’d run out fast.  But as Jesus pointed out in the midst of his own thirst, God’s got a stream of living water flowing through this place, and we get to offer it to all.

Try it for yourself.

Ask someone if they could use a helping hand, even if you’re not sure you can help.

Sit down for coffee in the fellowship hall with someone you’re not sure you know, or know how to talk to.

Embrace a change at work, or at school, even if you’re worried it might embarrass or inconvenience you.

Sing with joy and gusto, even if you don’t think your voice is good.

Every one of us needs to take the plunge into the stream of living water so we are ready to welcome others into God’s abundance, here at our Calvary well, and in other thirsty places, waiting to be filled.

It all starts with being thirsty, because that’s what brings us to this well in the first place.

Stay thirsty, my friends.

It’s what leads you to living water; God’s abundance.

More than enough to share, even before you’ve drunk your fill.

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

Matthew 4:1-11

You know how sometimes a phrase just gets in to your head and bounces around in there for days? Well, that's been happening with me these last couple days, and I'm sure you'll recognize that phrase because it's one we say together every single Sunday morning:

"And lead us not into temptation..."

Sound familar?  Anyone want to guess why that's been running through my head for days?

Yes, it's a particularly appropriate phrase today, on the first Sunday of Lent, a season when our faithful attention focuses on resisting temptations - chocolate, wine, bad attitudes, or whatever you might "give up" for Lent.  And of course, today the Bible stories we heard were famous "temptation" stories.

Particularly the story of Jesus in the wilderness.

We hear some version of this story every year, and it’s become a classic model for temptation – the devil waving something seductive and desirable in front of you, and having to argue yourself out of it. 

But as I read it this week, I started to think it sounds almost like Jesus isn’t tempted at all.  Oh, he’s hungry all right, he’s human, he’s vulnerable – and the devil’s only offering him what the Son of God should really have – but in this story he’s also clear and single-minded about his purpose and his relationship with God, and nothing Satan offers seems to make him pause.

It's like the tempter is waving a cold glass of water on a hot day in front of Jesus while he’s sitting next a deep cool well with an open tap.  The temptations are very attractive in themselves, but Satan doesn't tempt Jesus with anything he doesn't already have in his deep kinship with God.

And that’s it.

The devil doesn’t have anything to offer that God doesn’t already provide, somewhere deep in your relationship with God.

Which doesn’t mean you won’t be tempted. (Rats!)

Wealth seduces us – no matter how much we might have, or need – by looking like security, or comfort, or protection – or just plain fun. 

Chocolate, alcohol, soda, fast food, social media – all those are on the list of the top 10 things given up for Lent, drawn from Twitter – all those things that feel tempting are actually ways we might be trying to find peace, security, comfort – and joy – all things that also live deep in our human relationship to God.

You and I get tempted in those ways all the time. 

It’s different from one of us to the next. Chocolate might be easy to resist for you and hard for me; new gadgets might be totally resistible to me and painfully desirable to you. 

But the reason any of those things tempt us is when somehow they stand for the things that the devil offers Jesus in the wilderness: comfort, success, and security.

And the reason Jesus doesn’t seem to hesitate – even if he finds those things as attractive as you or I ever could – is because he’s spent the last 40 days steeping so deeply in his communion with God that he’s overflowing with assurance, victory, and well-being.

Sounds nice, doesn’t that?

That’s what Jesus wants for us, too.

It’s what he’s taught us to pray for.

Just a few pages ahead in his gospel, Matthew tells us how Jesus taught his disciples to pray:
“Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name…save us from the time of trial, and deliver us from the evil one.”

Some scholars think that last bit is a deliberate reference to Jesus’ experience in this wilderness – a time of trial; experimental testing – face to face with the evil one.

That phrase that’s been running through my head all week is just a different translation of that same prayer: “lead us not into temptation; deliver us from evil.”

Week after week, year after year, we pray to share the kind of experience Jesus had in the wilderness.  And if Jesus’ life shows us anything, it’s that prayer doesn’t belong just to our words, but to our living, to our daily choices of action and inaction.

So if we want Jesus’ assurance, victory, well-being and his resistance to temptation, we need to do what he did, to steep in our connection with God.  And if you can’t take 40 days off for a food-free wilderness retreat, you can spend Lent practicing trust, prayer, openness, and worship.  It won’t make you perfect at temptation, but you can spend 40 days steeping in your communion with God.

That’s why we’re supposed to give things up for Lent. 

It’s the time to give up the substitutes for God.

It’s the time to give up TV that numbs your soul – whether by violence or comedy;

to give up work that excuses you from difficult relationships,

foods or habits that are a distraction from facing your own heart,

or whatever you use to soothe your anxiety – cookies, wine, coffee,  facebook, whatever. Do give that up in order to spend more of your trust on God.

Spend more trust on telling God what’s gnawing at you. 

Spend more love on praying throughout the day. 

Spend more hope on seeking out the will of God. 

Spend more time on joy.

Because only being steeped in those deep elements of our relationship with God can drain the power out of real temptations, real desire for security, comfort, and success.

And it will.

Let’s be clear – I’m not telling you this is easy. 

I fall out of my connection to God all the time and find myself powerfully drawn to busy-ness – getting stuff done – to chocolate, shopping (one can never have too many books or hair care products, right? or at least it’s easy to tell myself that) And then I know I have to work that connection back open again.

It’s not easy, but when we steep ourselves in our relationship with God,

it can become simple. As simple as it is to resist running a red light when you’re not in any kind of hurry.

That’s my goal for this Lent – for all of us.  That we can sink so deep into our communion with God that all those things that seduce with promises of comfort, success, or security don’t seem to matter any more.

I think that’s Jesus’ prayer for us, too.

