A part of the sermon from Sunday keeps coming to mind.  Being the sort to acknowledge that which seems persistent, whether it be a child or a hunch, I’ll give it some attention and see what comes from it.  Plus, we’re due for a little dose of spirituality.

It’s the story of the Samaritan woman at the well that sticks most, in particular the part where, after her conversation with Jesus, she rushes into town, leaving her water jug at the well.  Our priest brought forth the imagery that no longer does this woman have a thirst for water; she has been filled herself with the Living Water of Christ.  This marginalized woman is the vessel.

Now, I have to give the disclaimer that I do not read the Bible as literally as some.  In fact, I haven’t read the whole thing through cover to cover.   My relationship to the Bible is a special, sacred, literary relationship.  I enjoy many of the stories in the Bible as invitations to further thought, glimpses into the mystery of Divine Love, Spirit and the potential of man and suggestive commentary about our suffering.  Sometimes, however, little images from a part of the whole can be influential — such as this woman at the well.

This woman, this EveryWoman, knows her status in society, and she does not deny it, even to this stranger.  She becomes filled with Jesus’ “Living Water,” seeming to forget her earthly purpose at the well.  She is a vessel of God’s Love and Acceptance, a vessel of Christ’s words and teachings.  With no pretense or shame, she can run into the crowd of townspeople, whom she had avoided by going to the well at high-sun, and proclaim the Messiah.

Every woman is very like any daughter, wife, partner, mother, sinner, dreamer.  Chances are, like her, we’ve done things that we’re not proud of but that we might own up to given the chance.  But chances are, too, that we come to the well already overflowing, trying to fill that which we know is already full.  We’re hungry, but there’s not room; we’re thirsty, but there’s no place for water.

I read a lovely book one summer called Everyday Sacred.  In it, the author professes her passion for bowls, empty bowls.  Why?  Because a bowl can be filled.  It goes back to the story of the monk serving his teacher more tea, though the cup is overflowing.  If you think you know, your mind is already too full.  How can you learn more if there’s no room?  How can you understand if your heart is already set?

We are meant to be the bowl, the tea cup, the vessel.  This story of Jesus talking to the outcast woman is just his way of emptying her mind, our minds — no social boundaries.  She has no husband — no illusions.  She has no jug — no attachments.  We are what we are, and things are what they are.  As we presume she and the disciples saw it, Jesus was all they needed to thrive spiritually.  If you could understand that, you were at once empty and fulfilled.

How does this apply today?  It’s all the same, except now we have even more jugs to carry, each to be filled from different wells.  Perhaps it’s good to keep refilling them, so long as the water is new and fresh and continues to nurture self and others.  But when we just fill and fill and fill, there’s a drainage issue.  We also need to be able to stand alone at the edge of the lake or ocean and realize that no vessel is big enough to encompass that which surpasses all understanding.  Our one vessel holds one drop of something greater.

We are no greater and no less than this Samaritan woman.  We can only hope that we would find ourselves empty at the well so that we might be filled, our thirsts quenched.