How do you pronounce Punxsutawney anyway? Happy Groundhog’s Day! One of those celebrations that remind us that everyone goes a little crazy in the winter. Long term climate prognostication by large rodents in unpronounceable Pennsylvania towns, sure, why not? Although, it makes as much sense as anything else this season. Apparently, he didn’t see his shadow which means a quick end to winter. OK, I can buy that. How many times has this winter ended already? Wasn’t it over 60 degrees just a few days ago? So, old Phil is right winter will end soon. And start up again ... soon. And then end again ... soon. Trust me on this.
But scared of shadows? That I understand. Well, more metaphysically than in reality. Shadows are about absence. Shadows are about lack, about emptiness. And there isn’t anything scarier than that, it seems to me. What’s that poem? “I met a man who wasn’t there / he wasn’t there again today / Oh how I wish he’d go away!” Absence is terrifying. Even the crazy dogs know it. Every now and then they’ll start barking, but when I look there isn’t anything there. “You’re barking at nothing!” I’ll shout at them. “We know that,” they’ll reply, “but isn’t it scary?” Well, with you making all that racket, yes, it is! “Told ya,” they’ll smirk, in between barks.
Maybe if Phil could bark he wouldn’t have to run back into his burrow for six more weeks of winter, on those Groundhog Days when he does see his shadow. Maybe if we knew how to fill the emptiness, we wouldn’t be so frightened. Maybe if we knew how to resolve the loneliness, we wouldn’t feel so hollow. Maybe if we could find a way to fill the void that is darkness, we could see our way through again. Maybe, when we are so dry we are parched, we could find something so we wouldn’t be so thirsty anymore.
We all have our thirsty days. Even Jesus had them. At least if John is right about the story that he tells. But the difference is, for Jesus, a thirsty day was an opportunity rather than a terror. It was a chance to give out of abundance, rather than a panic to fill an emptiness.
If that makes sense. Take a look:
John 4:5-15 So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. 6 Jacob's well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon. 7 A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, "Give me a drink." 8 (His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.) 9 The Samaritan woman said to him, "How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?" (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.) 10 Jesus answered her, "If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, 'Give me a drink,' you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water." 11 The woman said to him, "Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? 12 Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?" 13 Jesus said to her, "Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, 14 but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life." 15 The woman said to him, "Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water."
There is more to the story, of course, as my Wednesday morning bible study was quick to point out. But I chose to focus on this part of the narrative with the intention of making it about us rather than about her. Her, the woman at the well. One of the many nameless women in the bible, without whom we would be even more lost than we are. Not that she is merely a literary device, a cipher for our needs. She was a flesh and blood person, because that is who Jesus came to save. Like us. Her need is our need, her thirst is our thirst, her fears our fears.
Jesus comes, across all the barriers that we have set up to keep him out. The scandal of this story is that Jesus would even talk to this woman, let alone want to love her. Wait, love her? Wasn’t this just about a drink of water on a hot and thirsty day? No, never. There is no “just” with Jesus. And there need be no “just” with us. Everything is deeper if we choose to let it be so. Everything is layered with meaning if we seek it. Every encounter - in the grocery store or sidewalk - is with a genuine human being with a story we may not know, indeed may never know, but can still honor if we choose. If we choose to see them as a person with a bucket and a thirst.
Give me a drink, he asked her. He asked her. Jesus doesn’t come and say let me fix you. He meets us in a shared need. He emptied himself so that he would know our emptiness. He succumbed to the ravages, the needs of the flesh so that he could find us in our need, in our thirsts. Then, faced with our shock, he says I can help you with your thirst as easily as you could have helped me with mine.
But we are skeptical. You don’t have a bucket, we say. You don’t have what I need. You’ve got words and ideas, you’ve got emotions and philosophies. Thanks, but what I really need is some water. What I really need is what I can hold in my hand, or put in my pocket. What I really need is recognition from people like me. What I really need is stuff I can get with my own bucket. So, thanks but no thanks.
And we drop our own bucket in the well and we drink. And we drop it again and we drink again. And drop and drink. Drop and drink. And still we thirst. It isn’t enough. It is never enough. Is it? We thirst. We search. We settle for a while, but it is never enough.
Give me this water always. She didn’t know what he offered. Not really. She didn’t understand what he brought. All she knew was that there was something here that she wanted. Some whisper of hope. Some relieving of long help pain. And she leaned toward it with a hand outstretched.
Jesus never seems to need a lot of response. A note of hope in the voice is enough. A willingness to see him as the source of that which will quench our thirsts. That’s all it takes, it seems. We don’t have to understand completely. We don’t have to write an essay on salvation theology. We don’t have to recite a complex creed or make a well defined statement of faith. We don’t have to perform elaborate rituals or make sacrificial offerings. We just have to want it.
The question I heard asked some time ago that still echoes in my soul is this: Jesus says if we drink of the water he offers us, we will never be thirsty. So, why are we still thirsty?
