Sunday, September 13, 2026
John 4 (at Jacob's Well)
1.
Hidden in another peculiar conversation, embedded in another quirky bit of dialogue, is a question. This question.
Is there a wellspring within you, within you, that roils and rises within to awaken and arouse the life without end in your soul? The life without end in your soul? That’s the question today. At the heart of the gospel itself.
It’s an odd little moment between the two of them, the Jew and the Samaritan at the well; but it’s anything but superficial and cheap. And this question bounces between the two of them, and then across time and space to you and me. On this second Sunday in the Season of Creationtide. Is there a wellspring within you that stirs and sometimes even surges to arouse the life without end in your soul? And before you take even a moment to answer for yourself, allow me to be so bold, maybe even so brazen, as to answer for you. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Whether you think of yourself as liberal, radical, evangelical, progressive. Whether you’re an artist, an activist, an academic or a mystic. Yes. Yes. Yes. Whether you’re kicking off a new year in the classroom or shifting new responsibilities at work, whether you’re tackling a new ministry here at church or even reexamining every last priority in your life. Whether you’re preparing for a baptism, and a few of you are, or you’ve been a member of this church (or some church somewhere) for all of your life. The gospel does not equivocate. There is within you—as there is within every one of us here—that wellspring that stirs with sustenance and spirit, that calls out from the depths, to inspire and bless and awaken your truth. Which dances of course, spins and skips and dances, with all truth.
And this Jesus, then, the Jesus we find in the fourth gospel, embodies the promise. To take him seriously is to absorb the promise. To offer it shelter in your own soul. You are not created for boredom. You are not created for monotony or manipulation or abuse. Within you is this wellspring of grace, this wellspring of courage, this wellspring of desire. And you need never, never be thirsty.
2.
The wild thing in our story this morning is the way the two of them—Jesus and the Samaritan—tease this good news out of one another; the way the two of them, even playfully, identify the gifts, possibilities, and promises for one another. Living water. Quenched thirst. Life without end. There’s no doubt at all that Jesus is poking around in her spiritual life, in her community’s practice, inviting reflection around what truly nourishes, what quickens her spirit, what sustains her. That’s so clear here.
But isn’t it just as true that she does something similar for him: that she jousts with him verbally, that she plays a bit with metaphor and language, that she provokes in Jesus himself self-awareness and even divine vocation? So that he can say to her, eventually: “I offer water, I offer water that will become a wellspring within you…” And he gets there because she engages fully and from the heart in this conversation. It’s stunning, really. And theologically consequential. How the two of them discover that wellspring of god’s grace in one another—the wellspring that stirs with sustenance and spirit, that calls out from the depths, to inspire and bless and awaken their truths.
And isn’t it our experience that God comes so often in the guise of a stranger, a refugee with a dream, a woman with a bucket, and we’re challenged by something new in her story, or provoked to see things differently as we consider her point of view? This is indeed the great gift of koinonia, of our life together in the Body of Christ. That if we’re vulnerable in community, if we’re open to one another, if we risk hearing the stranger’s story and whatever it is that makes that story holy—God so often shakes loose in us a calling we’ve been missing, a calling that serves now as a kind of wakeup call for the kingdom of heaven, the kin-dom of God. On earth as in heaven.
I worked with a young couple years ago as they planned their wedding and worked out some tricky family dynamics along the way. She’s Palestinian from a big Arab American family in the Midwest; and he’s Jewish from a rowdy Jewish family in California. And their engagement had turned the tables, so to speak, on several of their dear aunts, uncles and cousins. On both sides. And their assumptions around identity and commitment. And one or two grievances around history and distrust. Big stuff, really, for any young couple to work through.
What I remember most vividly from our work together is the intention the two of them invested in bringing their beleaguered, befuddled families together, and the gratitude we discovered for one another as we worked these things through over several sessions. And they challenged me. They challenged me, in a whole bunch of ways, to set aside ideas that limited their imagination, biases that assumed irreconcilable differences and disappointment. And I heard in their voices a kind of resilience and even an innocence that changed me in the end: it transformed the way I understood the Palestinian-Israeli divide, and it changed the way I experienced my ministry with so many other couples in complicated moments.
