Neither on This Mountain Nor Jerusalem

John 4:3-29
Lent 3
March 12, 2023

William G. Carter  

³Jesus left Judea and started back to Galilee. ⁴But he had to go through Samaria. ⁵So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph

This is a remarkable story, for all kinds of reasons.

For one thing, it’s a long story. We’ve heard only half of it. One thing about John, his stories are long, and they get longer. This tale is forty-two verses and we’ve heard just over half of it. 

The content is remarkable too. The story unfolds as a conversation between Jesus and an unnamed woman. Conversations like that did not happen in first century Palestine, not out in the open. Men didn’t talk to women in public, and they especially did not converse with a woman who goes to the well at noon when none of the other village women are there. No wonder when the twelve disciples return to the scene, “They were astonished he was speaking to a woman” (v. 27).

Not only that, but she was also a Samaritan woman. Forget all those nice stories you’ve heard about a Samaritan. They weren’t pure-bred Jews; one scholar says they were regarded as “mongrels.” Samaritan religious practices were suspicious. They mixed Jewish faith with folk religion, mistranslated the Bible to suit their own purposes, and set up a rival temple on Mount Gerizim. No wonder the Gospel writer says, “Jews had nothing to do with Samaritans.” Or to translate more literally, “Jews did not share utensils with Samaritans.” Even more remarkable that Jesus asks for a sip from her cup!

This is a woman. She is a Samaritan. As the conversation unfolds, sexism rises to the surface. Racial tension is revealed. The woman picks a fight about religion. And maybe you noticed how the conversation goes deeper and deeper.  

• He says, “Give me a drink.” She says, “You’re a Jew. Why are you asking me for a drink?”
• He says, “If you knew the grace of God, you would ask me for living water.” She says, “Where’s your bucket? Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob?”
• He says, “You have had five and a half husbands.” She says, “Sir, you are a prophet.”
• He says, “You worship only what you know.” She says, “I know the Messiah is coming.”
• He looks at her and says, “I am…” She runs away to say to the town, “Could this be the Messiah?”
• The villagers come out, talk with Jesus, and declare, “This is the Savior of the World.”

Hear that progression? Jew, greater than Jacob, prophet, Messiah, Savior of the World. The comprehension goes deeper, the titles go wider. Like I said, this is a remarkable conversation. The revelation unfolds a step at a time, just as it does for many of us. Rare is the person who comprehends Jesus all at once, especially in the Gospel of John.

This time though it, what catches my ear is a brief phrase. It’s almost a throwaway. The phrase is often skipped over in the retelling and sliced off the reading, which normally begins at verse 5. I’m talking about verse 4: “But he had to go through Samaria.”

No. No, he didn’t. Last week, he was in Jerusalem, down here. He’s heading north to Galilee, up here. Samaria is over here. He didn’t “have” to go through it. There were plenty of roads that went around it, because, as we heard, “Jews had nothing to do with Samaritans.”

So who is saying Jesus had to go through Samaria? John, the Gospel writer. He’s saying it. He writes down this story around 90 A.D. That’s about sixty years after the conversation took place. Just think about that. Some people would have trouble recalling something said sixty years ago, especially if they were not present to hear the conversation. John doesn’t write himself into the story.

Yet John remembers from the standpoint of sixty more years of the church’s experience. Jesus HAD to go to Samaria, because the church that followed him would have to go to Samaria. Which is to say John’s not talking about geography. Rather he presumes a purpose. He chose this. But why?

No doubt, part of the answer is due to how this Gospel describes Jesus. He works and speaks with intention. Nobody tells him what to do. He chooses what he’s going to do.

Like that day when the whole village of Cana celebrated a wedding – and the party ran out of wine. It was a catering disaster (or a St. Patrick’s day parade, you decide). The mother of Jesus went up to him to say the obvious: “They ran out of wine.” And he’s rude to her: “Woman, what concern is that to me? And it’s not the right time.” She spins around and says to the catering director, “Do whatever he tells you.” After she’s offstage, Jesus turns a hundred gallons of water into the finest Manischewitz anybody ever tasted. He does it, not because she said so, but because he decided to do so. He acts out of grace, not obligation.

What John wants us to know is that Jesus had to go to Samaria. He had to do it. He chose to do it. Jesus chose to go where he would not be wanted. Even though he was a Jew, he went where he would not be expected.

