Based on John 4:5-42 - Jesus and the Samaritan Woman at the Well | Third Week of Lent

Last week we were talking about snakes — about having to take a direct look at what’s killing us in order to live. Remember that story from the Hebrew scriptures? The people look at the bronze serpent. Jesus connects that story to himself in conversation with Nicodemus. If we want to live, we have to look honestly at what is killing us and collaborate with God in the work of healing.

But this week we have something that seems almost opposite: an unnamed woman (what is it with the unnamed women in these books?) meeting Jesus in broad daylight. No obtuse questions from her.

So here’s a thought experiment: Take a moment to think about this scene and ask yourself: where do violent, authoritarian images of God show up in it? They might not appear directly in the text. Sometimes they show up in the assumptions we bring with us when we read.

For generations this story has often been preached as if Jesus is exposing a sinful woman. But the text never actually says that. That interpretation has been layered onto the story.

And there… you can already see our interpretive habits at work.

In reality, a woman having had five husbands and now living with someone who is not her husband likely reflects systemic vulnerability in the ancient world. It could point to widowhood and being passed off to brothers or other family members. To divorces entirely out of her control. These are social structures she would not have had much if any say in, in most cases.

There is another possibility as well, this one literary:
After Assyria conquered Samaria, several foreign groups were resettled there. Each group brought its own religious traditions. Jewish writers sometimes described Samaria as having five religious “husbands.”

If that is the case, Jesus may be speaking in the language of religious history rather than personal scandal.
Notice what happens next. The woman immediately begins discussing theology. She is not being shamed. She is a capable, sharp theologian participating in a serious theological conversation with another capable, sharp theologian.

Now, we often hear that Jews and Samaritans did not associate with one another. But that leaves out some very important details.

Samaritans were not strangers to Jews. They shared ancestry. Both communities came from the traditions of Israel. The division emerged when returning Judeans rejected those Jews who had remained in Samaria and intermarried with non-Jews.

Womp-womp-womp. We're just mad over something that looks like issues of purity.

Turns out they are not actually strangers at all. This is less like two unrelated groups avoiding one another and more like a very old family feud — the kind where everyone still knows plenty about everyone else and probably talks more than they would like to admit.

Which helps explain why the woman immediately asks Jesus a theological question:
Which mountain is the right place to worship, Mr. Jewish Jesus Smarty Pants? Mine, which was also probably one of yours (ancestrally speaking) at one point? Or yours, which was also mine (ancestrally speaking) at one point? It is theological hair-splitting. And she probably knows it.

Jesus gives her a straightforward answer: neither. The location does not ultimately matter. Worship is not about geography. And apparently she finds something compelling in that answer, because she runs to tell others about what she has just experienced.

Now here is where something fascinating happens. Did you know that authoritarian, violent images of God literally prime our brains and bodies for violence?

As in, literally. Dr. Andrew Newberg’s research shows that when people encounter authoritarian or violent narratives about God, fMRI scans show brain activity in regions associated with threat and aggression.

In other words, the stories we tell about God shape how our bodies prepare to respond to the world.

Which makes it worth noticing something: Many of the assumptions we bring to this story are not actually written into the text. They have been added through interpretation, tradition, and sometimes translation.

So ask yourself: what kinds of images of God have shaped those interpretations? How often have we inherited stories about God that assume shame, punishment, domination, or exclusion — even when the text itself does not necessarily say those things?

When those interpretations go unexamined, they train our bodies to live in a posture of fear and violent response rather than empathy, care, and love — the very things that make relationship and communion possible.

And that becomes a real problem for us as baptized Christians.

Because if empathy, justice, equity, and love are suppressed in favor of violence, suddenly we are all about the name of Jesus but not the way of Jesus. Those authoritarian stories about God are doing more than distorting the text. They actively block the kingdom of heaven from coming near.

Just think about that for a moment.

Last week we talked about those snakes in the wilderness and the bronze serpent. The people had to look honestly at what was killing them in order to live. Jesus connects that story to the cross. If we want life, we must look honestly at the individual and systemic realities of what put him there.

This week we are invited to look even more closely — at the interpretations and narratives that may be keeping violence alive in our own traditions.