Just last week, by the way, now twenty years later, the two of them sent me greetings from California on their twentieth wedding anniversary; and they thanked me, unnecessarily, I think, for the gifts and insights of our time together. And what was a gorgeous, international, multicultural wedding.
3.
And like that wedding twenty years ago, our story this morning is, in part, about crossing boundaries, clearly, and breaking customs, and recognizing in our differences themselves the wildest opportunities for theological discernment, spiritual awakening and human understanding. “I can’t believe that you, a Jew,” she says to him, “would associate with me, a Samaritan; much less ask me to give you a drink.” And there seems to be a kind of twinkle in her eye: am I right? As if she knows exactly what she’s doing. And the differences between the two of them reveal sacred space for curiosity, playfulness, metaphor and discovery. It’s everything the spiritual life can be.
Isn’t it always that way though? Doesn’t it work that way for you too? My friend Sean Rohlfing here reminds me every Sunday what singing hymns is really all about. My friends Pam Monroe and Bryn Burns open my heart, my imagination to the true meanings of marriage and covenant. And Ernie’s voice is Jesus’ voice now, Jesus in the here and now, saying: “Come, follow me.” Come, follow me. And in all of this, in the push and pull of life together, in the bearing of our griefs and blessing of our gifts, you and I taste that wellspring, that everlasting water rising, bubbling, even surging within. Slaking our thirst in a way no seltzer, no coke, no beer ever could.
But we have to be honest, right. This doesn’t mean, it certainly doesn’t mean that we have figured ourselves out. And it doesn’t mean we don’t get sick or really confused or even depressed sometimes. Because we do. But there is, within us, within you, just the same, a wellspring that ripples with grace and quickens your spirit and links you, connects you, joins you to the One Great Love that is your one true home. Like all the rest of us you are a mixed bag of doubts and despair; of guts, glory and grace; and all of that, all of you, is made, designed, fashioned in the image of God. You see, your brokenness is itself a sign of God’s presence in your life, a confirmation (if you will) of divine solidarity: that you too are perfectly imperfect; that you too are wounded and worthy; that you too are dust and DNA and blood and bone tossed together in a body that’s built to get old and weird. Go figure.
There’s this temptation, and I think you know what I’m talking about, to fall into the trap, or maybe the bad habit that says: Yes, but I’m the exception. Yes, all this wellspring business sounds good, poetic, even generous; but I’m the exception. I’m too broken to be included in the circle of grace. I’m too depressed to even understand what that means. My mistakes are too significant. My faith is inconsistent. I’m the exception. And to be honest, my friends, the Samaritan woman at the well has her own reasons to fall for this temptation: rules she’s broken, relationships she’s left behind, commandments she’s transgressed, and authoritarians she’s probably ticked off.
But this Jesus, this gospel will not exclude you, me, her, anyone from the cosmic dimensions of God’s grace, from the universal reach of God’s love, from the kin-dom that knows no beginning or end. “I offer water,” Jesus says, and he’s not kidding, “that will become a wellspring within you that gives everlasting life.” The temptation is to believe—even for a moment—that there are exceptions, that there are limits, that you or I might be that exception. For any number of flimsy but well-rehearsed reasons. You know the drill. But Jesus says: No way. Don’t fall for it. The way the world carves us up. The way its weariness exhausts us. Jesus says: Don’t fall for it. We’re all in this together. Let our circle be unbroken.
4.
