Kathy Coffey

Jesus arrives at the well in today’s gospel (John 4:5-42) tired, thirsty, aware that he’s among Samaritans who have a long history of conflict with his people.

He immediately breaks a social taboo since a good Jewish boy never spoke to a woman (even his mother, wife or sister) in public. So the Samaritan woman is surprised–and intrigued. Jesus refused to categorize her by gender or  nationality. He begins by expressing poignant human need, the same thirst he named from the cross. Then he engages in conversation with her, just as he did with Martha, Peter, or the other disciples.

His conversational style is important: some believe that the Trinity itself is a marvelous conversation or dance among the three persons of God. In contrast, the one-sided lecture form seems stale and lifeless. Jesus’ conversation liberates the woman from enshrined prejudices and irrelevant beliefs. Where we worship is secondary, he says. How we worship is primary.

Since Jesus has invited the woman’s participation from the beginning, it’s natural for her to become involved in spreading the good news. She leaves behind her water jar, symbol of exhausted systems and drudgery, in her eagerness to tell her village about Jesus.

The Samaritan woman got more than she bargained for when she went to draw water. She got a life-giving spring, gushing up to eternal life. And we, working at the old tasks, the same routines or the endless chores, we too might be surprised by a stranger…

“Try it in G,” the musician suggests and we hear the same song in a different key. So Jesus models a transition from his glorious mountaintop experience to the verses that follow today’s gospel, about a boy foaming at the mouth, grinding his teeth and rigid. Descending, Jesus scolds a “faithless generation,” who cannot cure him, then rebukes the demon, curing what today we might term epilepsy.

“Will the real Jesus please stand up?” We’re inclined to believe in the one whose face dazzles and whose clothes shine, affirmed by the Father’s voice. Clearly Peter is stunned into babbling an elaborate plan for building tents, so Jesus can converse with the prophets in peace.

Yet it is no less Jesus who repeats, “how much longer must I put up with you?” in exasperation with the disciples’ lack of faith and inability to cure the boy. He heals him “instantly,” so his power is still intact; his compassion still overflows.

We also go through various transformations in our days. We might be praying, then cooking, gardening, paying bills, caring for children or the elderly, chatting, reading, singing, shopping, working on the computer, filling the car with gas or doing the laundry. It’s the same self, in different keys. But because of Jesus’ transfiguration, we do all these things as divine children of the Great King. It’s all prayer in different ways. The disciples who saw Jesus in dazzling light also see themselves anew.  The radiance might not be obvious, but it is there nonetheless, hiding beneath the surface.

Some gospel accounts of Jesus’ temptations end with the phrase, “and angels waited on him.” After a dreadful ordeal, when Jesus is hungry and probably exhausted, the presence of the divine is somehow still with him. It is possible that angels attend all our lonely desert places. Where we sense the least comfort, there it abounds. Perhaps it’s a relationship, health or job issue, looming decision. How might God be present in difficult circumstances?

As ashes are signed on our foreheads, we hear the words, “Turn from sin; trust the good news.” What does that mean? Sin in the Hebrew context was anything less than the fullness of what God wants us to become.

“Turn from all that drags you down,” Jesus says. Are we haunted by worries about the future or shame about the past? Are we still angry about something that happened years ago? Lent means springtime: it presents us with the opportunity to slough off like a snakeskin all that deadens. Instead, we turn to the God who made us, who redeemed us and who lives in us. Just as Jesus would say that the Prince of this world has no hold on me, so we belong to God, not to all that threatens. If we over-identify with our emotions, achievements, children, work or ideas, we risk being in bondage to one sector of our lives, out of balance as a whole person. Instead, Jesus invites us to belong completely to him, with all we are. The only door into the future is trust. God who has been faithful before can be trusted again. Can we step towards that life source this Lent?

Before concerned readers send heart-felt offers of therapy, a caveat: as addictions go, this is fairly minor. It’s the slightest binge on two t.v. shows, savored on laptop because at the moment, I don’t own a t.v.

Two favorite scenes have offered volumes for reflection, the first from “Downton Abbey.” See—isn’t everyone addicted to Maggie Smith as Lady Violet?  This absolutely silent moment occurs after Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes have returned from their honeymoon to a reception in the servants’ quarters. He excuses himself from the party, explaining to her that he must check if his room has been cleared out completely. When he glances around the small space, it must kindle fifty years of memories. Walking through the door, he removes his name plate, “Mr. Carson,” and slips it into his pocket.

Why did that quiet moment resonate so deeply? Having recently moved from Colorado to California, I know how difficult it is to part with the past. Leaving friends, familiarity, work, home and beautiful Rocky Mountains was heart-breaking. From a spacious deck, I could see snow on the high peaks. Friends offered their mountain cabins for several days of skiing or hiking, and cozy evening fires. I’d gone there for graduate school 45 years before and traveled widely since, but always perked up when the plane flew over the Rockies and landed at Denver airport.

However, children and grandchildren lived in the Bay area, and California had always been a favorite vacation spot. Six grandchildren under the age of  four on the west coast beckoned with powerful allure. I wanted to be part of their lives, not a quarterly visitor. I wanted to help their parents when they needed it most, in those vulnerable early years. My life in Colorado seemed increasingly self-centered, when I could be a big help in California.

And so I moved. As Carson removes his name tag from the door, a bright new future lies before him. Despite his age, he’ll make a home with a wonderful woman whom he loves dearly.  It doesn’t discount one bit of that potential to pause, perhaps for gratitude or goodbye.

Colorado will always hold a place in my heart and I’ll visit as often as I can. But the future lies on the west coast now, with little ones hugging my knees and calling, “Grammy!” Flowers bloom in January outside my kitchen window, and a crimson-throated hummingbird hovers as I write.

