😇 Lent 3
Readings: Exodus 17:1-7; Psalm 95; Romans 5:1-11; John 4:5-42.
From the TRNG Room:
Central Thesis/Theme:
This week I'm handing the platform to guest preacher Laura Isaac, who brings a powerful Lenten reflection on John 4 and the Woman at the Well. Her central argument: the church has long misread this passage as a story of condemnation, but Jesus offers no judgment here — only recognition. When shame falls away, isolation shatters and community forms. This Lent, Laura invites us to identify the shame we carry, hold it out, thank it for trying to protect us, and let it go — walking back to town, as the Samaritan woman did, in the freedom of being fully known and fully loved.
Key Textual/Historical Insights:
Laura makes a crucial corrective that I think every reader of this text needs to hear: in first-century Palestine, women were considered property. A woman married five times was almost certainly a survivor — of death, abandonment, infertility, coercion, or assault — not a seducer. Comparing Jesus's neutral observation about the woman's marital history to his scorching rebukes of the Pharisees (Matthew 23, John 8) and his tender forgiveness language with the sick reveals the absence of condemnation. Jesus is not issuing a verdict; he's demonstrating that he already knows her fully — and it's not a problem.
Theological Argument:
Laura's theological move hinges on a distinction that deserves wide circulation: guilt says I did something bad, shame says I am bad. Jesus's interaction with the Samaritan woman operates as an anti-shame encounter. Like God asking Adam "Who told you that you were naked?" (Genesis 3), Jesus implicitly asks this marginalized woman: who told you that you are unworthy? The miracle of the passage isn't the living water metaphor — it's that the townspeople believe her testimony without male corroboration. She preaches, and it lands. That's what liberation from shame makes possible.
Contemporary Application:
Laura grounds this theology in a raw, present-tense story: a friend navigating a custody battle, having her parenting scrutinized and distorted in court, carrying shame that was placed on her, not earned. It's a sharp illustration of how shame functions socially — mothers held to impossible standards, women's credibility perpetually in question. The Lenten practice Laura proposes isn't fasting from food or social media; it's fasting from internalized shame. Naming it, holding it, releasing it — and watching how that freedom ripples outward into how we stop shaming others.
Questions Raised:
When the church reads this passage as moral condemnation rather than radical welcome, what does that reveal about whose shame the church is most comfortable policing?
Is the "living water" metaphor primarily about eternal life, or does it also do present-tense work — satisfying a thirst for dignity and belonging here and now?
What's the difference between communal accountability (which requires naming wrongs) and shame-based religion — and how do we hold that distinction in practice?
The townspeople believed her without requiring a male witness. Where in our communities do we still require that kind of corroboration before we trust marginalized voices?
Laura distinguishes guilt from shame carefully — but can shame ever function redemptively, or is it always destructive?
Reflection
All right. I timed my sermon in bed this morning as I read it — 17 minutes, but with my adrenaline it'll probably be 16. So buckle up. If you need to take a breath, now's your time.
This passage is a familiar one, and if you were here during our sermon series "No Guy July," you heard Reverend Casey Alexander preach on this text. Here again we read it, but this time in a new light, as we are smack dab in the middle of Lent.
During our first week of Lent, we heard powerful stories from Reverend Caroline Hamilton Arnold about the ministry she coordinates, offering aid to those muddling through the aftermath of disaster. Then last week, Pastor Jared talked about the nuances and many meanings of Lent and what it might look like to take up Lenten disciplines. In light of Jesus's temptation in the desert, Jared reminded us that Lent is about being able to take a close look at the why and the how of our lives — the gifts of insight that come from a slowed pace or a disrupted routine.
This brings us to today's story: a story of a disrupted routine in a Samaritan city.
As we delve into this story, I want to clear something up that the church has, for years, taken out of context to aid in its oppression of women. For years, this passage was read as Jesus condemning the Samaritan woman's promiscuity — five husbands, and the man she's currently with is not her husband. We have mistakenly interpreted Jesus's questioning of her marital status as one of judgment, and we have used it as a mechanism for shaming her and for shaming those we encounter who are like her.
Which is pretty wild, considering that at this time in history, women and girls had no rights. They were considered property. The male body was the only body considered whole. So for a woman to have been married multiple times meant some pretty awful things happened to her to be in that position. Spouses died. Perhaps she was unable to have children. The likelihood that she entered some of these marriages with little to no choice — and the likelihood that she was a survivor of assault — is fairly high.
And yet the church has historically characterized this passage as the Christian version of the Scarlet Letter. Thankfully, this has changed, and we now read this text with a more refined perspective.
