Third Sunday in Lent - Samaritan Woman at the Well

The Very Rev. Anthony R. Pompa

Samaritan Woman at the Well

It appeared each morning and evening outside the door of my humble accommodations in the Bishop’s residence in Romogi– a large container or two of water for me to wash each day, on a long journey in a strange land without any of the conveniences of home. A hot sticky, uncomfortable slim bed, food that was difficult for my palate, the only water to drink in bottles, warm, the long days with people speaking a different language– what a gift this water outside my door was as it met my physical need to wash the hot sticky smell of a long day or the sweat of a hot night of difficult sleep.

From the wells of Romogi I came to realize that the women of the village, like generations before them, gathered each day and night at a watering place. But the water, poured on my body, lovingly heated, came from the wells of Romogi–bore holes drilled by prayers and actions of a people here in Bethlehem I had been called to serve. It is a generation of exile giving way to these women gathered at this well, their songs, their children in tow, their disappointments and pain, and now their hope for a future. They go there for their physical need of water, to drink, to cook, to wash, to feed their children, and water their gardens. These are physical needs, yet it is their songs, their community, their smiles, and their hope in a future that seems to transcend. It is their stories of faith in the midst of war, their grace in extending hospitality to me, a stranger, that transform the action at a well in Romogi from meeting a physical need to presenting a spiritual experience of Salvation.

I cannot help but feel I am living in John’s story of the Gospel as I reflect on the wells of Romogi. Like Nicodemus in chapters past, I draw near to Romogi as the learned man of the religious establishment who struggles to understand this simple faith of the people in whose midst I am. The experience and practice of hopefulness, given the grim conditions and oppressive history of these people, seems to have difficulty penetrating my mind and soul and my physical needs in the midst of my discomfort.

Yet like the Samaritan woman at the well who encounters Jesus, I, an “outsider,” seem to have been offered water that will transcend my physical needs and invite me to come alive to the experience that is before me. Like the Samaritan woman, I just have to stay with the experience of those standing before me, listen to them, engage them, and receive their gifts.

I listen to their songs, I delight in worship with them, and I listen to their stories and meet their children. I hear of brave decisions not to flee villages targeted for destruction and I embrace dreams of rebuilding a faith, a church, a village, a country, and then I realize my concerns for my own physical needs have dissipated and I am fully alive in a strange land, with new friends whose stories have gripped my heart and shaken me awake! Like the woman at the well with Jesus, I AM in the presence of Salvation!

Some have written that Salvation is an experience first and a doctrine second. I know this to be true. The experience of Salvation is to lose yourself in a moment only to realize you are more fully yourself than you ever have been before! It is like getting lost in a special moment where a performance transcends the seeming boundary of a theater in which you may be sitting and you suddenly become aware that you have been united with the gifts and spirit of those who are offering their gifts. Suddenly you are lost, but more fully aware of yourself in a way that leads you to want to conquer the world, a performance transformed. It is like losing track of time, commitment, hunger, need, or when standing with a friend whose heart is broken by life and suddenly your heart breaks. You lose yourself, your own needs, and you are one with your friend in their pain—Salvation.

Who knows when and where we will experience Salvation. All of us have stories when we realized we were into the event to the roots of our hair! It might even be the moment we come to fully give thanks for the day we were born, in all understanding, the moments when “I” didn’t matter so much, because of getting lost in the “WE.” In losing the “I,” we discover more of the “who I am”— Salvation.

From the wells of Romogi has come Salvation.

The Second Sunday in Lent

The Rev. Canon Mariclair Partee

The passage we read today from John’s gospel is rich in coded language-

The very setting of the scene is cloaked in mystery- Nicodemus, a leader of the Pharisees, comes in the night to praise the work of Jesus, who has been shunned by the religious establishment until now, and will continue to be.

On its face this makes no sense, and only ten or so chapters later, after the crucifixion, when Nicodemus comes forward in the light of day with an extravagant amount of spices and herbs with which to prepare Jesus’ body before it is placed in the tomb, do we understand that he has been a follower of Christ, a secret disciple since this early appearance in John’s gospel.

Our confusion about Jesus’ late night meetings with high placed officials is nothing compared to Nicodemus’ own bewilderment in the conversation that takes place on this night-

He comes to pledge his faith to Jesus and instead is told that in order to truly believe he must be born again from above. A practical man, Nicodemus is completely lost, trying to understand the physical reality of how being born a second time would work- but willing to ponder what would be a ridiculous proposal, and Jesus continues to offer non-explanations- a meditation on the wind, talk of Moses and serpents, even some gentle mocking.

In case you think this is one of those passages in the bible where our unfamiliarity with the context or the culture of the time is to blame for our inability to parse the language, know that what Jesus is saying sounds like nonsense to Nicodemus as well, and we never are told if he gets what Jesus is saying, or if he walks back into the night shaking his head, hoping that everything will eventually come to make sense for him.

Beyond the coded language in the passage between Jesus and Nicodemus, some of the words and phrases used here have come to be code words of their own, to carry their own secret meanings two thousand years after they were spoken that identifies them with particular groups or movements.