But the story also shows us something beautiful. Two people meet and instead of variations on domination, they choose dialogue, honesty, respect, care and dignity. Maybe even a little humor. And that is exactly the environment where what Jesus calls living water begins to flow.

There is also a subtle literary echo here, too. In Hebrew scripture, wells are often places where relationships begin.

Rebecca meets Isaac’s servant at a well. Rachel meets Jacob at a well. Zipporah meets Moses at a well.
Wells are meeting places where something new starts.

So while this meeting between Jesus and the Samaritan woman is probably not a romantic one, it is still the beginning of a new relationship — one grounded in equality, respect, curiosity, and care, maybe even some good quality teasing and laughter. And from there it spreads quickly from two people outward into an entire community.

Violent images of God spread quickly too.

But they shut down empathy. They make connection and meaningful relationship nearly impossible. They keep people divided in ways that serve oppressive systems rather than the flourishing of human community.
It is actually a remarkably effective strategy for taking over a powerful tradition: infect it with authoritarian and violent imagery and watch everything disintegrate from there.

Which means we have work to do: We need to notice when violent images of God appear and actively dismantle them. We need to remind one another that the stories we tell about God shape the way we live in the world.

And if violent images of God prime us for violence, then truthful images of God must train us for something else entirely.

Empathy. Justice. Equity. Accountability. Peace. Love.
Which is exactly the command Jesus leaves with us: Love one another as I have loved you.

with joy,
Pr. Sam

Copious amounts of this reflection have been informed and inspired by the work of Dr. Andrew Newberg  (most especially his work around violent images of God and what happens in human brains), as well as this particular Rethinking Faith podcast with Dr. Shaleen Kenrick. 

Ash Wednesday | Based on Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

Holy Hilarious, Batman

Has anyone else noticed how ridiculous this scene is? I enjoy picturing Jesus talking to people with a sly smirk, eyebrow raised,

“Oh no— now, you, you don’t be like those people”

You know— the ones marching up and down the streets with their brass bands? Just playing a fancy kick each time they are about to do something? You know— those types.

The ones who …publicize, when they are going to make a major donation. OR- you know, the ones who get out there with their megaphones? Shouting about salvation?? Don’t be like those types, either…

AND— the people who make a big production about working soooooo hard on behalf of…people…— rather than, say, just getting the work done? Don’t be like THEM. Either.

And you know— WE are NOT like them. Not at all. We, about to smear ashes all over our foreheads and then go out in public like this……oops. 🙂

It’s not the Same as what Jesus was talking about— right?

I mean— It’s just LENT, right?
That famous season where everyone knows Christians do things like …

Fast! Give up coffee-or sugar— and then bonus points: BLOG about it!
Collect cash for people who need food— and make it into a competition! Announce the results!

DO NOT eat meat on Fridays!
Definitely keep ourselves a bit more serious here in church— it’s a serious season. No alleluias. No hosannas.
Maybe even just avoid any instruments at all- just chant. Only chant. Because it’s lent.

In fact— maybe give up anything that brings you joy- because its lent.

This is one of those places where not a one of us escapes Jesus’ ability to reach through 2000 years and multiple translations of scripture to give us a nice little loving and teasing slap in the face.

And— don’t think that any one of us escapes the critique—I must admit, friends:

There have been years even ritual-loving Pr. Sam over here has watched carefully to see how the person doing the ashing did the ashing— and let me tell you, some of these people out there are putting that stuff on with a trowel and I would have NONE of it on my face.

Thank Goodness, Travis knows what he’s doing. 

You know, As a kid, I hated Lent and its absurd requirements. To me, this whole concept was entirely foisted upon me. Friday nights spent doing absurd stations of the cross, and then caught up in these vegetarian spaghetti dinners (ok, admittedly, my first kiss did happen in the back stairwell at one of those dinners, but STILL)… on the whole, I resented all of it, and to me- it was in fact all a show. Why even be there, if I didn’t have a desire to be there. Why be told I was giving up sugar if I had no reason to be giving up sugar?

This is, I think, one of those fundamental places our Christian tradition easily goes wrong while trying desperately to do right by people. We land in productivity and shame-based actions in place of faith foundation.

