Sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent (March 8, 2026)
Transcript
This transcript was generated by YouTube AI and edited for clarity.
May only truth be spoken here and only truth be heard. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Please be seated.
Some of you will remember Father Michael Judge. He was a Franciscan priest and a chaplain for the New York City Fire Department. He died on September 11.
He had this beautiful prayer that he used to walk around saying. I love this prayer. I remembered it this week because I told it to someone recently—and then I realized I actually talked about this same prayer in my sermon to the search committee at St. James when I interviewed, which was almost four years ago now.
Anyway—enough preamble. I’ll tell you the prayer.
It goes like this:
Take me where you want me to go.
Let me meet who you want me to meet.
Tell me what you want me to say.
And keep me out of your way.
Amen.
I used to say this prayer before every job interview and things like that. It helps to have a prayer that rhymes when you’re a little anxious.
But I thought about this prayer this week when I read the story of Jesus and the woman at the well.
The first few verses of this chapter of John’s Gospel—which we don’t actually read this morning—tell us that Jesus is traveling from Jerusalem to Galilee. In Jerusalem he has been speaking with Nicodemus (we heard that story last week), and he has also been kicking over tables in the temple, and now it’s probably time for him to get out of town.
John says that on the way from Jerusalem to Galilee, Jesus had to pass through Samaria.
But most commentaries will tell you: that’s not actually true. He didn’t have to. There were other routes. Jews often went around Samaria.
So why does Jesus go that way?
And when I was thinking about that question, I thought again of this prayer:
Take me where you want me to go.
Let me meet who you want me to meet.
Tell me what you want me to say.
And keep me out of your way.
Because it seems pretty clear that Jesus had to go through Samaria so that he could meet this woman—so that they could have this conversation that needed to happen.
And it is an extraordinary conversation.
It is unhurried.
It is curious.
It is honest.
It’s not all “nicey nice.” They argue. They question one another. They tell one another the truth.
And this conversation happens between two people who could not be more different.
You see this first in the astonishment of the woman herself when she says:
“Are you talking to me? You—a man, a Jew—are speaking to me, a woman of Samaria? And you want me to give you a drink?”
And then you see the astonishment of the disciples.
They come back—basically from getting Jesus a snack at the 7-Eleven—and they are shocked to find him talking with this woman.
A Samaritan woman.
A woman who comes to the well at noon, in the heat of the day—which is the worst possible time to draw water.
So she must be avoiding something.
This is a person who has no friends. A person on the outside. She is on the outside in every possible way.
And the disciples cannot believe that Jesus is speaking to her.
But Jesus knew he had to have this conversation.
So he sits down. He looks around at who God has put in front of him.
He asks for help. He opens his hand and asks for connection.
And the conversation begins.
Now something else happens here.
When the woman goes back to her village she says:
“Come and see a man who has told me everything I have ever done.”
And I said to our Bible study group this week: can you imagine being excited about meeting someone who told you everything you have ever done?
Would you run back to town and tell everyone they should come meet this person?
And someone in the group said something really wise. They said: I think something is missing from her statement. Something implied.
What she really means is:
Come meet someone who knows everything about me—everything I’ve ever done—
and he didn’t judge me.
He didn’t run screaming from the conversation.
He didn’t point the finger.
He didn’t look at me with contempt.
He stayed.
He sat with me.
He asked me more questions.
He let me ask him questions.
We stayed together.
It is an amazing, miraculous conversation: unhurried, honest, truthful, curious—and courageous.
Now in another study group we’re reading Dr. Hannah Reichel’s devotional For Such a Time as This. This week we talked about something she writes about: the spaces we hold.
She encourages us to think about the spaces over which we have influence.
Maybe it’s a boardroom.
Maybe it’s a church.
Maybe it’s just the backseat of your car.
But every one of us has some influence over what a space feels like.
And she says we should think about how these spaces can become places of courage and safety, truth-telling and kindness.
Don’t forget the power you have to influence the spaces you inhabit.
So I asked the group: as a church, we all tend and care for this sanctuary. These spaces.
Our bishop, Bishop Matt, often says that what we are called to do across our diocese is to offer safe belonging—to tend spaces where people are truly welcomed.
Spaces where the boundaries are porous.
Spaces where people on the outside—or people who fear they are on the outside—can find their way in and discover they belong.
So I asked: if that’s our call, how do we tend this space? What might God be asking us to do so that this community becomes a place of safe belonging?
Here are some of the things people said.
Someone said that simply being together—coming together, occupying the same space at the same time—makes us feel safe.
Someone else said that in this church we come from a lot of different backgrounds, places, and life experiences. And that it’s such a gift. There aren’t many places where she encounters so many different kinds of people—and we learn from one another.
Another person said we create safety by getting to know each other.
We create safe belonging by meeting our neighbors’ needs—feeding the hungry, listening to the lonely.
Someone else said when we display our pride flag, we should keep doing that. Because it tells everyone passing by that everyone is welcome here, especially people who might assume they wouldn’t be welcome in a church.
Another person said we create safe belonging simply by being part of the community—by being the face of St. James in our neighborhood and building relationships.
There’s a theme here.
Getting to know one another.
Really getting to know one another—in person, in the flesh, in our bodies. One-on-one. In small groups like this.
It is transformative.
Because it creates spaces of safe belonging where transformation can happen.
This is what Jesus does.
He sits down.
He looks around.
Who has God given me today?
Let me get to know them.
And he lets her get to know him.
In fact, it is to this woman that Jesus first says plainly who he is. He tells her his true name.
“I am he,” he says. “The one who is speaking to you.”
I am the Messiah. The presence of God.
Their unhurried, honest, brave, curious conversation reveals them both as they truly are.
And this matters.
Because as the storm of our world gets bigger, it becomes very easy to feel as if our everyday lives have no power and no influence over that storm.
But that is not true.
Our everyday interactions—
how we treat one another,
our honesty and our curiosity,
our willingness to sit with one another and truly get to know one another—
these things create sanctuary.
Holy places where God is revealed.
Holy places where the most vulnerable people—and the most vulnerable parts of ourselves—are treasured and kept safe.
You have this power.
Following the example of Jesus Christ.
Holding and creating space for one another.
You have the power to transform the world—to reveal its holiness—to create sanctuary and safe belonging.
So carry this prayer with you:
Take me where you want me to go.
Let me meet who you want me to meet.
Tell me what you want me to say.
And keep me out of your way.
Amen.