In this story and in his ministry, it is clear that Jesus does not operate within the paradigm of patriarchy. When Jesus says to the woman, "You have had five husbands, and the person you are currently with is not your husband," he does not include his typical condemning or judging language. How do we know this? All we have to do is turn back to some of his really spicy comments to the Pharisees — or his response after healing the sick.
Back in Matthew 23, Jesus says to the Pharisees: "You travel sea and land to make someone convert, but when they have converted, they become twice the child of hell that you are." Or in John 8: "Why is my language not clear to you? Because you are unable to hear what I say. You belong to your father, the devil." After Jesus heals people in both Matthew and Mark, he says, "Be encouraged, child. Your sins are forgiven." If he were going to use that same condemning register with the Samaritan woman, he might have said, "You are right to say that you are paralyzed." Instead, what he communicates is: I know you, and what I know about you is not a problem with me.
I'm going to quote the poet Andrea Gibson twice, so bear with me. In one of their many love poems to their wife, Gibson writes from the perspective of the afterlife gaining knowledge they didn't have on earth: "I know every secret you thought too dark to tell me, and I love you more for everything you feared might make me love you less." That is the heart of this passage.
When shame falls away, joy and confidence follow. When shame falls away, isolation and loneliness shatter, and community forms.
I love the conversation in Genesis between Adam and God. After Adam and Eve eat the forbidden fruit, they hide. God finds Adam and asks, "Where were you?" — as if God didn't already know. Adam replies, "I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid." And God replies: "Who told you that you were naked?"
Just by engaging her in conversation, Jesus seems to be asking the Samaritan woman the same thing: Who told you that you are unworthy?
After all, she comes to the well in the middle of the day — in the heat — when she expects no one else to be there. Perhaps because she is afraid and vulnerable, so she hides. And like any woman navigating a society that shames and oppresses her, she is vigilant. When she arrives at the well, it must have been startling to see Jesus sitting there — akin to walking down a dark alley at night, only to encounter a man when you thought you were going to be alone.
Not only does she notice the man — probably trying to ignore him and go about her chore — she notices he is Jewish. A Jewish rabbi did not have conversations with women in public. A Jew was not expected to interact with a Samaritan in any form of familiarity. And then he has the audacity to ask her for water and proceeds to engage her in an intimate conversation.
I wonder if the hair on the back of her neck stood up. I wonder if she was already playing out in her mind how best she could escape — maybe pictured taking the basin, hitting him over the head and darting away if he makes the wrong move. Because she's been through a lot. And her trauma is savvy and nimble, acting as her personal security detail, each memory sharpening her defense.
But then when he speaks, there is something comforting and familiar. Is this her trauma response? Is she fawning? She's not sure what to do. Especially when he asks for water, and then tells her he has this miraculous living water. And then he tells her about her marital status. And — by what could only be interpreted as the work of the Holy Spirit — she presumes that Jesus is a prophet, not a stalker. She believes him when he tells her he is the one she's been waiting for, and he has more to offer than prophetic insight.
And so she feels so inspired by this conversation with Jesus that she leaves her basin and walks back to town — in broad daylight. She doesn't even get water. Her earthly thirst is quenched by this living water, and apparently her shame is evaporated, at least for this moment. She goes into town to share something so significant that it supersedes any social expectation or rule she has diligently followed for as long as she can remember.
And tragically — or miraculously, really — the most miraculous part of this story is that they believe her. The town believes this woman who has been married five times and must go get water in the heat of the day. They believe the person they have actively pushed to the margins of their community. She doesn't need evidence, testimony, or a man to back her story. They believe her.
She is no longer hiding. Perhaps no longer vulnerable. And she preaches. She offers a sermon in the telling of her conversation with Jesus, and it is so compelling that people stop what they're doing to go meet this man.
We read later that Jesus ends up extending his stay in that town, and by the end of their time there, the people begin to believe — not only because of the woman's sermon, but because of their own experience of him. It is no surprise that Jesus inspires this woman to preach. He is not operating within the rules of patriarchy. He does not care about how taboo it is to speak with someone considered less than him. Perhaps in his prophetic spirit, he knew she was coming.
Now — this conversation between Jesus and the Samaritan woman goes from earthly to spiritual, and in this sacred moment, the disciples return from the grocery store. I must confess: this part of the passage gets me to chuckle every time I read it. When the disciples return from getting food in town, they encourage Jesus to eat, and his only response is, "I have food to eat that you don't know about." And they're just befuddled.
I can picture them blowing up the group text: Who got food for Jesus already? And who is this woman? Did one of you DoorDash a falafel over here, Peter? And then Philip: Guys, hear me out. Jesus doesn't mean real food. He's doing that weird cryptic teachy thing again.
And then sure enough, right after Philip sends the text, Jesus pontificates — using the most ordinary, everyday staples for his imagery: water and food. Living water and eternal nourishment. Instead of water from a rock and manna for a day, Jesus is offering nourishment that will satisfy eternally.
