Fourth Sunday After Pentecost

Please pray with me: May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our rock and our redeemer, Amen.

Do any of you listen to This American Life? It’s a popular public radio program and podcast hosted by Ira Glass that has been on the air weekly for 15 years. Each week, the producers choose a theme and put together different stories based on that theme. The themes for these over 700 episodes range from pirates to walls to grand gestures and the stories include poetry, interviews, and real-life narratives. It’s one of my favorite programs and I commend it to anyone who is looking to learn more about a particular subject, or who just wants to hear a good story.

Here in the church, we’re in the business of telling stories - stories of our faith as told in scripture, in history, in our communities and families, and in our individual lives. For the past three weeks, we’ve been hearing the story in Matthew’s gospel about Jesus teaching his disciples about what it means to be a disciple. It means being sent out and relying on other communities for hospitality; it means persecution; it means conflict with loved ones; it means grappling with the very real costs of a radically new way of life. It also means acts of kindness and caring, something as simple as giving someone a cup of cold, refreshing water.

So, we’re going to This American Life-style this sermon today. The theme for my sermon today is a cup of cold water, and I’ll be bringing you three stories about refreshment being offered to the little ones in the name of a disciple. Stories about disciples giving cold water; stories about disciples receiving cold water. Stories about how people are taking Jesus’ call to discipleship seriously and are living it out in ways that impact their local watershed, communities, and personal lives in ways that share the good news of the gospel. Stay with us.

Act I: Flow, river, flow

The climate crisis continues to shape the lives of many around the globe as rising temperatures lead to rising waters. Flooding disproportionately impacts already-vulnerable communities, ones that struggle with poverty, health and general well-being. And this often falls along racial lines. Flooding induced by climate change also impacts other parts of creation - habitats for plants and animals are altered, coast and shorelines are reshaped - it’s truly catastrophic in some circumstances, as we have seen with the most recent hurricane seasons here in the United States and typhoons in Southeast Asia.

As a response to the disastrous effects of climate change, some congregations and communities are practicing climate resilience - they are responding to the physical and spiritual needs caused by the changing climate. Churches are re-imagining their land, mission, and ministry in the age of climate change, not as a deviation from the mission that God calls the church to, but as a faithful response, an act of discipleship rooted in the good news of the gospel.

One such congregation is just up the road in Annapolis. This tiny Episcopal church sits on five acres of land that abut Back Creek, a tributary of the Chesapeake Bay. This creek regularly ran over its banks after heavy rains, flooding the surrounding area and becoming a pool for polluted runoff from nearby roads, parking lots, and sidewalks. The congregation saw creation care as one of its central callings, preaching and teaching about it and advocating for stronger climate policy at the Maryland State House. Through this work, the congregation discerned that they were being called to practice good environmental stewardship in their own backyard, so they applied for and received $2 million in grants from the Maryland Department of Natural Resources and the Chesapeake Bay Trust to restore the wetlands and a buried stream on their property that drained into Back Creek through a concrete tunnel.

Now, the property features a beautiful cascading streambed, with step pools and weirs, that filters water as it makes its way to Back Creek. The place where the stream intersects with the Creek is now a marsh, full of native plants and natural materials rather than concrete. The marsh absorbs extra water that flows through the Creek after heavy rains, reducing flooding in the surrounding area while filtering out harmful pollutants. The pool created by this marsh is a refreshing cup of cold water, offered to the land and the surrounding community as an act of discipleship.

Act II: Water, masks, and pizza

Many communities around the nation have erupted in protests in response to police brutality against African Americans, most recently George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Rayshard Brooks, in addition to countless others who remain unnamed by the media. Washington, DC has been one of the epicenters of the protests, with people coming out daily for almost a full month. Many of us have been a part of these protests, or are participating in spirit from our homes.

Many images come to mind - signs, face masks, police in riot gear, clouds of tear gas. But one object that is almost ubiquitous in every picture or newcast of the protests is bottled water. Bottled water being consumed; bottled water being poured into the eyes of someone who has been pepper-sprayed; bottled water being thrown at police; stacks and stacks of bottled water at medic and aid stations, or outside nearby churches

These bottles of water didn’t just magically appear on the sidewalks and stoops adjacent to the protest areas: they were brought there by various groups and individuals who felt compelled to support the folks out protesting. They come from the suburbs or nearby neighborhoods with vehicles full of supplies they purchased themselves or gathered from friends, family, and their neighbors, and set up camp on the outskirts of the protest areas, offering face masks, hand sanitizer, pizza, and bottled water to protestors - all for free.

When asked why they’re doing what they’re doing, many have replied that they just want to support the people out protesting police brutality against black and brown people without speaking for them. “We want to lift up the voices of others,” one person shared. Others see it as an act of discipleship, providing hospitality to those who need it. They see the reason why the protestors are out on the streets as deeply resonant with the work of the gospel, affirming the inherent dignity of all people and restoring wholeness to a world that has been broken by racism. So they offer a bottle of cold water.