So here’s a thought, maybe even an invitation for Creationtide. If our species is going to fall in love all over again with fields and forests, bugs and beasts, watersheds and wildflowers; if we’re going to fall in love again with the planet we are tasked with blessing, we’re going to have to dive deep and find that wellspring within. The wellspring that ripples and roils, swells and surges in you and in me. If we’re going to get serious about the sacrifices to be made in beating swords into plowshares, healing scarred landscapes, and setting sweet tables for the hungry and poor, we’re going to wash ourselves clean and freshen up in that wellspring. And if we’re going to lean hard into what should be our baptismal responsibility, our baptismal vocation in leaving the planet greener and freer than we found it, we’re going to have to trust the living waters within. We’re going to have to trust the renewing grace that resists tribal categories and cynicism of all kinds, the one great love that tastes justice and peace in the here and now, and joins us to a quirky, unpredictable, beloved band of friends who insist on singing at sunrise, breaking bread at big tables, and praising God for all of it.
Is this wild wellspring within another one of Jesus’ metaphors? Sure it is. But can’t you hear it now? Can’t you taste it now? Doesn't it seem like the kind of metaphor that just might make the whole world new again? And maybe it all starts here. With you and me. Drinking deep.
So, thanks be to God.
And Amen and Ashe!
1.
Hidden in another peculiar conversation, embedded in another quirky bit of dialogue, is a question. This question.
Is there a wellspring within you, within you, that roils and rises within to awaken and arouse the life without end in your soul? The life without end in your soul? That’s the question today. At the heart of the gospel itself.
Whether you think of yourself as liberal, radical, evangelical, progressive. Whether you’re an artist, an activist, an academic or a mystic. Yes. Yes. Yes. Whether you’re kicking off a new year in the classroom or shifting new responsibilities at work, whether you’re tackling a new ministry here at church or even reexamining every last priority in your life. Whether you’re preparing for a baptism, and a few of you are, or you’ve been a member of this church (or some church somewhere) for all of your life. The gospel does not equivocate. There is within you—as there is within every one of us here—that wellspring that stirs with sustenance and spirit, that calls out from the depths, to inspire and bless and awaken your truth. Which dances of course, spins and skips and dances, with all truth.
And this Jesus, then, the Jesus we find in the fourth gospel, embodies the promise. To take him seriously is to absorb the promise. To offer it shelter in your own soul. You are not created for boredom. You are not created for monotony or manipulation or abuse. Within you is this wellspring of grace, this wellspring of courage, this wellspring of desire. And you need never, never be thirsty.
2.
The wild thing in our story this morning is the way the two of them—Jesus and the Samaritan—tease this good news out of one another; the way the two of them, even playfully, identify the gifts, possibilities, and promises for one another. Living water. Quenched thirst. Life without end. There’s no doubt at all that Jesus is poking around in her spiritual life, in her community’s practice, inviting reflection around what truly nourishes, what quickens her spirit, what sustains her. That’s so clear here.
And isn’t it our experience that God comes so often in the guise of a stranger, a refugee with a dream, a woman with a bucket, and we’re challenged by something new in her story, or provoked to see things differently as we consider her point of view? This is indeed the great gift of koinonia, of our life together in the Body of Christ. That if we’re vulnerable in community, if we’re open to one another, if we risk hearing the stranger’s story and whatever it is that makes that story holy—God so often shakes loose in us a calling we’ve been missing, a calling that serves now as a kind of wakeup call for the kingdom of heaven, the kin-dom of God. On earth as in heaven.
I worked with a young couple years ago as they planned their wedding and worked out some tricky family dynamics along the way. She’s Palestinian from a big Arab American family in the Midwest; and he’s Jewish from a rowdy Jewish family in California. And their engagement had turned the tables, so to speak, on several of their dear aunts, uncles and cousins. On both sides. And their assumptions around identity and commitment. And one or two grievances around history and distrust. Big stuff, really, for any young couple to work through.
What I remember most vividly from our work together is the intention the two of them invested in bringing their beleaguered, befuddled families together, and the gratitude we discovered for one another as we worked these things through over several sessions. And they challenged me. They challenged me, in a whole bunch of ways, to set aside ideas that limited their imagination, biases that assumed irreconcilable differences and disappointment. And I heard in their voices a kind of resilience and even an innocence that changed me in the end: it transformed the way I understood the Palestinian-Israeli divide, and it changed the way I experienced my ministry with so many other couples in complicated moments.