And one more thing about the Jesus of John’s faith: Jesus knows everything. It’s mysterious. He walks on two legs; he grows tired and must sit down. Yet he knows why this woman comes to the village well by herself. He knows she has been either abandoned or discarded five times. He knows she is disillusioned, disrespected, and regarded as disposable. That’s exactly why he speaks to her. John describes a Jesus who does not waste an effort nor chitchat about trivialities. He knows who we are. He steps into our brokenness. 

“Woman, call your husband.” She has no husband. According to the Gospel of John, he already knows that. The two of them have never met, but he knows her. He goes right to the core of her fractured identity. And he offers her living water. She’s ready for it. She’s thirsty. She would love to have a spring inside her gushing up with life.

But before she can accept this, she must step over – not only her broken past, but her deep resistance to him as a Jew. Jesus names her pain – “You’ve had five and a half men” – so she picks a fight. “You Jews worship on the wrong mountain. You worship on Mount Zion, but we worship on Mount Gerizim.” And that’s a bigger deal than many of us realize.

There’s a congregation not far from here. They are struggling to stay open. Actually there are a lot of churches not far from here that are struggling to stay open. The crowd dwindled. The kids graduated at confirmation and didn’t come back. The offerings dwindled. A couple of the long timers have been breaking their backs to keep the lights on. The doors are still open – but nobody’s coming in. And it’s hard, so hard.

The remnant remembers a full building, reminisces over the glory days, recalls the great preachers of the past. And I’ve discovered something about those churches. The last thing they ever want to give up is their building. They have memorial plaques on everything. They mark their history. They are so concerned with looking backward that they can’t even look around. (I’m not talking about looking ahead; I’m talking about looking around.) All they can see is their ancient shrine, inherited from previous generations. Meanwhile they are surrounded by a world of need while they grumble about polishing the silver communion ware and bicker over the price of light bulbs.

Here's what Jesus says to the woman: “The hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem.” In other words, the life of eternity is never about the place. It’s not about the sacred geography. It’s not about the great-grandmother’s name on the stained-glass window. God is the God of all people, all places, all times. God is the very definition of eternity.

And I haven’t yet mentioned the funny thing, the comical irony about this entire story. When John wrote it down in 90 A.D., the Jerusalem Temple had been demolished by the Roman army twenty years before. So there was no way anybody could have a worship service there. That Temple was gone. And the Samaritan temple? It had already been demolished in 112 B.C., about two hundred years before this account. The point of all this being it’s not about the place. It’s about the God who becomes completely accessible in spirit and truth.

Jesus says, “I am the Truth… the way, the Truth, the life.” Then he says, “When I return to the Father, I will send you the Spirit… my Spirit.” To worship God in spirit and truth is to worship Jesus, available to all in the presences of his Spirit. The God we meet in Christ can encounter us anywhere but will not be confined to only one place. In his own words, he has been “raised up” which can only mean three things: raised up on the cross, raised up from the dead, raised up where he is accessible and available to all people in every age.

The hour is coming and is now here.

Years ago, my father and I visited the well of Jacob. It was being redeveloped as a tourist site. The land once called Samaria is now part of what we call the West Bank. It is the most disputed property on the planet. Tension was high on the day when our bus rolled into town. Armed soldiers were everywhere. Just five months after we were there, the second intifada broke out, a battle that lasted over four years.

The guide took us down the steps of an Orthodox church, and there it was: a large hole in the ground. It is enclosed by a marble structure that looks like a baptismal font. Over top, there’s a bucket with a long rope.

Beeswax candles were burning all around. A grouchy priest sat on a stool. He growled, “No talking. No pictures. If you want a drink, be quick about it.” My dad mumbled, “This is disappointing.” The priest barked, “I said no talking.”

Meanwhile, our guide had drawn a bucket of water from the well, dipped a pewter ladle in it, and began to pass it around. When it came to me, I took a deep, long sip. It tasted just like…water. It was water, everyday water. We had a quick prayer and then we were abruptly dismissed.

On the way out, we shrugged off the gift shop. Didn’t need any more postcards. Didn’t need any incense or beeswax candles, even if they were on sale. We could worship God anywhere, under a tree, or in a pew, or in a closed-down sanctuary with great-grandma’s name on the stained-glass window, to say nothing of a three-thousand-year-old well in the basement of an Orthodox church in the West Bank. The location doesn’t matter, for God-in-Christ-in-the-Spirit can find us anywhere.

When that happens, we discover we are deeply known, strangely engaged, and our hearts and minds awakened. All the parochial sanctuaries, the racial divisions, the land squabbles, and the all-too-human resentments simply melt away. For God has found us in Jesus Christ, now through the power of the Spirit.

And this is why Jesus had to go through Samaria.

 

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.