Lenten Homily, 8 March 2026

It’s not a new Gospel. We’ve all heard this before. And yet John’s Gospel is one I can read over and over and still receive something new every time. John can be a little circular—sometimes even confusing. It’s almost like, “Wait, what? He just said that five times in different ways.” But somehow it keeps opening deeper layers.

With the Samaritan woman, there are a lot of details that can stand out (John 4:5–42). One of the most obvious is this: she didn’t want to be encountered.

“Jesus, Just Leave Me Alone”

I think there are moments in our lives when we’re basically saying, “Jesus, just leave me alone. I’m good. Thanks. I’m having a tough time. I don’t need anyone to help me.”

Sometimes we retreat into our own little world—not because we’re actually happy there, but because it’s difficult to talk about things, or to confront them, or even to understand what’s going on inside of us. It can be small things or big things.

Even in community, it can look like: “This is wonderful, but please—no more pushing my buttons. I’ve been pushed enough.” And so we choose the safer option: “Let’s leave that alone. Let’s not go there.” We don’t want to be encountered.

I know there are times when I’m in my room and I think, “I’m not going out. I just don’t want to see anyone.” And honestly—not even Jesus. Not because I’m rejecting him in some dramatic way, but because I feel like if I let myself be encountered, something will get touched, something will get stirred up.

Now, with this woman, it’s probably not the exact same thing. She’s been through a lot. You can imagine her thinking, “I’ll go to the well when no one’s there. No one will see me. I’ll go home, break some bread, and I won’t have to deal with anyone.” And that’s exactly not what happens.

“He Told Me Everything I Ever Did”

The second thing I find interesting is this: if she goes to the well in the middle of the day, it’s probably not because no one knows her story. If no one knew her story, she could go at any time.

So when Jesus speaks into her life, why is that so striking? Why is she so surprised—“He told me everything about me” (John 4:29)—if the people around her likely already knew plenty?

Sometimes we imagine Jesus as a mind-reader—and maybe he is. I’m not saying he can’t read our minds. But I don’t think the power of this moment is just that Jesus knows facts about her.

The difference is the way he knows them. And the way he says them.

A lot of times in prayer we think: “Jesus already knows everything. I don’t need to tell him anything new.” We already know our stories. We know our needs. We know that Jesus knows them. So prayer can feel “extra,” like something optional.

But then there are these moments—at least for me—when it’s like someone looks at your story, at your situation, at your history, at what you’ve been through, at what you’ve done, even at your sin… and suddenly it’s spoken in a different way. Something shifts.

That’s what redemption looks like.

Jesus isn’t looking at her to condemn her. He isn’t looking at her like, “Oh my goodness, what an interesting soap opera.” He looks at her and says, in a sense, “No. That is your story.” And he says it with truth—without crushing her.

And the amazing thing is: she stays open. She’s still searching. She’s looking for the Messiah. She’s looking for mercy. That’s what the conversation is really about.

Truth That Becomes Fruitful

And then John does this thing he always does: these “interludes.” All of a sudden we’re talking about worship “in spirit and truth” (John 4:23–24). All of a sudden we’re talking about the harvest (John 4:35–38). And you want to say, “Wait a second—what about the woman? Why are we shifting to this?”

But maybe that’s exactly the point. Why is it important to talk about spirit and truth in the case of this woman? Why is it important to talk about the harvest in the case of this woman?

Because truth—even when it’s painful, even when it’s confronting—can become incredibly fruitful. All of a sudden there’s a “before” and “after.”

It’s not that something new is being invented. It’s not that her reality suddenly changes into something else. The truth is already her reality. But when she confronts it and God is there, it’s not merely a human truth anymore. It becomes a spiritual truth: God is present in it. And that means redemption is possible.

There is a God who goes beyond worship on this mountain or that mountain. There is a truth that is transcendent. And when that truth breaks in, everything can change (John 4:21–24).

A Bigger Work Is Happening

What I think is challenging—at least for me—is that we can know our “truth” in a very ordinary way. It’s Saturday. It’s Sunday afternoon. It’s whatever else.

But then it’s like: “Wait a second. God is doing something bigger. He’s transforming me. He’s turning me into a saint. He wants to save the world.”

And we almost laugh at ourselves: “Let me go back and preach the entire region of Valencia. Catalonia is my oyster—everyone’s going to convert.” You know what I mean?

But honestly, those kinds of thoughts reveal something real: the Lord calls us into something larger than the small story we’ve settled for. And I think he has to repeat it, because we forget. He has to say it again: “That’s the truth. Something bigger is happening.”

The Harvest That Has Been Growing

And then there’s the harvest.

The woman’s transformation didn’t begin in one day. There were seeds sown long before this moment. And now God is reaping a harvest in her life (John 4:35–38).

So where are those seeds in our own lives? Where is God reaping a harvest? Where is he bringing something to maturity?

And you can see the practical fruit immediately: this woman goes out and tells others. It’s not just what is happening in her—it’s what is happening through her. And people begin to believe (John 4:39–42).

She’s probably not preaching something “amazing.” She just met him—what is she going to say? And yet she is so convinced that God did something in her that other people take notice.

A Lenten Prayer: Let Him Encounter Us

So let’s ask the Lord for that grace in Lent.

If Lent is about anything, it’s about conversion: recognizing we aren’t perfect, that we are sinners, and God knows it. And maybe he puts his finger exactly where it hurts—exactly where we don’t want him to touch—but that’s exactly where we need him.

When his truth comes in—and when that truth is lived in a spirit of prayer, of charity and almsgiving, of fasting—then we allow him to encounter us, even in difficult ways. And then a new harvest can be reaped.

Not because we’re great. Not because we’re perfect. But because he really does make a change. He is changing us constantly. This isn’t only about the past, and it’s not only about some future version of ourselves. It’s about what he wants to do today.

So ask: today, where is he trying to bring a new truth? Where is he trying to reap a new harvest? Where is he trying to draw me closer to him?

It could be concrete, everyday things. It could be longer-term difficulties. Whatever it is, we put it in his hands.