I’m guest preaching this weekend while a colleague takes spring break with her family before the final push in Lent toward Holy Week. The lectionary texts focus on thirst. Jesus’, that of the Samaritan woman he engages at a well during the heat of the day, and that of the people of Israel, wandering a desert wilderness. They’re griping and grumbling at Moses their leader, wondering if he freed them from slavery only to let them (and their children) die of thirst. Hindsight being what it is, it’s easy to characterize them as whiners. Not able to see the big picture. Lacking in faith when it matters most.
But from a landscape of half-melted snow and half-baked legislation pending the governor’s signature, I can start to imagine what the people of Israel were feeling in that wilderness. With all the anti-LGBTQ bills here in Iowa, particularly targeting and demonizing trans children, I can begin to empathize with the people of Israel in their fear for their children. In their mumbles growing to rumbles, “Is God with us or not?”
There’s something about being in the wilderness that strips us of the hubris of any sense of being self-determined or self-made. Instead, there is an intense realization of our own contingency, vulnerability, and dependency. On each other, and ultimately on God. There’s an intense realization that when we are thirsty, a whole system beyond our immediate control needs to conspire to our benefit in order for us to take a drink. (From rain falling to fill the Raccoon River, to the Des Moines Water Works being able to remove all the nitrates and other junk in there, to our plumbing working well, even to being mobile enough to be able to turn on the tap.)
That last step, mobility, isn’t necessarily a given for me these days. Sure, I can move and walk and swim and I do all these things regularly. But once I’m “in position,” seated with my feet up to reduce ankle swelling, it’s really nice when Lucas offers to fill up my water glass. Especially since, as a pregnant person, I’m supposed to drink a gallon of water each day. (That’s double the regular recommendation of 8 glasses for those who are counting.) It’s a LOT of water. Water for the amniotic fluid. Water for the extra 50% blood volume flowing through my veins and the placenta. Water for my extra tissue and for babú’s. It means more stops in the bathroom. But it also means that if I fall behind, I really feel it. I get thirsty. A lot. My body tells me what I need to keep us healthy.
The near constant presence of this physical thirst has had me thinking about what it means for our souls to thirst, too. To find ourselves in a state of need and desire and longing. To find ourselves in the wilderness with no immediate or obvious source to sate our need. Thirsting for safety for our children. Thirsting for understanding of a world without scape goats and beyond binaries. Thirsting for justice and for love.
I don’t believe our governor will suddenly reveal herself to be a Moses figure, even to her staunchest supporters. But I do believe that these seasons of wilderness living—seasons that remind us of our contingency, vulnerability, and utter dependence—are an opportunity to reconnect to our Source and to strengthen our ties in community. In his conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well, Jesus describes the water he will give as living water, a well that will spring up in a person without running dry. Exhausted from constantly drawing water from the well, the woman is very interested in this living water. In finding a way to finally, and forever, sate her thirst. But Jesus isn’t promising that she’ll never have to physically draw water again. Instead, he’s giving her what she needs to reconnect to her sacred Source (to God) and to the community from which she’s been alienated. He’s restoring her to God which also means restoring her to community.
All these texts about water and thirst remind me of another favorite from scripture. Psalm 1 describes a person who is connected to their Maker and Source as being “like a tree planted by streams of water.” When I imagine myself like that tree and find myself longing for love and justice to be more present in the world, I imagine digging my roots deep into the earth, drinking deeply from the living water that comes from God, and doing my best to be love and justice in whatever ways I can. With messages to folks in the statehouse, however hopeless the situation may be. With calls to the governor’s office, regardless of what I assume her stance. With tears shed and prayers going up on behalf of the children and families whose lives are being turned upside down right now.
And what of those who are digging deep only to find the sandy dry ground of hopelessness and despair? I find myself returning both to the necessity of community and what we can learn from the community of trees. Because when trees are close enough together, they do this amazing thing where, with the help of mycorrhizal networks, they begin to share resources through their roots: nutrients, warning signals to turn on protections from predators, and even water. So even if you find yourself in a wilderness with no water in sight, you may be connected to someone who is connected to someone who is connected to someone who is currently drinking deep from wells of living water and doing their best to infuse all the love and justice they’re drawing forth back into the system.
That’s my hope for this wilderness season. To pay attention to what my soul is yearning for. To grieve what’s being lost. And to let my roots drink deep from my Source so I can hold onto a vision of a better future and share it with love. If you can do the same, add your good works and good will to the collective. If you find yourself coming up dry, or caught in a network of hopelessness and despair, lean on your neighbors and your community. Lean on me. The only way to survive the wilderness is together.
Much love for the journey,
Lindsey
I’ve read that about trees, especially the mother tree, who, once cut down, continues feeding the little ones growing up around her, so even in death, the tree roots provide... Like us, leaving a legacy for our children. (In many different ways).
❤️❤️❤️