There is a significant difference between a Lent foisted upon you, acted out because it is demanded of you, and a life rooted in lent because you find value in simple practices that help you renew your commitment to Jesus’ way of being people of integrity, people of justice, people of love.

And- don’t get me wrong here- bodily practices are not the problem. Jesus was a good Jew, he knew interiority and exteriority are not a binary. Both matter and work together and inform one another.

Our church elders, somewhere along the way, had the wisdom to know that an annual reminder that we are not immortals— that we too will die, and there’s no luggage rack on the hearse— would be a good thing for us to engage. Recalling that our smallness, despite our immense power, can help us re-orient to what matters, and who matters. To get back to that Christian commitment to the way of Jesus is important.

But wow oh wow, how easily we even manipulate these things, with hardly a noticing--or worse yet, trying to obfuscate the manipulation with overt seriousness that is rooted in false sense of ourselves. No?

So, the thing is, you have to choose your own focus for this season. As for me:

My prayer for us, this season, is that we might take ourselves far less seriously. That we might look at ourselves from the outside, and laugh at ourselves far more and enjoy that laughter, and even have some good playtime. That we might, in that joy and amusement, let the Holy Spirit in to do her work, too.

I’m going to pray that we might find and renew the strength of our collective and individual hunger for God and let it drive us right into the heart of our desirous, adventurous, explorative nature to grow and nourish one another and our world.

And- I'm going to pray that we might realize in new ways that lent is not a singular season at all, but an opportunity to check in on the foundation of our Christian life, inspect the cracks and crevices, see what maybe needs some TLC, giggle about our funny construction methods. Appreciate how God comes right on in and holds us together, good, mediocre, or downright poor.

And you know, I imagine, if we can do just that much… if we can sort of reach a little more deeper depth of soul in these kinds of ways?

We might discover yet another pathway that leads us back to that singular empty tomb, and a very full and alive communion composed not of “me” but of “we”— and that is the kind of resurrection treasure worth holding in our hearts, and celebrating come easter Sunday.  Amen?

with joy,
Pr Sam

Based on Matthew 17:1-9 | Transfiguration Sunday
The Choir sang this stellar arrangement of of Brightest and Best for this service, at my request. So, this sermon is in part referencing the lyrics in this arrangement, and the season of Epiphany as a whole.

So! This is it. THIS is the end of Epiphany. Jesus telling his besties not to say anything about what they saw.
Shhhhh. It’s a secret?

It feels a little opposite of epiphanic, doesn’t it? It also feels a little bit like Jesus is in “do as I say, not as I do” mode. Last week he’s telling people not to hide their light under bushel baskets, and this week he’s keeping secrets...

Believe it or not, there’s a sensibility and a throughline to what we’ve been walking through since a couple Sundays after Christmas. (That’s the one where we heard about Jesus being baptized.)

On that Sunday, we talked about repentance as a turning point. We noticed that Jesus himself was at a turning point toward justice. And in that moment, he received a little back pat from God: “This is my Son, with him I am well pleased.” We even remembered our own baptisms that day, getting our hands wet and blessing one another.

Then, for the next two weeks, we heard two different versions of Jesus collecting his besties. One version was “Come and see.” The other was “Follow me.” We talked about the simplicity of those words, and how checking in with one another and actually listening can be an incredible way to walk in the way of Jesus.

THEN we heard the Beatitudes. Not commands. Not corrections. Just recognition of what is. Blessed are you. As you are. Right now.

If you were here in person at University Lutheran, you had an opportunity to listened to one another and even write beatitudes for each other. Another reminder of what walking in the way of Jesus looks and feels like.

And finally, last week, we talked about Salt. And Light. About refusing to be diluted or diffused. About not losing our roots in favor of the comfort of oppressive systems. About living so rooted in who God made you to be that your you-ness becomes a living fulfillment of the law, which is to love one another as Jesus loves us.

That’s the road we’ve been on. You can see how it all works together, centering us, funneling us toward becoming exactly who God made us to be, discovering our collective power within that imago-dei-ness.

And now we reach another turning point: Matthew 17.