Why do we still run from shadows? Why do we still live in emptiness? Is it because we don’t ask? We think our own buckets are sufficient? Why do we not embrace the life that he offers? It can’t be that simple, can it? Just ask? Just want it and he will give it? What’s the catch? Maybe we should just give it a try.
Give me this water always. Fill this emptiness. Chase away these shadows. Please. ... Please?
Shalom,
Derek
But scared of shadows? That I understand. Well, more metaphysically than in reality. Shadows are about absence. Shadows are about lack, about emptiness. And there isn’t anything scarier than that, it seems to me. What’s that poem? “I met a man who wasn’t there / he wasn’t there again today / Oh how I wish he’d go away!” Absence is terrifying. Even the crazy dogs know it. Every now and then they’ll start barking, but when I look there isn’t anything there. “You’re barking at nothing!” I’ll shout at them. “We know that,” they’ll reply, “but isn’t it scary?” Well, with you making all that racket, yes, it is! “Told ya,” they’ll smirk, in between barks.
Maybe if Phil could bark he wouldn’t have to run back into his burrow for six more weeks of winter, on those Groundhog Days when he does see his shadow. Maybe if we knew how to fill the emptiness, we wouldn’t be so frightened. Maybe if we knew how to resolve the loneliness, we wouldn’t feel so hollow. Maybe if we could find a way to fill the void that is darkness, we could see our way through again. Maybe, when we are so dry we are parched, we could find something so we wouldn’t be so thirsty anymore.
We all have our thirsty days. Even Jesus had them. At least if John is right about the story that he tells. But the difference is, for Jesus, a thirsty day was an opportunity rather than a terror. It was a chance to give out of abundance, rather than a panic to fill an emptiness.
If that makes sense. Take a look:
John 4:5-15 So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. 6 Jacob's well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon. 7 A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, "Give me a drink." 8 (His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.) 9 The Samaritan woman said to him, "How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?" (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.) 10 Jesus answered her, "If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, 'Give me a drink,' you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water." 11 The woman said to him, "Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? 12 Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?" 13 Jesus said to her, "Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, 14 but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life." 15 The woman said to him, "Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water."
There is more to the story, of course, as my Wednesday morning bible study was quick to point out. But I chose to focus on this part of the narrative with the intention of making it about us rather than about her. Her, the woman at the well. One of the many nameless women in the bible, without whom we would be even more lost than we are. Not that she is merely a literary device, a cipher for our needs. She was a flesh and blood person, because that is who Jesus came to save. Like us. Her need is our need, her thirst is our thirst, her fears our fears.
Jesus comes, across all the barriers that we have set up to keep him out. The scandal of this story is that Jesus would even talk to this woman, let alone want to love her. Wait, love her? Wasn’t this just about a drink of water on a hot and thirsty day? No, never. There is no “just” with Jesus. And there need be no “just” with us. Everything is deeper if we choose to let it be so. Everything is layered with meaning if we seek it. Every encounter - in the grocery store or sidewalk - is with a genuine human being with a story we may not know, indeed may never know, but can still honor if we choose. If we choose to see them as a person with a bucket and a thirst.
Give me a drink, he asked her. He asked her. Jesus doesn’t come and say let me fix you. He meets us in a shared need. He emptied himself so that he would know our emptiness. He succumbed to the ravages, the needs of the flesh so that he could find us in our need, in our thirsts. Then, faced with our shock, he says I can help you with your thirst as easily as you could have helped me with mine.
But we are skeptical. You don’t have a bucket, we say. You don’t have what I need. You’ve got words and ideas, you’ve got emotions and philosophies. Thanks, but what I really need is some water. What I really need is what I can hold in my hand, or put in my pocket. What I really need is recognition from people like me. What I really need is stuff I can get with my own bucket. So, thanks but no thanks.
And we drop our own bucket in the well and we drink. And we drop it again and we drink again. And drop and drink. Drop and drink. And still we thirst. It isn’t enough. It is never enough. Is it? We thirst. We search. We settle for a while, but it is never enough.
Give me this water always. She didn’t know what he offered. Not really. She didn’t understand what he brought. All she knew was that there was something here that she wanted. Some whisper of hope. Some relieving of long help pain. And she leaned toward it with a hand outstretched.
Jesus never seems to need a lot of response. A note of hope in the voice is enough. A willingness to see him as the source of that which will quench our thirsts. That’s all it takes, it seems. We don’t have to understand completely. We don’t have to write an essay on salvation theology. We don’t have to recite a complex creed or make a well defined statement of faith. We don’t have to perform elaborate rituals or make sacrificial offerings. We just have to want it.
The question I heard asked some time ago that still echoes in my soul is this: Jesus says if we drink of the water he offers us, we will never be thirsty. So, why are we still thirsty?
Why do we still run from shadows? Why do we still live in emptiness? Is it because we don’t ask? We think our own buckets are sufficient? Why do we not embrace the life that he offers? It can’t be that simple, can it? Just ask? Just want it and he will give it? What’s the catch? Maybe we should just give it a try.
Give me this water always. Fill this emptiness. Chase away these shadows. Please. ... Please?
Shalom,
Derek
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