Nicodemus and the Samaritan Woman
A sermon based on John 4:4-45
Last week’s sermon was about Nicodemus, the Pharisee that came to Jesus at night, trying to understand what in the world Jesus was talking about. I talked about Nicodemus’ gradual understanding of Jesus over the course of Jesus’ ministry. He gradually came to understand what it means to be born again, and this process of being born again happened for Nicodemus repeatedly.
This week, we read the very next story in the Gospel of John, the story of the Samaritan woman at the well. And her story changes everything about the encounter between Nicodemus and Jesus.
The author of the book of John likes to work in opposites. And these two stories, which come one right after the other in this gospel, are no different. Nicodemus came to Jesus in the dark of night; he was a Pharisee–a Jewish religious authority; he was wealthy and privileged. And he had a lot to lose by coming to Jesus late at night.
The woman at the well was a Samaritan, part of a group hated by the Jewish community. She didn’t have a name. She didn’t come to Jesus–Jesus came to her in the middle of the day at the well.
This was not the typical time that women went to get water at the well. It was hot and the work of bringing a large jug of water home in the heat of the day was not prudent. It was best to get it at the beginning or end of the day, when it was cooler.
We don’t know exactly why this woman was at the well this time of day, but we can assume that she was there because she was an outcast in her own community. So, not only was she a Samaritan, the arch enemy of the Jewish people, but she was marginalized in her own community.
And unlike Nicodemus, she had no shame about her situation. She was fully in the light of day with Jesus, her life was in full view. And when Jesus told this woman her own story, she didn’t seem embarrassed or upset about it. She saw this as a sign that Jesus saw deep inside her, and understood her, just as she seemed to understand the living water that Jesus was offering.
And Jesus didn’t reprimand her for her five husbands. He didn’t tell her–”Go and sin no more.” Jesus noticed her situation, one we don’t really understand, and named it for her.
This woman was so moved by Jesus, that she went back to her hometown, told everyone about Jesus, and they came to see Jesus, because this unnamed Samaritan outsider told them to.
I’ve developed a strong affection for the Samaritan woman this week. She had a long theological discourse with Jesus, and was in that moment transformed. This outsider, who couldn’t even go to the well in the early morning with the other women, had a personal encounter with Jesus over “living water”, and she understood it. She understood it so fully that she convinced others of Jesus and who he is.
I have admired how easily she understood who Jesus was. Meanwhile, in the dark of night, Nicodemus was really struggling to understand. This woman–her story exposed–seemed to experience liberation from all her secrets–the secrets even we don’t know and understand.. Meanwhile Nicodemus doesn’t reveal himself to Jesus, nor does Jesus ask anything about him. The woman at the well told everyone about Jesus–and in some circles is considered the first female disciple–and the whole town came to know Jesus because of her. Meanwhile, we have no reports that Nicodemus told anyone anything about his encounter with Jesus.
I really want to dislike Nicodemus this week, even though I had great sympathy for him last week. I have preferred the story of the Samaritan woman, and wished that Nicodemus was more gutsy, more bold. I want him to be less cautious, less fearful, less in the dark.
I am frustrated that Nicodemus had so much to lose that he couldn’t be in the light with Jesus. I wish he could have the faith to talk to Jesus in the light of day, to expose his true self.
I was really annoyed with Nicodemus all week, much preferring that conversion happen like it happened with the Samaritan woman–in one short, transformative encounter. But, in reality, our transformation with Jesus happens differently, depending on where we are, what our life experiences are, and what we have to gain or–more importantly–what we have to lose.
I believe the writer of John put these two stories–the story of Nicodemus, and the story of the Samaritan woman–side by side in the text, not so that we can pass judgement on them (much as I want to), but so that we can see the many ways we can come to Jesus. Sometimes our fear makes it difficult for us to do much more than sneak up to Jesus in the night. Sometimes our lives have already been laid bare–put fully in the light, whether we like it or not–and meeting Jesus when our guard is down is easy. There’s nothing to hide, no fear of judgement, no pretenses to maintain.
But, in both stories, Jesus is there. Sometimes with kindness, sometimes with admonishment.
Whether we are feeling fearful or wide open to Jesus, Jesus is there. Ready to show us new life, ready to offer us living water, ready to engage with us where we are.
In truth, part of why I’ve disliked Nicodemus so much this week is because I can really relate to him. There’s fear in me that keeps me sneaking up to Jesus in the dark of night. It’s where I am. Many of you in this room are more like the Samaritan woman–your secrets are out and there is liberation in that.
There is a website I read every Sunday morning, called Post Secret. The curator of the site posts secrets that have been sent to him in the mail in postcard format. They are beautiful and intimate. Sometimes the secrets are silly, but many of them are trying to shed light on secrets they’ve held on to for many years–secrets about abuse, about broken relationships, thoughts of suicide, and desire for reconciliation. But all of them seek to put some light onto the dark places in their lives, to expose the darkness, and move through their fear to something better.
