Sermon 202 - Living Water in Exhausting Times: Rethinking Scarcity, Rest, and Renewal

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I've been thinking a lot lately about exhaustion. Not just the kind that comes from a long day, but the bone-deep weariness that seems endemic to our current moment. As a pastor, can I admit that I'm tired of leading through crisis? As a human, I'm tired of systems that manufacture scarcity. And I suspect I'm not alone.

This exhaustion drew me back to a story from the Gospel of John—one that's often misread and misunderstood. It's the account of Jesus meeting a Samaritan woman at a well, and while it's frequently interpreted as a tale of moral failure and redemption, I've come to see it as something far more relevant to our current moment: a story about finding abundance in a world designed for scarcity.

The setup is deceptively simple. Jesus, tired from traveling (and yes, even in John's Gospel with its high Christology that firmly establishes Jesus's divinity, the author admits Jesus gets tired), sits down at a well around noon. A Samaritan woman comes to draw water, and Jesus asks her for a drink.

Now, if you're familiar with ancient Jewish literature, bells should be ringing. Wedding bells, even. "Well stories" are typically betrothal narratives—think the Romance section at Barnes & Noble. When a man meets a woman at a well in biblical literature, it usually ends in marriage. But this story is taking a well-established trope and doing something different.

The interaction breaks nearly every social barrier of the time. Jesus is a Jewish rabbi speaking with a Samaritan woman—crossing boundaries of ethnicity, gender, and religious tradition. The divide between Jews and Samaritans wasn't minor; it was a centuries-old feud primarily about worship styles (proving that humans have always found ways to fight about liturgy). Jews worshipped in Jerusalem, Samaritans at their own holy sites. Each considered the other's practice illegitimate.

But here's where it gets interesting. The conversation quickly moves from literal water to something Jesus calls "living water." This isn't just poetic language, it's deeply rooted in Jewish theology. Living water is a title for God in Isaiah and Jeremiah. It appears in Genesis 2 surrounding Eden and in Revelation flowing from the New Jerusalem. It's a fundamental symbol of God's creative goodness and the promise of renewal.

When Jesus offers this woman living water, he's not just offering spiritual refreshment (though that's part of it). He's offering an alternative to systems of manufactured scarcity. Think about it: here's a woman who has to make daily trips to the well just to survive. The powerful have built their city away from the water source, forcing people into this daily ritual of toil. It parallels our own exhaustion under systems that manufacture scarcity, systems that don't have to exist but are deliberately maintained.

There's a moment in the story that's been particularly misinterpreted throughout history. Jesus mentions that the woman has had five husbands and is currently with someone who isn't her husband. Traditionally, this has been read as evidence of the woman's moral failing. She's been branded throughout Christian history as promiscuous, sinful, in need of redemption.

But there's nothing in the text to support this reading. In fact, what's more likely is that she's been a victim of patriarchal systems—not sleeping around, but being passed around. The text later shows her as a respected leader in her community, someone people listen to and follow. The traditional reading says more about patriarchal interpretive lenses than it does about the actual story.

This matters because Jesus's response isn't condemnation or judgment. He doesn't demand repentance or tell her to "go and sin no more." Instead, he offers recognition. "I see you." He sees her humanity, not her utility.

The story's conclusion is remarkable. The woman leaves her water jar behind—a powerful symbol of leaving behind the tools of her labor and exhaustion—and returns to her community to share what she's experienced. In Eastern Christian traditions, she's given the name Photina, meaning "light," and is considered equal to the apostles, the first evangelist.

There's a profound arc here that mirrors many people's spiritual journeys. It begins with what seems like divine demand—"give me a drink"—but transforms into divine gift—"I will give you living water." It moves from religion as sacrifice, as bloodletting to appease an angry deity, to recognition of God as provider rather than taker, source rather than drain.

This story challenges me to ask different questions about our current moment. What barriers still divide us? What wells feel unsafe? When we're confronted with anger and hatred, must we respond in kind, or is there another way? What would it mean to operate from abundance rather than scarcity?

I'm convinced that God wants to offer us living water in exhausting times. Not as a spiritual band-aid or quick fix, but as a fundamental reorientation toward abundance rather than scarcity, toward rest rather than endless toil. Like the woman at the well, we're invited to find renewal not in isolation but in community, not in hoarding resources but in sharing them.

The challenge, of course, is believing this is possible when hope feels dry. But perhaps that's exactly when we most need to remember this story, not as a morality tale about personal sin, but as a revelation about what's possible when we refuse to accept manufactured scarcity as the final word.

In our exhausting times, may we have the courage to leave our water jars behind, to imagine different ways of being, to find the divine in unexpected encounters, and to become, like Photina, carriers of living water to a thirsty world.