A Christ Who Thirsts

Sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent, Year A

The Church of the Epiphany | Washington, DC

Exodus 17:1-7; John 4:5-42

“Give us water to drink,” cry the people of God. 

In the Exodus narrative, when the Hebrew people leave Egypt they set off on a pilgrimage through dry lands — and unsurprisingly it doesn’t take very long before they become weary. 

Their bodies are tired. Their lips are parched. And as hope seems to dry up, their souls thirst… 

In the wilderness, they come face to face with uncertainty, and they begin to look back over their shoulders: longing for a familiar place. Even if that familiarity is the very same place where they were held in bondage. 

Our brains are wired to associate familiarity with safety, whether or not it is indeed for our good. And so the story has some resonance. Because all-too-often, throughout human history, we have a tendency to thirst for the power of Pharaoh—even if it is not good or what we really want. In the face of uncertainty, we thirst for the might of Pharoah’s chariots, thinking our lives will be secured by their promise of safety… But all who drink of it will surely thirst again.

As no doubt is true for many here, I’ve watched with horror this past week while bombs fall from the sky across the Middle East. A new war, with new bombs and new billions, and newly destroyed lands and lives. And yet, somehow, it is an all-too-familiar story. And as I’ve refreshed my newsfeed over and over again, looking for some assurances that things are going to be okay, I admit that I’ve struggled at times to hold onto hope—in which I also know I am not alone.

There’s a lot we might say about these “desert days.” One thing, if nothing else, is that they certainly sharpen the need for a renewal of spirituality—perhaps we might even say a kind of spiritual awakening. Because we won’t make it through the desert without a water well.

From a life deeply steeped in spiritual practice, the mystic Howard Thurman described a kind of “inward spring” that sustains us and gives birth to an outward courage in the world. He writes, “Such courage is an underground river, flowing far beneath the shifting events of one’s experience, keeping alive a thousand little springs of actions.”  

Whatever form they take, spiritual practices tap into that inward spring and help bring it into the world. And if there is any hope against hope, it is time to draw from deep reservoirs.

“Give us water to drink,” is very much the prayer I’ve asked of God these days. Before this morning’s lessons I wouldn’t have put it quite like this, because it’s mostly been a prayer beyond words. “Give us water to drink” is the thing my spirit is crying out for when there are no words to be found. And when Jesus goes to Jacob’s well, tired and worn-out after his own long journey, [like Johnny Cash singing in Folsom Prison] he too asks for a drink of water.

It’s really a rather simple request. But one that is far from inconsequential… Because there are so many reasons for Jesus to just not ask this question. According to the customs of the time, men didn’t speak to women in public. And Jews and Samaritans also found themselves on separate lines of sectarianism—which they dared not cross. To do so would be socially unacceptable, and in some instances even unsafe. But Jesus asks for a drink anyway. 

But what’s more: Jesus is divine, afterall. So, does he really need assistance?

Perhaps at times we might prefer that he didn’t… We live in a world that rewards independence and praises individualism as a high calling. Vulnerability then is not only considered impolite, it so often comes at a cost. So, we avoid it. It’s far more convenient then not to depend on others; more comfortable to isolate and protect ourselves and interests in moments of need.

In John’s Gospel though, we see a Christ who thirsts.

Evidently, the Samaritan woman has misunderstood Jesus at the well—becuase what he means figuratively she takes literally. It’s really quite reasonable though. Jesus may not really be talking about water in a material sense, but he does present at a water well as a dusty man with parched lips and no bucket from which to draw water. He shows up as a real person, with a real need that he makes known to another. And this makes all the difference… 

Because a Christ who thirsts is one who enters into vulnerability—even in the face of uncertainty. Who knows what the heights and depths of human needs, longing, and pain from within a human body. At the well, just as in his final moments on the cross, Christ thirsts. 

This is precisely the point. No matter the circumstances or how sparse hope might feel, Christ takes his place beside us. And “blessed are you who thirst for righteousness,” he says.

Blessed are you, especially when wandering through desert days, feeling like you are pressed between a rock and a hard place, praying for just a drink of water. Blessed are you because it is into that very place that God enters in and then causes living waters to spring forth. Because even in the desert God provides real water from a rock. And this is the well where our hope lies. 

Come, let us sing to the Lord, let us shout for joy to the Rock of our salvation! Amen