Some of us–like Nicodemus–are slowly coming to understand, are slowly moving to the light. Some of us–like the Samaritan woman–have cast off the fear and hesitation, and are basking in the light.
May we all find ways to be more fully in the light of Christ this lenten season, free to face our fears and move through them, free to understand this gift that God offers us–eternal life, living water. AMEN.
My Scarlet Letters
Read as part of a storytelling evening at the William Way Center, Philadelphia, PA on March 20, 2014. This is a simplified version of events as I was telling it to a largely un-churched audience.
Hester Prynne and I have something in common. Hester, the main character of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic novel, The Scarlet Letter, was forced to wear a scarlet A on her chest, a sign of her sins and of her tarnished reputation. I wear a scarlet GMC, a sign of my association with Germantown Mennonite church, the congregation I began attending in 1996, and have been pastoring since 2010.
When I started attending GMC, the congregation was in the process of being removed from the denomination, because they welcomed queer folks into membership. The end of that relationship was imminent, but people were still pretty hopeful that allies in the denomination would stand up against the conservative wing of the church. I didn’t know much about the struggle when I started attending the church—and if I’m really honest with myself—I didn’t care. What I cared about was that I was finally in a safe space to be angry, to ask questions, and to cry. I didn’t have to worry about judgment from the congregation when I said that God was really pissing me off–because God was pissing them off too.
A year after I arrived, the congregation was indeed removed from the denomination. Denominational leaders came to the meetinghouse to share the official news with us. And because after a year with them, I was so connected to the folks to the congregation, I could not stay away from this meeting. My friends—gay and straight—were hurting, and would be devastated by this news. I had to be there with them.
I went to this meeting, and cried tears of anger with the congregation as we heard the news. I watched with disbelief as Ken, a gay man in the congregation, insisted that these church leaders finish what they started, and walk him out of the church. If the denomination was removing this congregation from fellowship, they would have to show us what it meant. They would need to understand for themselves what they were doing to the body of Christ.
After we heard the news, and the conference ministers left, we sat together, then did what Mennonites do—we sang.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I’m clinging
If love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?
I never would have imagined that night as a 23 year old woman, sitting in that room, singing and crying with this congregation, that I would end up in seminary, called to pastoral ministry.
But it was the folks, and especially the gay men, from the congregation that said to me, many times, “Why aren’t you in seminary?” and “You know you are called, right?” They recognized in me the call to the ministry that I couldn’t—or rather didn’t want to—see. It was the people of GMC that gave me my scarlet letters, sent me off to seminary, and told me to wear them with pride.
When I entered seminary, it didn’t occur to me that it would be that difficult to find a job in the denomination. Even though Germantown was no longer a member of the Mennonite Church, we still considered ourselves Mennonite–being the oldest Mennonite church in the western hemisphere, we are the Mother Church after all. But others within the denomination began to name for me the difficulty I would experience. One pastor I met said to me blatantly, “How in the hell do you ever expect to get a job in the Mennonite church with GMC on your resume?”
I could feel the scarlet GMC burning on my chest for the first time. I knew there was truth in what he said. My spirit was crushed. Could I get a job?
It was tempting for me to try to cover up the scarlet GMC, to hide where I came from, to downplay the people that nurtured me to new faith. But I just couldn’t do that. I couldn’t hide where I’d come from, even though I was advised by folks in the denomination to do so. This congregation was my community, my family, and because of the bonds we had and the gift they were to me, I couldn’t hide my letters.
Wearing my letters comes at a cost. Before interviewing at Germantown, I interviewed for a job at a little Mennonite church just outside of Philadelphia. And the main reason I didn’t get it is because they were worried I’d bring the queers with me. If they couldn’t handle the scarlet GMC, they were not ready for me to be their pastor.
By God’s grace I was called to be the pastor at Germantown Mennonite. I pastor at one of the few Mennonite congregations that can, at this point, handle my scarlet letters and the congregation that gave me the scarlet letters.
There is a cost to being an ally. There is a cost to associating with a congregation that had the audacity to baptize and welcome queer folks into membership. It has limited my opportunities. It has been the source of some awkward conversations with search committees.
But, when I look at what my friends, Randy and John, have dealt with in their lives—coming out while they were pastors, losing their credentials, being publicly shamed and condemned; when I look at my two gay interns, Patrick and Doran, who are clearly called to work in the church but who have so few opportunities; or Russ and Charlie and Brittany who have prayed for a safe place to be out and Christian– I think a few awkward conversations, and some limited opportunities are well worth it. It is the least I can do, to say thank you.
This scarlet GMC, the label I’ve been given as an ally, comes at a cost. But, my friends, the benefit far outweighs the cost. The gift I’ve been given at Germantown Mennonite has saved me, given me hope, and has shown me the way of Jesus, a way I couldn’t see anywhere else.
