John 4:5-52
Lent 3 / Year A
The Samaritan woman said to Jesus,
“How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?” Jews do not share things in common with
Samaritans. John 4:9
When we say Jesus is the Word of
God, we are saying we know what God is like through what Jesus says and through
what he does. The gospel reading we just
heard contains some of Jesus’ most profound words and ideas – far too many for
us to explore in a single Sunday sermon.
It also describes one action which says more than a thousand words ever
could. In the heat of the day, sitting
by an ancient communal well steeped in tradition, Jesus asks a Samaritan woman for
a drink of water.
Perhaps you are aware of the
cultural boundaries and taboos Jesus ignores in this seemingly simple
request. First, as a man he speaks to a
woman who is a stranger – certainly not the norm in that society at that
time. And she is not just any woman, she
has a “reputation.” She falls far short
of the community’s moral and marital standards, hence the reason she comes to
well at noon while others are home sheltered or in shade. She is a sinner with whom no holy person
would deign to associate. And finally,
she is a Samaritan and, as the text relates, Jews and Samaritans are like oil
and water, a product of deep-seated bias and hatred.
Jesus reaches beyond all that divides them and connects
with her not as a caricature, not as a demographic, not as someone who is
“other”, but as a human being. In so
doing he shares with her what is good within himself, thereby bringing what is
holy and divine into their relationship.
The more you strip a person or group of their dignity and
worth the easier it is to mistreat them; to see them as anything but a child of
God. There is a reason why the most
segregated societies are also the most violent and cruel. You cannot hate another person or group until
you have dehumanized them in your own mind. You cannot mistreat another person or group until
you see them as being less than human; of not being of equal worth with
yourself and those you love. Only when
you begin to think in terms of “us” and “them” does it become easier to be
dismissive of their value, their dignity, their experience, their concerns,
their hurts, the wrongs done to them…
their basic humanity.
I am not proud to say I struggle to appreciate the human consequences
of our military conflict with Iran. I am
concerned less with their hundreds of deaths than I am with our half dozen. I am more tuned into the anxiety of parents
stateside whose children are serving in the gulf, than I am with those living
under the very threat of missile attracts and drone strikes on their homes,
their schools, their hospitals, and their holy places. I am aware of this inside me and I am not
proud of it.
Last week, our Presiding Bishop, Sean Rowe, and the
Episcopal Bishop of Jerusalem, Hosam Noaum, wrote letters to the church and I
commend them to you. I learned something
from them I did not know but should have: There is an Anglican Diocese in
Iran. I went to its website and found a
copy of the liturgy they use for their Eucharistic Prayers. While some of its elements appear in a
different order from ours, functionally they use the same words and liturgy we
are using here this morning.
What does it say to you there are people in Iran today
offering the very same prayers we are? There
are ordained priests there who do their best to minister to a faith community,
just as I try to do. There are
congregations there comprised of people who are afraid about the state of the
world, concerned about the future, and not sure how to reach out with Christ’s
love to others, just as we are. There
are people in Iran gathered to worship who are not all that much different from
those of us gathered here. And no matter
the ways we differ, they, like we, are human beings.
Perhaps you have seen on social media a quote from the
philosopher Erich Fromm: “Love for one’s country which is not a part of one’s
love for humanity is not love, but idolatrous worship.” These words, spoken by a German Jew who was
forced to flee Nazi oppression, ought to give us pause. We have ample history to warn us patriotism
can be coopted by those seeking power and perverted to something unrecognizable
and unthinkable to generations before.
I feel all of this tugging at me not only as I consider my diminished
concern for people on the other side of the globe, but also when I stood in a
grocery line as an elderly lady fumbled through her purse only to pull out a
checkbook to pay for her purchase. “Are
you kidding me,” I thought, “this is going to take forever.” Actually, it took about 90 seconds! My gut reaction was to consider her only in
terms of how she affected me, but then I began to ponder her life. What had she contributed over all her
years? Who does she love? Who has she lost? With what does she struggle? What are her fears? Does she feel overwhelmed by the modern world
and just wants to get home where she will feel safe? My spirit shifted and I saw her not as an inconvenience
to me, but as a human being. And then I
felt blessed just to be in her presence.
Yes, Jews in Jesus’ day did not share things in common with
Samaritans and yet he enters into a conversation with a Samaritan woman. He sees beyond all that divides because he recognizes
she is a dearly beloved child of God.
What does his action say to you?
