Mass readings for the 3rd Sunday of Lent:
Exodus 17.3-7 Psalm 95.1-2, 6-9 Romans 5.1-2, 5-8 John 4.5-42
In the story of the Samaritan woman at the well, we hear Jesus speak of the real possibility for everyone to worship “in spirit and in truth”. This comes out of a conversation about worship and the differences between Samaritans and Jews. In particular, where one worships and how that is perceived as being correct or not.
And that is a big part of the conflict between ancient Jews and Samaritans, but it’s something that we can still find today in the thinking of modern people, a confusion as to what is worship, with an emphasis on when and where it happens with a great many people today saying that they don’t worship in churches anymore, that they have found their own private sanctuaries, you know, out on the boat while fishing, or on the slopes during a ski holiday.
I won’t dismiss the spiritual value that, I’ve had similar experiences, but they’re not worship.
Jesus isn’t about the where and the when, but is more concerned the who and how of it.
What Jesus says about this matter is that through him, through his, shall we say, “intervention” in the life of a person, one can come to worship in spirit and in truth.
Now, simply put, to worship in spirit is to engage God with the very core of your being, to lift one’s soul to the Creator (at the opening dialogue of the Eucharistic Prayer I ask you to “lift up your hearts”), this is to reach out with one’s spirit to others in a common effort of joining with God – its not something done passively. We can go to Rome and attend mass in all its great churches, but it doesn’t mean we worshipped. We can go sit by a lake and contemplate its stillness, even mumble a little prayer, but that does not mean we worship.
To worship in truth is a matter of sincerity: to truly worship; it’s not just effort alone, but a belief in who is worshipped. St. Paul lamented all the wasted energy of those who went to the pagan temples, because even in his day there was a nagging sense that, indeed, who was being prayed to, to whom offerings were being given, really were just idols of wood and stone; but the big festivals, partying for days, well that helped people recover some enthusiasm for the old gods. Today, people can be whipped into a frenzy at a rock concert, and they can outwardly appear to be worshipping their heroes on stage. However, what’s really going on in that effort, that waving of hands in sync to the music isn’t worship so much as the attempt to find its substitute; it’s people searching for that well, that spring of the water of life, that oasis in the midst of the wilderness of life but really only experiencing a mirage. There is little to no life-giving water in it.
So, worship is real engagement with sincere belief in the reality of what is worshipped; its spiritually stretching oneself out to God in spirit, and truly believing that you can reach Him – and in the Christian understanding, we reach Him through Christ.
But there’s a problem: lack of spirit, enthusiasm; a cynicism toward the world and a scepticism toward “the power of faith.”
Look at that poor Samaritan woman: life’s worn her down; we know from her backstory life’s not been working out well for her. She’s been in the wilderness, out in the desert of life, and there’s been precious little of that “water of life” but instead stagnant pools that do little to refresh and restore, some deep wells that wear her out in the hauling up and away of just enough to get her through the day.
Jesus says to her, I can help you with that, I can help you get the water. Now, the irony here is that he hasn’t got a bucket, but of course, he’s speaking metaphorically. The Samaritan woman catches onto this, she’s not stupid.
Jesus says he can put a source of water inside her, a well, a spring, a fountain from which she can always drink and never be thirsty again.
She replies, “give me this water!”
And there’s that effort, coming of sincere desire. Do we want the water? Well, we’ve got to ask for it. Are we like those wandering Israelites dying of thirst, but will we let our pride, or for that matter our scepticism, keep us from asking for what we need? Those Hebrews in the wilderness may not have been the most faithful, but they knew what they needed and they went to the man who could help them. But that was literally water they were looking for, and Moses with his staff physically struck that rock and water gushed forth, sweet and pure.
If I recall this anecdote correctly, St. Augustine was asked what were the three most important virtues in the Christian life. And he responded, “humility, and humility, and humility.” And he explained that while there were many other virtues, the Christian life begins with humility, and if it does not have that virtue, the others are impossible to attain.
So, as much as we are looking for that energy to worship actively, the focus of our effort is in opening ourselves in all humility up to God, exposing ourselves, making ourselves vulnerable before the Lord.
Now, that is physically expressed in the prayer of the priest, when I stand, my arms outstretched, I am bearing my breast, not shielding it. For westerners, however, the usual posture of prayer is kneeling with the head bowed; and you may wonder where that comes from, how we came to kneel in prayer while our Eastern brothers and sisters stand. Well, for our barbarian ancestors, this is the pose of vulnerability: putting someone on their knees with their hands joined in front of them puts them at a physical disadvantage; and to bow one’s head is to offer it up to the chieftain, to the king. It’s submission.
But the submission must be sincere, because Christ wants to open that well within us but only if we truly want it. He doesn’t do that by striking us with a staff, but strike us he does – when Jesus strikes, it is a personal encounter and in that encounter we receive that blow as blessing, and it is a blow that opens within us that wellspring of joy, that spiritual reservoir from which we might drink forever. Not unlike his own holy wound received on the cross, that cruel tear in his side that brought forth both blood and water, he will with no small amount of shock, perhaps real pain, open up within those he encounters this fathomless well from which we might draw the water of life.
The Samaritan woman was confronted with her shame, and that could not have been easy; but look how she responds finally: with joy, and such joy that she can’t wait to tell others about this man who knows everything about her; and she is going to tell those with whom she once experienced that sense of shame, the neighbours, the women of the village whose company she would not, or could not keep.
That well is in you and I, the spring is there, and the water will come up a veritable fountain, but we must let Jesus in to divine it in us, and by grace we will dig out that well, with the penitential blows to the breast that come of our love of Christ, we will crack that rock and open that spring.
Such is the task of this Lenten time, to not just cross the desert of these forty days, but to find the source of life, to find the one who can open it for us; and to recover our humility before the one who takes away our shame, and to ask with confidence, “Sir, give us this water!”
Amen.