We are in the second week of our Lenten preaching series on the story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well. That we also hear about Abram today is because Christians believe the whole Bible is the Word of God. The part we call "the Old Testament" is the religious context in which Jesus was raised, and we think that reading it helps us learn about Jesus. The lectionary readings for this time of year support the Church's tradition of using Lent to prepare people for baptism and renewal of their baptismal vows as they join with a new congregation. Today's Old Testament story is the point at which salvation history becomes particular. The gospel lesson is John's opinion that the gospel has something to say even to outsiders, people who don't belong to that particular family.

We don't know how Abram knew it was God speaking, nor do we know if this childless couple knew the full implications of God's promised blessings, but we do know that when God said, "Get up, go to the place I will show you," they got up and went. Nineteenth century Americans heard "get up, go," they went to Oregon. Their trail guides may have been primitive, but they at least knew they had to make Independence Rock by the 4th of July if they wanted to make it over the Rockies. What Abram and Sarai didn't know about their trip makes the Oregon Trail pioneers look like micro-managers. But even when 21st century people load all their worldly belongings into a U-Haul and follow a map across country, the move is about more than geography. The Voice Abram hears tells him to leave everything-country, family, parents. There are promises with this "go," but even the promises are vague. Risk is always involved in God's call, leaving the safe, stuck places. Moves can be exciting-a chance to weed out the junk, to start over with new friends, fresh expectations. But the adjustment is always about more than which cupboard to put the glasses in, how should the couch be, and why in the world did I bring this along? A new place might mean leaving behind things that trouble us, but it also means leaving safety and the things that make us feel loved. Get up, go, start over.

Then there's the blessing. Abram's blessing is so ambiguous that most Bibles use a footnote at verse 3. The Hebrew isn't exactly clear whether God promises that everyone on earth will bless themselves by using Abram's name, or whether all people will be included in the blessing. Of course, Abram doesn't know at the time that leaving town will have implications for three great religions. He just goes. Was his decision sudden? Did his wife need convincing? Were they already nomads? We don't know. We just know that he stakes his life on "going."

At least our eavesdropping on the Samaritan woman gives us an inkling of what makes her take Jesus seriously. It's the social cues their words contain. When we moved to Oregon from the much-more-reserved Midwest, we had to learn different social cues. On the south side of Chicago, meeting the eyes of a stranger on the street could be perceived as an act of aggression, so we never smiled and greeted people we didn't know. In Oregon, total strangers seem surprised if you don't look them in the eye, smile, greet. When the check-out clerk asks about your day, she expects a real answer. In the Midwest, "fine" is good enough. I've had people tell me their life histories as we slid books into the library return chute, and it's not that I'm wearing a clerical collar or a sign that says, "You can tell me." The social cues in Oregon are different from those I grew up with. As Jesus and the woman converse, their social cues move them from seeing each other as outsider to insider to kinfolk. They shift from a biased prejudice to acting as if they are members of the same faith, so that by the time the townspeople join the conversation, they know Jesus as their Savior. This is as radically uprooting as Abram's call to "Get up, go to the place I will show you." Nothing will ever be the same again.

And it all begins with water. Working in Juarez in 115 degree weather, water is the difference between life and death. Out in the sun, a person either drinks a lot-up to a gallon a day-or they get sick, maybe even die. When Jesus talks water to this woman, he gets her attention. Five gallons of water weighs 65 pounds, plus the weight of the clay jar-no light plastic jugs with easy-grip handle. She's probably hauling a couple of gallons of drinking and cooking water, then something for washing up, not to mention watering the animals. That's a lot of weight in the noonday sun.

That this outrageous stranger asks her of all people for a favor must be what shocks her out of national pride, readjusting her social and religious prejudices. She has the chutzpah to answer Jesus with a question. The social dig apparently doesn't register with him, because he brings up God. Gift of God! Gift of God? When was the last time God gave her anything? She claims membership in the conglomerate of Jacob's descendants, but only an outsider would have fallen for that, when she was out hauling water in the middle of the day. She didn't even belong to the gossip network anymore! Belong to it!? She is its favorite topic! She is the warning to all the girls. Mind your manners or you'll end up like her. Do what your mother-in-law says, or your husband will divorce you like her. Have as many babies as you can, or your husband will get rid of you and you'll end up with a husband-substitute like her. Ancestor Jacob, my eyeball. Not if the town harpies have anything to say about it. The daily water run had once been her support group, the place of sharing and laughter, now it was her isolation, a sure reminder that she does not belong.

But this intruder-this man-seems to think he has some gift to offer her. She banters with him about the small hope of leaving the back-breaking hefting and hauling, the consolation of not having to go out in public to get it, running water. That's when he gets close to the bone. "Get your husband." Right to the throat. She strikes back with what has always worked with the loathsome Judeans. She gets theological-the ever-reliable worship wars strategy. You say potato, I say potah-to. Someone tries to touch your heart, get intellectual. Stay in the head trip, keep the conversation on the theoretical. Out-learned, outsmart him. Whatever you do, don't let him touch your heart.

The man refuses to sing her song. He calls into question everything in her world by offering her a particular God, one who knows her name. She has gotten so used to what they call her. She almost believes what they say about her. Five husbands? The law gave her five "husbands." The precious Torah that said if a man died childless, his surviving brother married the widow to raise children for him. The precious Torah said a man could divorce, but not a woman. Once a woman gets the reputation for being barren, for surviving her husband, no man will take her on. Once a woman became like her, she had to be grateful that anyone would offer her a roof for whatever services and water-hauling she could offer. There was no "life" in water for her.

But the Torah also says that all life comes from God alone. If God is so life-giving, he could give her a different life. Maybe she comes to the well at this lonely time, partly to hide from the hurt, partly to treasure it. Maybe she flaunts her solitary trip to the well, martyring herself in the hottest part of the day, to see if those harpies feel any guilt as she drags her jar back into town. Maybe her anger at their snubs, their judging, maybe that's the only thing she's got. It may be pain, but at least it's her pain.

She knows, even as she treasures it, that it's false. "I'm too busy to come to the well any other time" or "It's too crowded at the well when the other women are there"-who is she kidding? Deadness and lies where her heart used to be. But not so dead that, when this intruder comes and puts his finger on her truth (a truth she can't bear to face herself), she's still got enough hope in her soul that she is able to hear the word "living." When was the last time "living" applied to her? When was the last time she was whole enough to worship? When was the last time she spoke to God about anything except blame? The parade of rejections, the hopeful new life starts that always led to dead ends, the hope each month that bled out of her. And the intruder offers living water. He offers it in the name of God-the "gift of God" he says. The God to whom alone belongs life. Another choice, another chance, another kind of living.

He offers it in the only way that makes sense to her parched and arid soul. Get up, go to a place that I will show you. Let go of your treasure trove of hurts. Let go of hiding in head trips. Let go of blaming. Let go of thinking you are trapped. Let go of treasuring failure. Go to a place I will show you. A place of fresh starts-but one that doesn't hide from the hurts of the past. A place that values even those hurts, gives meaning to the pain, then uses that meaning to deepen your life. Go to a place I will show you. A place of hope, a place you belong. Indeed, the assurance is, in life and in death, we belong to God.