Sermon for the third Sunday in Lent
Human beings are incredibly creative when it comes to avoiding awkward situations.
For example, have you ever been in the grocery store when you suddenly spot someone you know… and you realize you’re not ready to talk to that person today?
Instantly, you become fascinated by the cereal aisle.
You pick up a box and start reading the fiber content like you’re preparing for a medical board exam.
You turn the box over and keep reading… even though you have absolutely no intention of buying that cereal.
At that moment you’re not shopping anymore; you’re hiding behind granola.
Human beings are remarkably good at avoidance.
We avoid awkward conversations.
We avoid difficult people.
We avoid situations that might get uncomfortable.
And sometimes that instinct is harmless, even wise. But sometimes avoidance becomes something deeper.
Sometimes wounds run deep enough that people stop trying to heal them.
Families and friends stop speaking.
Communities quietly segregate themselves into invisible boundaries.
Politics turns into tribal warfare where the goal is no longer understanding but simply defeating the other side.
Religious groups stop listening to one another and start caricaturing each other instead.
Over time, something shifts:
It’s not about anger anymore.
It’s about resignation.
People begin to assume reconciliation is impossible.
At that point, the strategy becomes very simple:
Just walk away.
Go around.
Avoid the difficult conversation.
And that’s exactly what people did in Jesus’ day.
By the first century, Jews and Samaritans had centuries of bad history between them. Political betrayal, religious disrespect, ethnic suspicion, and generations of mutual resentment.
Most Jewish travelers going between Galilee and Jerusalem would go miles out of their way to avoid Samaritan territory altogether. They just went around it.
But John tells us something different about Jesus: He says that Jesus had to go through Samaria.
Now geographically speaking, that wasn’t true.
There were other routes.
Most people took them.
But John says Jesus had to go through Samaria, not because the road required it, but because love did.
The mission of God runs straight through the places that human beings prefer to avoid.
That’s why Jesus walks straight into Samaria and arrives at a place called Jacob’s well.
The time is about noon, the sun is high, and the air is hot.
Jesus is tired from his journey, so he sits down by the well.
And then a Samaritan woman comes to draw water.
Now, if you pause for a moment and imagine that scene, you can almost feel the tension: a Jewish rabbi and a Samaritan woman. Two people from communities that had been avoiding each other for generations.
You might expect confrontation, suspicion, or awkward silence. But Jesus does something surprising: He asks her for a drink.
That’s the opening move. It’s not a sermon or an argument; it’s just a simple request: “Give me a drink.”
What’s remarkable is that Jesus begins the conversation by placing himself in a position of vulnerability.
Instead of approaching her as a teacher, he approaches her as a human being in need.
And that’s the moment when the conversation really gets going: the woman questions Jesus, they discuss theology, they talk about worship, the Messiah, and where God is to be found.
Meanwhile, the disciples show up and look at the whole situation with suspicion, but Jesus stays engaged in the conversation.
The woman eventually goes back to her village and tells people about the encounter.
The villagers are curious enough to come out and meet Jesus. They end up inviting him to stay for two more days, and he does. Two days of conversation, meals, and shared life.
And by the end of that time the villagers say, “We know that this is truly the Savior of the world.”
The people everyone avoided become the first ones to recognize that Jesus’ message is good news for the whole world. And it all began with a tired traveler sitting at a well and asking, “May I have a drink?”
Here’s the heart of what this story shows us:
We often organize our lives around avoiding the places that hurt—but Jesus walks straight into those places, and healing begins when people are willing to sit down together and talk.
That’s the movement of the Gospel. Jesus goes into the place where everyone else goes around. He begins reconciliation, not with power, but with vulnerability.
Now, before we go any further, I want to say something important:
When the Gospel talks about reconciliation, it does not mean that people should remain in situations where they are being harmed.
Jesus teaches forgiveness and healing, but he never asks people to accept abuse or violence as normal.
Sometimes the most faithful thing a person can do is create distance and seek safety.
This is not a story about enduring harm; it’s a story about what happens when God steps into the deep divisions between communities and begins something new.
If we look closely at the way Jesus approaches this encounter, we can see a pattern:
First, Jesus goes where others refuse to go. He refuses to organize his life around avoidance.
Second, he takes the vulnerable seat. Instead of dominating the conversation, he asks for help.
Third, he stays in the uncomfortable conversation. The woman challenges him with a theological argument, and instead of escalating the conflict, Jesus answers in a way that both acknowledges the disagreement and points beyond it.
Finally, Jesus gives reconciliation time: two days in the village.
Healing rarely happens in a single moment; it grows over time.
This leaves us with a question: Where are the “Samarias” in our own lives: the places we’ve learned to walk around, instead of going through?
Maybe they are strained relationships with family members, community divisions that feel too complicated to address, or a group of people we’ve quietly written off because the history feels too difficult to untangle.
Whatever the case may be, the Gospel suggests that healing often begins in a very simple way:
Someone sits down at the well, risks vulnerability, and begins the conversation, not with an argument, but with a moment of shared humanity.
Most travelers in Jesus’ day went around Samaria.
It was easier, safer, and less awkward.
But Jesus walked straight through it.
When he arrived, he didn’t begin with a lecture or a debate.
He sat down and said, “I’m thirsty; may I have a drink?”
Sometimes reconciliation begins with something that small: an honest conversation and a willingness to sit down, instead of tiptoeing around the issue.
Here’s a remarkable modern example:
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There is a blues musician, a man of color named Daryl Davis who spent years doing something that most of us would never even consider possible: He sat down and talked with members of the Ku Klux Klan.
Imagine that for a moment: a black man sitting across the table from racists who had spent their lives believing he was inferior.
Most of us would assume those conversations would end in shouting, anger, or worse, but Daryl Davis didn’t begin with arguments; he began with questions.
He would ask them, very calmly, “How can you hate me if you don’t even know me?”
And then he would listen.
They talked about music and life.
Sometimes they would even argue, but he kept showing up.
Over time something remarkable began to happen: one by one, some of his newfound friends began leaving the Klan.
And when they left, many of them gave Daryl Davis their robes. Today he has a closet full of them.
Each robe is a reminder that sometimes the hardest walls between people don’t come down through force or argument; they come down when two people are willing to sit down and have a conversation.
That’s exactly what Jesus does with the Samaritan woman at the well: he walks into a place that everyone else avoids, sits down, and says, “I’m thirsty. May I have a drink?”
Sometimes reconciliation begins with something that small.
Kindred in Christ, most of us will probably never sit down with members of the Ku Klux Klan the way Daryl Davis did, but we might start somewhere closer to home.
We might reach out to a family member or neighbor we’ve quietly stopped talking to. We might listen to someone whose political views make our blood pressure rise. We might sit down with an acquaintance, a coworker, or someone at church and choose curiosity instead of suspicion. We might do this, not to win an argument, but just to begin a conversation.
Today’s Gospel suggests that healing rarely begins with grand gestures.
More often it begins the way that Jesus began it on that day in Samaria:
With someone sitting down and saying something as simple as, “I’m thirsty. May I have a drink?”
Hopping Hadrian's Wall 