Like Hester Prynne, I lovingly embroider my scarlet letters, embellish them with the beauty that has been shared with me in my congregation. I could choose, like the minister in the Scarlet Letter—Arthur Dimmsdale—to be silent about my associations. But, we know what happened to Dimmsdale. That kind of denial and silence will only result in death.
John 3:16
A sermon based on John 3:1-17.
When you see this sign at sporting events, or on a billboard on the side of the road, what does it mean to you? What does it make you think about?
This is a strange phenomenon, that began in the 1970s with Roland Stewart hold up signs saying simply “John 3:16” at baseball games, football games, Olympic events. He would place himself at strategic locations in the crowd, often while wearing a rainbow wig, so that he and his message could get on TV.
Roland Stewart believed that seeing that sign could change people’s hearts in an instant, and could bring them to God.
This phenomenon has continued to evolve since Roland Stewart. It has moved to professional athletes like Tim Tebow, who puts “John 3: 16” on the eye black on his cheeks, or into those billboard signs that you see on the turnpike headed west.
John 3: 16 is considered to be the text that most epitomizes who God is to us. “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but have eternal life.”
But somewhere along the way this text has come to symbolize that lightning bolt moment we’ve been told we must have in order to have salvation–that moment when we open the door to our hearts and invite Jesus in. After salvation you have your own personal Jesus,living in your heart.
Sometimes I wish it were as easy as just saying the prayer, letting Jesus into our heart, and calling it a day.
It didn’t seem that simple for Nicodemus. In fact it seemed very difficult for Nicodemus to come to Jesus in this story. He came in the darkness of night, in secret, to see Jesus. And unlike other times that Jesus engaged with Pharisees, Nicodemus did not seem angry, or didn’t seem to be trying to trick Jesus. He seemed genuinely interested in understanding what Jesus was saying.
It also seemed that Nicodemus had come as a representative of the other Pharisees. Perhaps he’d been sent by them, or perhaps he brought the questions that they were discussing, those questions that had also been turning around in his own mind. It’s hard to tell.
What is clear is that Nicodemus was having a hard time understanding what Jesus meant by this “born again” or “born from above” idea.
In fact, Jesus seemed a bit impatient with Nicodemus–when Nicodemus was trying to understand, and asked “How can this be?” a question that the people of Israel had been asking for centuries, Jesus replied, “Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet do not understand these things?”
Jesus seemed downright irritated by Nicodemus’ lack of understanding–”We speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony,” said Jesus.
Holding up that “John 3:16” sign seems like such a simple message, but it’s wrapped up in a more complicated word from Jesus.
So what does Jesus mean by being born again, or being born from above?
Being born again is at the heart of our faith. This is not an intellectual pursuit. It’s more than just believing the right things. It’s more than just a once and done experience.
But I admit to feeling quite a bit like Nicodemus this week. This idea of being born again is hard to grasp. It’s can’t be intellectualized. Because in our intellect, the story of Jesus is unbelievable.
But this is not about reason and intellect. This is about testifying to what we have seen. This is about seeing things in new ways.
And seeing things with new eyes is a process. It’s not about a once and done moment that may have happened at a church camp, or a revival or a youth retreat. It’s about an ongoing process of learning to see with new eyes.
And we understand that from looking at Nicodemus’ life. He didn’t leave Jesus understanding all things that night. But throughout the gospel of John, Nicodemus was being transformed. He went from asking questions of Jesus in the dark of night in John 3, to defending Jesus publicly, in front of his peers in John 7, to in chapter 19, providing myrrh for his burial and preparing the body of Jesus.
We don’t know exactly what was going on in Nicodemus’ head, but, what we see, and what the scripture testifies to is that transformation was taking place in Nicodemus. Nicodemus’ experience with being born again happened over the span of gospel of John. It happened again and again, as Nicodemus encountered Jesus, and was moved by the spirit.
Just as Jesus’ process of choosing to be human began at baptism and sent him into the desert on to his ministry, Nicodemus also had to choose to see with new eyes the work of God in his life. That process of seeing with new eyes began with his questions and that encounter with Jesus on that dark night, and it continued after he lovingly buried Jesus.
We have memorable events that we can say, “I saw with new eyes today.” Perhaps it was when the waters of baptism were poured over your head. Maybe it was when you gathered here in this room and felt the spirit blow new energy and new life into this body. Or maybe it was in the silence when you met God, pushed past the fear and saw what was beyond it.
These are moments we hold dear to us. And we use these moments to testify to what we have seen. These are the moments that help us to understand how God loves us and sent us God’s son, to show us the way, to teach us about facing our fears, and to save us.
We learn this concept over and over, in different ways, as we give testimony and receive testimony from those around us. We learn again and again that God loves us and saves us by giving us new ways to see.
This is not a once and done, a moment that begins with inviting Jesus into our hearts and ends just as quickly. This is an ongoing journey of seeing, of testifying, of believing. But those moments of seeing sustain us for the journey, and give us hope to continue to seek God.
Let us be born again–born from above–today and every day. This is a journey of discovery with God and with each other. AMEN.