Jesus climbs a mountain with three of his besties. He’s been telling them that if he sticks to this path, it’s going to cost him his life. They are not thrilled about this plot development.

And then, suddenly, he is radiant. Dazzling. You’ve never seen a more fabulous queen! This is not a costume change. Not added sparkle. It is Jesus more fully revealed. So rooted in his saltiness and light, so integrated in the joys and sorrows of his humanity, that he is literally glowing.

And it totally freaks out his friends. In the most human ways possible, they say, “This is amazing! Let’s commemorate it. Build tents. Freeze the moment. Institutionalize the glow.”

Can you blame them? When something is that clarifying, that beautiful, that undeniable, don’t we instinctively try to hold on to it? But it also all kinda freaks them out-- and suddenly they are also on the ground, in the dust and the dirt. Hiding their faces. We've got our contradictory cloud: Bright and shadowy at the same time. And the voice: “Listen to him.” Jesus tells them not to be afraid. And then they all head back down the mountain. 

Simple, right?

:) 

Some people say what happened up there is proof of Jesus’ divinity. Others suggest Moses and Elijah were there as a comforting reminder that everything would be okay, kind of like loved ones appearing to us in dreams. At the very least, Moses and Elijah do represent the law and the prophets, the fullness of Israel’s story converging in Jesus.

But what I see is this: A Jesus who has been living with integrity and courage comes to another turning point. Parallel to his baptism. He chooses, again, to commit to love above all else, no matter the cost. And he gets another back pat, similar to the baptismal back pat: “This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.”

Have you ever been around someone so clear about who they are and what they’re called to do that they glow? Maybe not constantly, but in moments for sure.

Maybe you’ve experienced that yourself. A moment of clarity. A moment of being unencumbered and fully yourself. A moment when God felt unmistakably near and you were both entirely present and somehow transcending yourself and the moment?

Those experiences orient us like stars. They help us keep moving. They also help us appreciate the beauty of blackness, of the dark, of mystery itself. A star, light of any kind, does not eliminate the shadows. If anything, it makes the surrounding mystery more noticeable.

Jesus’ glow-up does the same. It reveals that being our most real, salty, light-bearing selves involves accepting joy and sorrow together. Love and loss. Radiance and grief.

Another way to put it: Jesus’ glow-up, that miraculous turn and dedication to love 
and only love no matter what the cost is God showing us--in a visceral way-- that there is nothing we’re going to do to fully prepare ourselves or even stand in the way of joy or sorrow,

AND it is within that very acceptance and vulnerability of reality that we find our greatest power, right alongside Jesus.

Betrayal. Suffering. Confusion. Grief. Sadness. Joy. Laughter. Peace. All of it stays. Even God Incarnate, Jesus the Christ says yes to all of it.

And the glow? The glimmer? The epiphanic illumination? That's not about escape or exception. It's a sign of confirmation.

• Confirmation that we are being who God called us to be.
• Confirmation that we are not losing our roots.
• Confirmation that we are choosing the way of Jesus as best we can.

It is also a warning.

• Don’t build monuments to the mountaintop.
• Don’t get stuck trying to preserve the glory days.
• Don’t let fear or the desire to control lead the way.

The radiance is not the destination, though it is a nice experience along the way.

So, here we are, headed into Lent.

Ash Wednesday is at hand, Lent is basically here. Smudged foreheads. Honest reckonings. Practices that strip us down to what is real are all coming for us. And, though it might seem counterintuitive... We might say that those three they’re the brightest, and best— 

Three little stars of the mourning. Not m-o-r-n-i-n-g... but m-o-u-r-n-i-n-g. Headed down, into a new season with Jesus, figuring out how to accept what Jesus has already come to accept: the highs and the lows. 

There’s secrecy, because these three don’t yet understand that the glory and the power and the radiance (Jesus’ or theirs) isn’t in the mountaintop— it’s in the cross.

Brightest and best are the stars in their mourning,
Dances in the darkness, and strengthening might
Star in the east, a horizon adorning...
Hearts finding guidance to cross, and their call...


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Join Us as We Enter Lent
Sunday Worship During Lent: 10 am (email me for the Zoom link if you can't join in person)
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University Lutheran Church
Palo Alto | Near Stanford University
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