Act III: Water at the Well

Rachel Held Evans was a bestselling author, blogger, and speaker who challenged conservative Christianity and gave voice to many people who wrestled with their faith. Her writing engaged faith in a refreshing and creative way, asking tough questions and offering sometimes humorous anecdotes about her journey to uncover answers. Inspired, her last book published before her untimely death last year, explores the beauty of the bible by retelling beloved stories through the lens of today while honoring the past.

One of the most beautiful stories is of the Samaritan woman at the well. I offer a shortened version here for you to listen to:

I went to the well at noon.

Sun burning my neck, sweat stinging my eyes, I sighed to think how much heavier that water jar would seem on the journey back. Most of the women gather at first light, their laughter carrying over the countryside like birdsong as they gossip and banter.

I was not a woman who belonged at a well.

As the sun beat down light with a great unseeing eye overhead, I saw a figure seated at the well. A man. I grew closer, spied the knotted tassels on his coat confirming he was a Jew, and felt a rush of relief. ​Good. We won’t have to talk.​ A man in this country rarely speaks to a woman. A Jew to a Samaritan? Never.

“Will you give me a drink?’

His voice startled me. For a moment, I doubted I’d heard it. What sort of Jew asked a Samaritan for water? They believed even our pitchers were unclean.

“You are a Jewish man, and I am a Samaritan woman,” I said with a laugh, wary of meeting his eyes. “And you’re asking me for water?”

“If you knew who I was,” he answered, “you’d be asking ​me​ for a drink, and I would give you fresh, flowing water. I would give you the kind of water you really crave.”

Now he had my attention. The man was young, maybe thirty. He had no jar, rope, or buckets. He must have been traveling from Judea to Galilee.

“Artesian water from this well?” I pressed. “Sir, you don’t even have a bucket to draw with, and this well is deep. Are you saying you are better than our ancestor Jacob, who dug this well and drank from it? Are you saying you know something he didn’t?”

“Everyone who drinks water from this well will get thirsty again,” he said. “But whoever drinks the water I offer will remain satisfied, for they will have a gushing spring inside of them that never runs dry.”

“Well then give me some of that water!” I laughed, playing along. “Then I won’t have to hike out to this well every day.”

The man fell silent. Assuming I’d offended him, I prepared my bucket and lowered it into the well.

“Go, call your husband and come back,” he said, breaking the silence.

My jaw clenched.

“I have no husband,” I said.

“Indeed you don’t. You’ve had five husbands, haven’t you? And the man you live with now is not one of them.”

Five.

This man knew more than what local gossip could carry. He knew my secret. He knew ​me.​ Shaking, I let the rope slip. My bucket plunged into the water, and I staggered backward.

“I see you are a prophet,” I said, sitting down.

The man said nothing in reply, so for a while we just sat there together under the sun, sweating and thirsty, a strange understanding growing between us. He went to the well and pulled the bucket up.

“So tell me something,” I said, recovering my courage. “Samaritans say the place of rightful worship is that mountain over there, but Jews say it is in Jerusalem. Who is right?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he answered, a smile in his voice. “Salvation will come through the Jews, yes, but it will be for all people. The day is coming when all the barriers between us will collapse. God is Spirit, after all, and Truth. You can’t build a temple around Spirit. You can’t lock Truth in a shrine. The kind of worship God wants is the kind of worship without walls.”

He paused. “But you know that already, daughter, don’t you? You have known all along.”

He crouched down and looked me straight in the eyes, seeing me in a way no man had ever seen me before.

“They say a Messiah will come and make all these things plain,” I ventured from the ground.

“I--the one speaking to you--am he.”

At that, he handed me the bucket of water. I brought it to my lips, lifted my head, and drank deep of the coolest, richest water I ever tasked. I drank and drank and drank. I drank until I could no longer breathe.

When I finished, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and handed the bucket back to the man, who, to my amazement, threw his head back and gulped the rest of it down, dousing his dusty face with the last splash that remained. For a moment, I doubted what I’d just witnessed. This man, this Jew--this ​Messiah​--drank from my defiled cup. And with relish.

He saw my surprise and laughed, the deep belly laugh of a man who sees our religious absurdities for what they are. I joined him, all the tired and thirsty cells in my body awake with life once again. It was like giving birth and being born at the same time.

Conclusion:

So, there you have it. Three stories about a cup of cold, refreshing water. Three stories about people and communities living out Jesus’ call to discipleship by offering or receiving this life-giving water. Restoring wetlands, caring for protestors, receiving living water from the source itself. May we all take inspiration from these stories, and may we see the ways they connect with the times we ourselves have offered or been offered that life-giving water.

Thanks be to God,

Amen.