After all, it’s one he taught us to pray:

Lead us not into temptation, and deliver us from evil.    Amen.

Dangerous Words

Matthew 5:38-48

It only takes about two sentences of Jesus’ preaching this morning to get me riled up and mad.  Of course, that’s Jesus for you: Never content with the status quo, always poking at it for more generous justice, more abundant relationship, more God and less us…. 

He’s a pain in the neck because he keeps wanting to reinvent the  rules and customs that we live by.

So my reaction is probably very much what a lot of people felt that same day that Jesus first said this.  And I’ll bet I’m not the only one in the centuries since then to be upset about it.

I like to think I’m a big fan of the kingdom of God that Jesus preaches.  I love the vision of a world where right trumps might, love and generosity are more influential than power or money, and God lives oh-so-close to us.

But then today he says,

Do not resist an evildoer.

Turn the other cheek.  Go the extra mile.

Give to everyone, love your enemies.

Most of it sounds nice and generous, but it’s dangerous stuff.

Loaded with dynamite.

Over two hundred centuries, how many abused women, slaves, and minorities have had “turn the other cheek” preached to them as a lesson not to rock the boat, to accept the abuser and the oppressor as holy and right?

I shudder to think.

“Go the extra mile” and “love your enemies” can be just as dangerous when preached and applied to the powerless.  And it boggles my mind to think of God’s living Word announcing that we should “not resist an evildoer.”

So I’m mad.

I want to march up to Jesus and demand to know why we’re supposed to let evildoers run rampant.

After all, that’s already the way of the world we live in – think North Korea, the recent abuse of stand your ground laws, West Virginia’s water supply (or, rather lack of safe water!), Wall Street bailouts – you could probably name more.

All of those result from a long unspoken policy of not resisting evildoers.  In fact, for the most part, we don’t even use the word evil to describe the actions that produce these things.

This is dangerous stuff, what Jesus says today.

I’ll readily admit it has its benefits, too.

The advice about exaggeratedly generous responses to physical violence, aggressive lawsuits, and conscription has inspired some incredibly powerful non-violent resistance that has changed our world for the better, over and over.

Even more effective would be learning to love our enemies – not like them, but love them, so that we genuinely want what’s best for them – learning that could transform our individual lives and our entire political world in ways that lead to peace and mutual respect.

But I can’t get over that idea of not resisting evildoers; and the vast unrewarded generosity that Jesus is preaching makes me a little uneasy considering that last week, thanks to Judy, we thought about making “yes” really mean Yes! with all our hearts, and saying a real “no” to the things that drain and destroy us.

Although, as I think about it, that might be part of the answer I’m looking for. 

Saying “no”, and meaning NO, to the things that drain and destroy does mean saying no to actions or even dreams of revenge,

saying no to things that escalate violence or division,

saying no to anger with our enemies and indifference to those outside our safe communities.

Jesus is preaching a real “Yes!” to generosity, a Yes fueled by the inspiration of God’s own holiness, God’s unprejudiced generosity, God’s desire for relationships of love instead of hate or fear.

It’s a tall order to be perfect as God is perfect, even with careful scholarship to point out that perfect doesn’t mean flawless, here, but deeply whole and true to one’s self and purpose.  (Perfect has always been dangerous language, too, but that isn’t Jesus’ fault, just the translators.)

But still that’s our call from God, the foundation upon which all of Jesus’ preaching is built. 

We are completed, whole, and true to ourselves most of all when we take seriously the truth of our creation in the image of God, the identity in relationship to God that God gives us in creation and in baptism.

How often do you take time to care for that image of God in your soul and body? 

How clearly do you see that self that God has made in wonder and joy?

Do you look for that lovely, holy image in strangers and friends?

If you don’t do and see those things now, please, please, please, make the time to pray with your reflection in the mirror – read Psalm 139 to your reflected self. 

Please give yourself the grace of looking for God’s image in your own heart and in the faces of others. 

Please spend intentional time with the people who see God in you and reflect it back.  Seek them out if you don’t know them yet.

And that may, in the end, be something of what Jesus means in telling us not to resist the evildoer.

Not to submit to abuse, or accept oppression, but to be true to the self God calls us to be.  To remember that in spite of insults and abuse, we are wholly worthy of and responsible for bearing the image of God in our bodies and selves.

Abuse and oppression create the terrible belief that the victim has brought the violence or injustice on themselves.  The perfect image of God within us denies that dangerous and powerful delusion with the loudest possible voice, calling out that we are holy and worthy of respect and care.

Resistance – violence for violence, revenge for insult – warps our souls into the image of the evildoer, and plays in to the evildoer’s power. Knowing ourselves as the perfect, whole and healthy image of God calls us out of the evildoer’s power with dignity and grace – a painful, long, long, difficult and often dangerous process, but the only way to healing.

Love of the evildoer, of corporate leaders driven to soulless action by culture and commerce, of unsettled majorities made violent by fear, even of dictators and oppressors, may even transform the painful contortions of our culture and generation. 

After all, love leads to urgent action for healthy change, not regulation and resignation.

Such a tall order, but one that accelerates our world into the kingdom of God.

I’m still a little mad at Jesus.

And oh, how I wish he’d never said to not resist the evildoer.

Because if they’re cut loose from the heart and spirit of God, those are still such dangerous, even appalling words.

But when they resonate with the awesome image of God within and among us, they’re a holy risk and challenge, one we face together, not alone.

We have each other to call out and respect the image of God in us,

and in our enemies,

and we have the abundant generosity of God to fuel us on the long and uphill road away from abuse and oppression, hate and fear, violence and division,

in our world and in our lives.

It’s a long road, but I’m in.  Are you?