At least the "woman at the well," as our nameless heroine is known, was in her own town, Sychar, and in her own land, Samaria. Nothing out of place about that, except that she has come to Jacob's well alone, to draw water at the hellish hour of noon. Have you ever been in a deserted desert village at high noon? It's not exactly prime work time (and so it's no wonder, by the way, that Jesus should be described as "tired out by his journey." But of him later.) We can infer one of two things from this little fact: either that this woman was a loner by choice, or, more likely, that she was ostracized from her community.

Drawing water was a communal activity that all the women of a village typically did together, very early in the morning, the coolest part of the day. It was a time to gossip and laugh and enjoy each other's company-but not for this woman. She is out of place. We're given a hint at why this might be-she has had not one, not two, but five husbands, and is either living with or being courted by a sixth. This was presumably scandalous to the townsfolk of Sychar. Even more so, to a Jewish reader of this Gospel, such a life would have been unheard-of, for rabbinic law set the limit on marriages at three. (So Elizabeth Taylor, for instance, would have made an awful first century Jew, though she wasn't too bad as Cleopatra.)

And then we have poor Jesus, tuckered out, probably driven to distraction by the constant questions of the disciples, like the beleaguered father answering "no" for the thousandth time the whiny question "Are we there yet?" No wonder he sends the disciples away to buy food. He probably just wanted some down time. So suddenly, there he is, a Jew, and a rabbi at that, sitting smack-dab in the middle of a foreign town, and not just foreign in the sense of Montreal or even Tiajuana, but foreign in the sense of Khandahar. Just as an American might feel pretty conspicuous right now in downtown Khandahar, a Jew would've felt pretty out of place in downtown Sychar. Cosmically speaking, we know from the first chapter of John's gospel that Jesus was even more out of place than a Jew in Samaria. For he is God the Word, the Son, of whom John writes "he was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him."

What an awkward moment, what an awkward place, what an awkward coupling, to have any conversation, let alone the life-changing conversation that ensued between these two strangers at a well. And yet, Jesus, poor tired Jesus, sweating from the noonday heat, breaks the awkward silence, and in doing so breaks a whole plethora of taboos, by asking for a simple drink of water.

The woman is nonplussed. "How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?" Packed into this perplexed question is a whole cartful of cultural baggage. For one thing, this woman may have thought that Jesus was soliciting her, for in that culture, for a man to go to a well and meet women there would be very much like going to a singles' bar today (hence our slang, "watering hole.") In fact, Isaac and Rebekah, Jacob and Rachel, Moses and Zipporah all met at wells. Of course, they met at the right time of day, in the morning, when it was appropriate. But for a man to go to a well at midday - for all this woman knew, Jesus might've been coming on to her.

In addition to the questionable motives the woman might have imputed to Jesus that the setting indicates, the woman's incredulity masks a whole history of antagonism between the Jews and Samaritans. John explains simply "Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans." Import that to our recent history, and one could say "Whites did not share common things in common with Blacks." Or even more recently: "Christians do not share things in common with Muslims." "Straights do not share things in common with Gays." "The Rich do not share things in common with the Poor." "Republicans do not share things in common with Democrats." "Cat lovers do not share things in common with Dog lovers."

Pick any difference you can think of, and humans have built not just boundaries, or even barriers, but blockades against the other. Yet in this story, one sentence tears down all the blockades: "Give me a drink." Jesus transcends culture, race, gender, religion, ritual purity, sexual ethics, and just plain human indifference in reaching out to this woman. And in doing so, he surrenders something: his security, his privilege, and becomes vulnerable to relationship, and through relationship, reconciles her to God.

Of course, on a very practical level, when you're hot and thirsty, you don't really care who gives you water as long as the water's good. But Jesus is doing more than conveniently ignoring the fact that he is who he is and she is who she is. In fact, Jesus lets her (and by extension, us) know that he knows exactly who she is when he says "Go, call your husband, and come back." This elicits the confession that she has no husband, and Jesus' revelation of prophetic knowledge about her condition in life. More must have been said, for later we hear her tell the townsfolk "He told me everything I have ever done." In this statement we see that the woman by the well was willing to become vulnerable to relationship as well, and through relationship, reconciliation.