And what I love about this group of disciples is that they walk into this awkward scene and don't have the energy to ask what's going on, or they've decided to trust Jesus, or they've simply learned not to ask. Either way: what a profound moment for them to witness — the breaking of social norms in service of upholding the dignity of the most undignified.
A dear friend of mine, who gave me permission to share this story, is at the tail end of a tumultuous custody battle with an abusive ex-spouse. It's quite possible she might lose physical custody of her children. For now, she's anxiously awaiting the results of her trial. She courageously invited friends to sit in the courtroom while her ex's lawyer stripped her dignity and scrutinized every aspect of her parenting. The gaslighting alone by her ex on the stand was re-traumatizing. But then to have someone hyperfocus on brief moments of mediocre parenting — not bad parenting, mediocre parenting — when she was overwhelmed or exasperated, or allowed one of her children to lean into how they were feeling even if it meant being late to school or staying home.
She was shamed, and arguably held to a much higher standard than her ex. It was gut-wrenching to witness. If I hadn't been wearing my clerical collar in the courtroom, I believe I would have been less measured with my facial reactions to the absurdity and audacity of her ex's lawyer.
Despite knowing that so many of the examples the lawyer used were taken out of context, embellished, or completely false — and knowing that she is a good mother — a part of her has already internalized this mischaracterization of her identity as a mother. She carries that shame with her.
It doesn't take an expert to see how mothers in our world are held to an unreasonably high standard, while fathers are often praised simply for meeting basic needs. In her trial, my friend's insecurities were put on display. She has experienced harmful shaming while fighting assertively — but not aggressively — for her children. If she didn't have a supportive community, I wonder how much of that shame she would carry, and for how long.
And to be clear: it is not guilt that she feels. Guilt is a natural response to knowing we did something wrong. Shame is something that someone puts on us. Guilt says, I did something bad. Shame says, I am bad.
Jesus looked at the Samaritan woman and affirmed her goodness. I hope my friend feels her community looking at her and hears us saying: you are good. You are a good mom. You are a good person.
You are good. Because like the Samaritan woman, when we recognize our inherent goodness — our intrinsic worth — we can be free. Even when we are on our sixth husband. Even when a broken system considers taking custody away from the more equipped parent. Even when it feels like we're living in the political upside down and the news is overwhelming. And in our freedom from this shame, we feel joyfully compelled to share this living water. We don't hoard it up because we know it's overflowing, and all we want for our community is for them to be able to lap it up.
So I know we're a few weeks in, but I wonder what it might look like — this Lent — to practice identifying the shame that you carry. Try removing it from your back, or out of your stomach, or off your neck. Hold it out, maybe give it a hug, thank it for trying to protect you all these years — and then let it go. See what it's like to walk in the footsteps of the Samaritan woman on her way back to town. See what it feels like to flirt with this deep knowing of your own goodness.
Perhaps when you do this, it will have a ripple effect. Any shaming that you unconsciously participate in toward others in your community — maybe that will stop too. Maybe the God in you will see the God in your neighbor, as isolation gives way to community.
I want to close this morning with another poem by Andrea Gibson — it's too beautiful not to share. This one is also written from the perspective of the afterlife:
On Earth, everyone loved butterflies, but I trusted the caterpillars more. I trusted the ones who knew they were not done growing. On Earth, I was a work in progress, and I was comforted knowing I had a million mistakes still in me to learn from. I changed my mind more often than I changed my socks, and whenever I was criticized for mismatched thoughts, I'd say: who wants to be today who they were yesterday? Becoming was how I prayed.
But here I'm past the finish line. I have a heart of gold and I've never had to dig for it. I couldn't do anything wrong if I tried — and trust me, I try — but when I get hotheaded, my rage toasts the marshmallow in an angel's celestial s'mores. I lose my temper and find it in the lost and found box of halos. Lies won't let me tell them. They hand me a sticker that says "My name is" and I wrote "everyone" by accident. I can't remember what selfishness is. Yesterday I said something angry about an ex and a quarter of my taste buds jumped off my tongue. I've known nothing of bitterness since.
Right before I died, I thought: in the afterlife, I'll apply for a job at the mistake factory. They'll be awed by my resume — if anything, I'm overqualified. But there's no place where they make mistakes here. Everyone is flawless. Everyone's blunders are photoshopped off their lives before they can even happen. Is this heaven or hell? I can't tell. I looked up that famous carpenter in the phone book, but his number wasn't listed. I need to ask him where to find the wood to build some missteps. I'm not about to spend eternity burning in the lie that holy and imperfect are the same thing.
In this season of Lent, may we allow becoming to be our form of prayer.
Amen.
