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.