“Many of the Samaritans of that town began to believe in him because of the word of the woman who testified, ‘He told me everything I have done.’”

(From 4:5-42)

Who do you trust?  Like, really trust?  Think of someone like that in your life.  Then ask yourself, “Why?  Why that person?”  If you’re married, it has to be more than, “…because she’s my wife…he’s my husband.”  It needs to be a little more than, “…because he’s my Dad…she’s my Mom.”  If you really, trust them, why do you trust them, and what does that mean?  I don’t mean to overcomplicate it, but it seems to me that there are 3 aspects to trust.  One, you can trust them to not repeat what you tell them, if you ask them to keep if between the two of you; two, you trust that, if you ask them what they think, they’ll give you honest feedback and not just tell you what you want to hear; and three—the aspect that I want to focus on in this reflection—you trust that, no matter what you share with them, they will love you still.  No matter what the weakness, mistake, even your sin, and anything about yourself, they will still love you.  Oh, they may challenge you too.  But more than anything, they do not think less of you, and they love you more.  This type of trust is a gift.  It’s a unique kind of love.  It’s the love that Jesus offers to each of us. The Gospel passage that we will hear this Sunday is not only one of the longest encounters between Jesus and another person—it’s one of the most significant.  The CYCLE A readings for Lent bring us such intense moments. This Sunday we read the story of the “Woman at the Well,” and while it is one of the most important conversations that Jesus has with anyone, it is the most significant moment in her life.  Period.  Space here does not allow a full explanation, so I’ll be brief in that regard.  For Jesus, a Jew, to approach a Samaritan woman was a huge boundary-crossing.  She was a woman.  Strike number one.  She was a Samaritan. Strike number two.  And she had a reputation.  Strike number three.  He asks her for a drink of water, and right away we see that she is thinking in terms of literal, physical water. He, however, wanted her to know that he provided living water, that he was living water.  As the conversation proceeds, he reveals to her that he knows pretty much everything about her.  “It is true,” he says, “you do not have a husband. In fact, you have had five husbands.  And the one you have now is not your husband.”  To put it simply, she is blown away by this.  In the end, what was even more significant to her than him knowing her history was that he loved her still.  She runs back to the town, where she was not welcome, and becomes the one who converts the townspeople to Christ.  The one who was alienated.  The one who was rejected. The one who had been frowned upon by everyone was, ironically, the one who led them to the Messiah.  Wow.  I don’t know what else to say about that, except wow!  And, while she does not say it, the feelings that came with her proclamation, the amazement that welled up in her heart, could be worded this way: “Come and see the one who told me everything I had ever done!  And he loves me still!”   

When I had first entered seminary, we were told how significant this story is.  Back then, I just didn’t get it.  Now I do.  Jesus was looking at her, looking right into her soul, her weakness and saying, “Yes, I know everything about you.  I know the good, and I know the bad.  And guess what—you are enough.  And I love you still.”  Pretend for a moment that you are that woman.  No, don’t pretend.  Because we are her. What does it mean to you, then, that Jesus looks at you and says, “I know you.  Through and through.  And I love you still.”?  Who has been like that for us in real life?  Who do we trust enough to know that they will always accept us, not judge us.  Love us, not reject us.  That’s the Jesus way.  It should be our way too.