Just last week, by the way, now twenty years later, the two of them sent me greetings from California on their twentieth wedding anniversary; and they thanked me, unnecessarily, I think, for the gifts and insights of our time together. And what was a gorgeous, international, multicultural wedding.
3.
And like that wedding twenty years ago, our story this morning is, in part, about crossing boundaries, clearly, and breaking customs, and recognizing in our differences themselves the wildest opportunities for theological discernment, spiritual awakening and human understanding. “I can’t believe that you, a Jew,” she says to him, “would associate with me, a Samaritan; much less ask me to give you a drink.” And there seems to be a kind of twinkle in her eye: am I right? As if she knows exactly what she’s doing. And the differences between the two of them reveal sacred space for curiosity, playfulness, metaphor and discovery. It’s everything the spiritual life can be.
Isn’t it always that way though? Doesn’t it work that way for you too? My friend Sean Rohlfing here reminds me every Sunday what singing hymns is really all about. My friends Pam Monroe and Bryn Burns open my heart, my imagination to the true meanings of marriage and covenant. And Ernie’s voice is Jesus’ voice now, Jesus in the here and now, saying: “Come, follow me.” Come, follow me. And in all of this, in the push and pull of life together, in the bearing of our griefs and blessing of our gifts, you and I taste that wellspring, that everlasting water rising, bubbling, even surging within. Slaking our thirst in a way no seltzer, no coke, no beer ever could.
There’s this temptation, and I think you know what I’m talking about, to fall into the trap, or maybe the bad habit that says: Yes, but I’m the exception. Yes, all this wellspring business sounds good, poetic, even generous; but I’m the exception. I’m too broken to be included in the circle of grace. I’m too depressed to even understand what that means. My mistakes are too significant. My faith is inconsistent. I’m the exception. And to be honest, my friends, the Samaritan woman at the well has her own reasons to fall for this temptation: rules she’s broken, relationships she’s left behind, commandments she’s transgressed, and authoritarians she’s probably ticked off.
But this Jesus, this gospel will not exclude you, me, her, anyone from the cosmic dimensions of God’s grace, from the universal reach of God’s love, from the kin-dom that knows no beginning or end. “I offer water,” Jesus says, and he’s not kidding, “that will become a wellspring within you that gives everlasting life.” The temptation is to believe—even for a moment—that there are exceptions, that there are limits, that you or I might be that exception. For any number of flimsy but well-rehearsed reasons. You know the drill. But Jesus says: No way. Don’t fall for it. The way the world carves us up. The way its weariness exhausts us. Jesus says: Don’t fall for it. We’re all in this together. Let our circle be unbroken.
4.
So here’s a thought, maybe even an invitation for Creationtide. If our species is going to fall in love all over again with fields and forests, bugs and beasts, watersheds and wildflowers; if we’re going to fall in love again with the planet we are tasked with blessing, we’re going to have to dive deep and find that wellspring within. The wellspring that ripples and roils, swells and surges in you and in me. If we’re going to get serious about the sacrifices to be made in beating swords into plowshares, healing scarred landscapes, and setting sweet tables for the hungry and poor, we’re going to wash ourselves clean and freshen up in that wellspring. And if we’re going to lean hard into what should be our baptismal responsibility, our baptismal vocation in leaving the planet greener and freer than we found it, we’re going to have to trust the living waters within. We’re going to have to trust the renewing grace that resists tribal categories and cynicism of all kinds, the one great love that tastes justice and peace in the here and now, and joins us to a quirky, unpredictable, beloved band of friends who insist on singing at sunrise, breaking bread at big tables, and praising God for all of it.
Is this wild wellspring within another one of Jesus’ metaphors? Sure it is. But can’t you hear it now? Can’t you taste it now? Doesn't it seem like the kind of metaphor that just might make the whole world new again? And maybe it all starts here. With you and me. Drinking deep.
So, thanks be to God.
And Amen and Ashe!