Perhaps that's why the townsfolk listened to her rather than simply scorning or shunning her, as would be the "correct" thing to do. For suddenly, this woman who is so ashamed of herself (for whatever reason) that she has to sneak out to get a drink of water, leaves her water jar behind and comes running into the middle of everybody. It's as if somebody had raised her from the dead. No wonder they had to come to see for themselves. At the end they say "It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the Saviour of the world."

We, too come as strangers at a well, seeking living water. We, too, are out of place, divided by boundaries and barriers and blockades against one another. We, too, have been enemies, not just of each other, but also enemies of God. As Paul writes, "For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, much more surely, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his life." Read in the context of this story, we are saved through Jesus' life not just in his Resurrection, but in the very way in which he lived his life while he still walked this earth.

Jesus and this woman should have been perfect enemies. He was a Jew, she was a Samaritan, he was a man, she was a woman. He was respected as a rabbi, she was rejected as little better than a prostitute. He had it all together, she was a total mess. But he did not see someone to be scorned or shamed. Rather, he saw someone suffering, parched and dying of spiritual thirst. In reaching out even though they were both out of place, Jesus shows in his very actions what we must do to be saved from all the suffering we both endure and inflict, just because we divide the world between friends and enemies, Blacks and Whites, Christians and Muslims, Straights and Gays, Rich and Poor, Republicans and Democrats, Cat lovers and Dog lovers.

This gospel calls us not just to imitate Christ, however, for, let's face it, we're not Jesus. You're not Jesus, and I'm certainly not Jesus. No, some days I feel like the scorned woman, some days like the scorning townsfolk. But thanks be to God, that both woman and townsfolk are reconciled in Christ. And how does Jesus do that? How does he reconcile us? By reaching out and offering us "a spring of water gushing up to eternal life." Like the woman, we are thirsty, but often we know not what will quench our thirst. We look down into the darkness of stagnant cisterns, not knowing that the living water is always gushing up right next to us, in light as bright as the noonday. Like Jesus, like the woman, we have to risk vulnerability toward God and toward each other in order to have access to this living water of reconciliation. And we can't be vulnerable if we keep ourselves hidden in the shadows, separated from each other across any - and yes, much as I'd rather not say it, (for in saying it, I stand convicted myself), I do mean any boundary or barrier or barricade yet constructed by human hands.

So what now? Where can we meet this Jesus who can tell us everything we ever did, and yet, who in doing so will take away our shame and give us the power and joy of sharing his good news with the world? Where is our well? I am reminded, in closing, of the final climactic, cathartic scene in the play The Miracle Worker, when young Helen Keller breaks through the blockade of her blind, mute, and deaf world, at her family's front yard hand pump. As she's refilling her water jar, she realizes that what she's pumping up from the depths of the blind, mute, and deaf earth has a name, water, and she drops the water jar, letting it shatter, as she stands transfixed by this realization. In that moment, the simple hand pump has become "a spring of water gushing up to eternal life" for her, and God has worked another miracle in another woman by another well. The play ends there, but what truly inspires the audience is the knowledge that this woman went on to graduate from Radcliffe and write books and travel the world, and work miracles in others. Helen Keller meets God's transforming love and runs to tell the townsfolk, beginning with her family and ending with - well, not ending ever, for just like the woman at the well, whenever her story is told, we become a part of her story.

This Lent is the perfect time to realize how like we are to this woman who thirsts for such water, and those townsfolk, who ask Jesus to stay with them. In reaching out to Jesus, the woman and the townsfolk also end up reaching out to each other. In their vulnerability and miraculous openness to relationship across all dividing lines, they are reconciled to God and each other through Christ. So let us also pray, "Lord, give me this water." Amen.