In our culture as 21^st century Americans, we are used to seeing John 3:16 in very public places, held aloft on posters and banners at baseball games, and we can probably all recite the verse from memory in a way that we never could, say, Acts 2:12. In preparing for this sermon I considered simply putting on a curly rainbow wig and unfurling a John 3:16 banner from the pulpit. I reconsidered, since I really do love my job here, but a parishioner offered to make the banner for me.

We’ve seen John 3:16 cited on billboards along the highway, Tim Tebow’s grease paint, and other unlikely spots. The numbers of chapter and verse have taken on an evangelical meaning in their own right, and sometimes represent a sort of protest by some Christians who feel marginalized in an ever more secular world.

Whether it is fair or not, “born again” carries even more coded meaning- having been raised as a Baptist in the deep south, for me being “born again” has a very particular meaning. It conjures images of an adult profession of faith resulting in baptism, stadium revivals and emotional altar calls. In a more social sense, being asked whether someone is “born again” can also be a way of figuring out exactly where that person falls on the fundamentalist/evangelical spectrum, whether he or she is “Christian enough,” and sometimes whether his or her politics and social views are “conservative enough.”

I imagine this coded meaning of being born again carries psychological weight for some of you as well. It’s the kind of language that can turn folks off immediately, shut down a conversation, because of the many different meanings it carries. I think that as Episcopalians, too often, we stop short of sharing our faith stories, of engaging in our call to share the good news of Jesus Christ, because we are afraid of being thought of as one of “those people,” the kind that wield Jesus as a weapon, preach a gospel of hate, and picket funerals.

We probably don’t realize that by keeping quiet as progressive Christians, we inadvertently support the belief in the secular world that “those people” represent all Christians. We keep quiet the fact that we too are believers who have been born again in our baptisms, who are born afresh every day as we live out our baptismal covenant, who believe that John 3:17- "Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him" is just as important as the verse that precedes it.

Most of us no longer spend Lent flagellating ourselves for our sinfulness, abstaining from any pleasure in food or entertainment, and instead take on a discipline of daily prayer, study, mindfulness, or service. I think that we could add becoming more familiar with our baptismal covenant to the list of healthy, meaningful ways to mark these 40 days. Where the Nicene Creed gives us the theology of our faith, the baptismal covenant gives us a plan of action, and the two are equally vital. If you get a chance, grab a Book of Common Prayer, flip to page 304, and read over this pledge that was made on your behalf at your baptism, and that you have renewed at every baptism that we have had here at the cathedral, that we renew periodically throughout our church year even if we have no babies to welcome into the body of Christ with water and the Spirit.

It is hard to read these words, for me, without getting a little excited about this church that we are part of, this life of faith that we are living. I always find myself feeling proud when I read through the phrases, the promises, particularly the pledge to respect the dignity of every human being. It is difficult to meditate on this pledge of faith and action without being reborn a little bit, without becoming refreshed, and shaking off the insecurity, the fear of being pigeon holed as a “crazy Jesus person”, and sharing the message of love of God, and neighbor, and self.

We can reprogram code words; we can make them our own; we can take back their meaning. And each and every day, we can all be born again.

The First Sunday of Lent

The Very Rev. Anthony R. Pompa

Let me begin by acknowledging that I am certain that at least a bit of what is on your hearts and in your minds this morning are the people of Japan. Indeed, we keep the people of Japan in our hearts and in our prayers. In this, in my memory, unprecedented time of natural disaster, we once again rise up with the people of Japan, in this case, as they respond to this disaster. We, in the world community as we respond to this disaster, have yet one more opportunity to discover what we are made of. I will say a bit more about Japan at the offertory, but I want to talk about this discovering what we are made of on this first Sunday of Lent because not only our Lenten journey, but actually our Christian and human journey is about discovering and finding our place in the order of things and discovering what we are made of.

Today we have two very familiar pieces of scripture. First we have the story of the garden. We learn of this story in Sunday school. I still remember sitting in Sunday school, hearing the story for the first time, and beginning my life-long journey of trying to figure out exactly what’s going on here. In the story of the garden and in the story of Jesus’ temptations in today’s Gospel, we have two of the most fundamental stories of our tradition. We find these stories formulating classic Christian theology, the stories that have shaped our existence forever. In fact, since the 300 ADs, one Augustine of Hippo developed for us the doctrine of original sin reflecting on this story of the garden. Indeed, what the story is about is humanity trying to figure out its place in the order of things. Whether you have read Augustine or not, this classical teaching of theology is implanted deep inside of you. It is from the story we get that our nature in Adam and Eve in humanity their inability to live in the simple law of the garden. Basically the law in the garden is do not trespass and, indeed, Adam and Eve just can’t help it. What we draw from this story from classic Christian theology is that we discover the limitations of our human nature, and we recognize that we do rely on God at every stage of our life. This is classic Christian theology.