The other scene occurs in “Madam Secretary” where Tia Leone plays Elizabeth McCord, a bright and powerful woman, an amalgam of three actual female secretaries of state. Her marriage to handsome Dr. Henry McCord seems impossibly happy, but her three children provide welcome notes of imperfect reality.  Consistently she works for peaceful solutions of world problems, even though she’s surrounded by military leaders urging war. In an episode titled “The Show Must Go On,” a series of kerfuffles leads to her being sworn in temporarily as president of the United States.

She has no time to prepare, but she steps forward and places her hand on the Bible with confidence and grace. Although the private ceremony has been hastily arranged, her reverence acknowledges the dignity of the office she’ll assume.

It reminds me of the many times we’ve all assumed tasks that seem huge; we wonder fleetingly if we’re up to the challenge. But then we plunge ahead for whatever reason, because someone has to do the job. Gradually, God’s power becomes ours. And when God empowers, there’s no time wasted on futile discussion of gender. We do what the moment requires, and perhaps only in retrospect, recognize one of our finest hours.

Anyone who’s had small children knows the grubby intensity of the knotted tennis shoe lace. Maybe kiddos now have Velcro, but back in the day, we had epic struggles and gruesome battles with the stubborn knot, while the child wriggled in frustration.

Maybe that’s why I was so drawn to Mary, Undoer of Knots. Last weekend was my introduction; I hadn’t known this is one of Pope Francis’ favorite devotions. Just google the name; you’ll have a feast of images and prayers. Most of the art is quite traditional, so the devotion must go back centuries.

Most people’s ordinary life is so full of complexity and thorny problems, it makes us want to lie down for a long nap. That’s where this image of Mary comes in. She gets it. Surely in the life of Jesus and the early church, she wrestled with mammoth issues. Some images present her as gliding smoothly along a paved highway with no traffic. This one shows the reality: questions that she, like us, needed all her strength and courage to resolve.  Hooray for a Mary who lived as we do, AND who has an extraordinary grace to untie the knots.

Scholars say that the mythic elements in today’s story– the sky opening, the voice of God, the descent of the dove—are common to spiritual experiences in many religious traditions. What makes Jesus’ unique?

Even in more ordinary circumstances, he remained attuned to the source of that experience: to God his father. Whether he was engaged in hot debate, confronting hideous disease, or teaching in the marketplace, Jesus didn’t forget that voice, that spectacular affirmation. He acted always as God’s beloved child. Furthermore, he saw everyone else through that same lens—no matter how cantankerous, sick, or stupid they were.

Do we? When doing dishes or driving, do we remember we are precious? Confronting a crisis, do we carry into it the same qualities that have gotten us this far: our courage, strength or skill? When we’re angry, mistaken, rejected, exhausted, ill, betrayed, depressed, unemployed, or told we’re worthless, does that sense of affirmation rise up within?

What God said to Jesus, God says to us: “you are my dearly beloved child. I’m pleased with you.” That should matter more than all the applause or awards in the world. And we should in turn hear that same description of everyone we meet.

This experience marks a pivotal point for Jesus: he emerges from it energized and inspired for his public ministry. Even in the long desert days, he must hear the echoes of that voice. When we’re tempted to focus on the criticisms, we could turn instead with joy to that life-giving praise.

Long before Jesus preached inclusivity, Mary practiced it. Imagine being the mother of a newborn, exhausted from a trip to register for the census in Bethlehem. Then picture giving birth in a stable, which was probably not as cozy and clean as most Christmas cards depict. Mary is far away from her support system, so she can’t rely on her mother, sisters or friends for help. No casseroles, no baby blankets.

Then, according to Luke, a crowd of shepherds arrives. They must be strangers, but there is no record of Mary feeling uncomfortable with these uninvited guests. Instead, she “treasures” the memories and is filled with gratitude. Matthew’s account of the magi doesn’t mention Mary’s response, but she must have wondered: how many more strangers would crowd into their temporary housing? These surprising visitors aren’t even Jewish–and bring the strangest gifts.

Mary’s experience should give us fair warning. If we hang around with Jesus, we’d better keep our doors open. He brings along an odd assortment of friends. They may not bring frankincense or myrrh, but they arrive unexpectedly when there are only two pork chops for dinner. They come disguised as the children’s friends or the lonely neighbor who talks too long while the rolls burn. They phone at the worst possible times and they interrupt our most cherished plans. And in these, says Jesus, you’ll find me. This feast seems to celebrate James Joyce’s description of the Catholic church: “here comes everybody!”

Just as the overture to a Broadway musical sounds themes that will recur in later songs, so the Prologue to John’s gospel read at some Masses today begins ideas that will be developed later. One that is especially relevant today is how God seeks out human beings, making them God’s own children. Always, God tries to change human darkness into stunning light.

To apply that truth to our own experience, we might reflect on verse 16:  “From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.” What have been the special graces in our lives, spilling over from God’s fullness? Have we been aware of them, and thankful?

No matter what our worries are: about scarcity or loss, unemployment  or loneliness, illness or death, today we set them aside and rest in the fullness of God’s overflowing love. This is a day to focus on the wonder of God becoming human, uplifting us all to be brothers and sisters of Jesus. Isaiah expresses the good news: “the Lord has comforted his people, he has redeemed Jerusalem” (52:9). In this case, Jerusalem stands for all of us: redeemed, graced, blessed, joyful.

On this day, we  sing carols around the crèche, worship with our faith community, ring the bells, enjoy the decorations, laugh, tell stories, eat the feast and relish Christmas cookies. If that sounds a bit self-centered, we’re also called to hospitality: as in the Benedictine tradition, to welcome all guests as Christ.