In Romans today, St. Paul begins to spin out his experience of the risen Jesus, the Christ, who, as we discover in the Gospel lesson, is one who is able to live into who he is, able to withstand temptation, and through it he lives into what he was made of and for. St. Paul reminds us that the new Adam that is in Jesus, we get a breath of hope that through Christ and a relationship with Christ, where we fall short Jesus can redeem and make us new. This is classic Christian theology. Where Adam and Eve could not get it right, Jesus gets it right. Christ is tempted in the wilderness shortly after the Holy Spirit has named him for who he is, the Son of God. He takes his baptismal identity into the wilderness and it will be tested. He spars with Satan who offers him relief of the basic human needs of hunger and the basic human inclination to grab for power and have control. Jesus sticks to who he is, digs deep for what he is made of and, indeed, then lives out his mission as the Son of God, that identity that would lead him with courage to Jerusalem where he would offer himself up, where he would be crucified, and where God would do a mighty thing on behalf of all humanity.

Does all this sound right- classic Christian theology? So we get it. We rely on God and through the person of Jesus, we discover the true nature of God, and we find hope. Today I want you to park just for a few minutes, that life-long piece of your DNA that has taught you this Christian classic theology. Because I think that, as we discussed in Bible study this week with the Bishop, it is easy for us to go on automatic pilot then and say, OK, we’re never going to get it right, Jesus gets it right, and all will be well at the end of the day. But I would submit to you that there is more going on here, that it really is up to us to find ourselves in the story, to bend ourselves into the story, particularly on this Lenten journey, and to ask the same questions that Jesus was being asked in the wilderness which is “what are you made of,” discover what you are made of. That is what this journey is about, and we don’t have to be Adam and Eve and God knows we are not Jesus, but there is something in this for us if we bend ourselves and ask what we are made of.

So I share with you the true story of Ruby Bridges. Some of you may know this story. My daughter has been hounding me for months, because she has studied the story of Ruby Bridges, to sit down with her and actually watch the short Disney video that tells the story of Ruby Bridges, the six-year-old little girl in 1960 in New Orleans, Louisiana, who was ushered by federal marshals into the all-white school each day. It was her mother’s dream and hope that she would get a decent education. Some of you may remember well those early days of integration. Ruby Bridges, this six-year-old girl, would discover what she was made of in this experience. Her experience was that of many and in her little school, she was the only black child whose mother insisted that she go, and you know how that story goes. The first day she arrived, ushered and protected by federal marshals, one by one the parents of the young white students came and removed their children from school. Each day, as the day went on, surrounding the outside of the school, Ruby Bridges walked through crowds of people protesting the integration of that school. Day by day, Ruby heard things and witnessed things that she never would have imagined as a six-year-old girl.

As she tells the story, not as Disney tells the story, but if you’d like, Netflix, as she tells the story she says I learned that there were people in the world who hated and there were people in the world who loved, and it didn’t matter what color their skin was. She said that each and every day she would walk to school, and she did what her mother taught her to do, that was pray for God’s protection. Each day she would get up, she would say her prayers and she would ask for God’s protection as she walked through the angry mobs that were there each and every day, all day long. As the story goes, there was a psychiatrist, Dr. Coles, who, knowing the story and being deployed locally in the military, and being concerned for her emotional and mental health came to the family and asked if he could be of support. They finally agreed, and day by day they established a relationship. Working with her each day, he was concerned about what she was doing with all of that which was coming at her. He also witnessed that day by day she was growing less and less verbal. He worked with her and he said you need to bring those feelings to speech. You need to articulate to the people who are shouting hateful things to you. You need to let them know how you feel. Each and every day she walked through those crowds saying her prayers, until one day finally, as she tells the story, “I forgot to pray in the morning, so when I was walking past the angry crowds, I stopped and I turned, and I began to move my lips.” Dr. Coles, who stood in that crowd every morning in support of her, was feeling she was finally going to speak to the crowd, tell them how she felt, but he couldn’t hear her over the shouts of the crowd. All he saw was this little girl’s lips moving. He asked her later, “Ruby, I saw you bring to speech. What were you saying to the crowd?” She said, “I forgot to say my prayers, so I was praying for God’s protection, and I was praying that God might love them, too, and that God might forgive them.”

You see, this is really the stuff that we are made of. A six-year-old girl, discovered in the midst of what the world had to throw at her what she was made of, and she discovered that there are two types of laws that we live with. There is the law that tells us not what to do: Do not trespass, and there is the law of God’s nature, which is like the law of gravity. It just is. It’s a law of grace and love. It’s a law that calls us to discover what we are made of and when we dig deep to discover that law, that love can transform anything. So this is our Lenten journey, to discover that which we are made of, to dig deep as we live in a world that throws things at us, to live into the law, the law of God, which is love and grace, and can transform anything.

“Twenty plus one plus one” is a movement many churches, beginning in Christ Church, Warwick, New York, our brothers and sisters at Trinity, Bethlehem, and now growing among many churches. Twenty plus one plus one: 20 minutes a day in prayer, reflecting on who we are and what we are made of. One hour a week in worship, or a little more, coming together with each other, bringing our differences, bringing our hopes, bringing our prayers, bringing our thanksgivings. One hour a month in service so that others out there might know what we are made of: 20+1+1.

Amen.