The weight of the jar and the flow of the fountain 

On Sunday 8 March, our Gospel reading was taken from John, Chapter 4, verses 4-42 and this the reflection given during our service:

Today is the third Sunday of Lent, and for some of us, the initial surge of willpower might have begun to flicker. If you chose to fast from a certain food, or perhaps from a habit like mindlessly scrolling through your phone, you have likely encountered a strange, persistent frustration - the discovery that our desires are incredibly bad at taking ‘no’ for an answer. 

There is a peculiar exhaustion that comes with self-denial. We often think of Lent as a spiritual clear out, where we tidy up the soul by sweeping away distractions. But as the days pass, we find that the more we sweep, the more the dust seems to rise. We are met with a stubborn, recurring appetite that refuses to be ignored. It isn't just a growling stomach or a restless thumb; it is a deeper, more unsettling realisation that even when we have everything we think we need—a roof over our heads, a meal, a family—we are still, in some quiet corner of our being, profoundly unsatisfied. 

We live in a cycle of maintenance. We eat to stop being hungry, only to be hungry again a few hours later. We sleep to stop being tired, only to wake up weary. We seek a holiday to escape the grind, only to find the grind waiting for us at the airport when we return. 

Why are we built with a capacity for satisfaction that the world seems physically unable to meet? We are like a jar or a glass with an undetectable crack in the bottom. No matter how much we pour into it - success, comfort, even religious ritual - the level of fullness eventually drops. We continue returning to the same source, hoping that this time, the fullness will last. 

But what if the problem isn’t that we haven't found the right thing to fill us? What if the problem is the way we are trying to be filled? 

In our Gospel reading, we find a woman caught in the very heart of this cycle. She arrives at a well in the heat of the noon sun. She is there for a chore she has performed a thousand times before. Carry the jar, draw the water, carry it back. To survive, you must repeat this tomorrow, and the day after that. 

Until one day, she meets a man sitting there - dusty, tired, and remarkably, without a bucket. And he asks her for a drink. But as the conversation shifts, he offers her something that sounds like a biological impossibility. He says: 

"Those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life." 

We spend our lives trying to satisfy our souls from the outside in - pouring external things into our internal void. But Jesus proposes a reversal. He speaks of a source that flows from the inside out. The living water isn't a substance he hands her; it is a life-giving presence that turns the person into a fountain. The thirst ends not because the world finally provides enough, but because the believer is no longer dependent on the world’s well. 

Now, while the woman goes back to the city, the disciples return with bread. They see Jesus, who had been exhausted, now seemingly refreshed. They are confused. They ask, "Has someone brought him food?" They are still thinking in terms of the cycle - input equals output. 

But Jesus reveals a second layer to this mystery of satisfaction: 

"I have food to eat that you do not know about... My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to complete his work." 

In the middle of Lent, when we’re fasting or abstaining from our favourite sweet, or savoury treats, this is a revolutionary thought. Sometimes, we might feel that doing God's will is a drain on our energy - an obligation that takes away from our leisure. But Jesus tells us it is nourishment. He suggests that we are often tired and hungry not because we are doing too much, but because we aren't doing the thing we were actually designed for. Doing the Father’s work sustains life. 

But once we realise our internal thirst, we often look for a 'system' or a 'place' to fix it. The woman does what many of us do: she turns to geography. For a moment, turning away from the hunger and thirst, the woman, senses the weight of this man’s words, along with his ability to see her past and who she is. She seems to recognise another truth, and brings up a religious dispute wanting to test what she has always known. She’s understood what Jesus tells her about how to fill up her own cup, but where does she do that? "Where is the right place to find God?" she asks. "On this mountain or in Jerusalem?" She is looking for a destination, a place to go to get what she needs. 

Jesus moves the goalposts entirely. He tells her that a time is coming—and is now here—when the where doesn't matter. He explains that true worship is in "spirit and truth." 

The resolution to our search for God isn't a pilgrimage to a holy site or the perfect performance of a Lenten fast. The resolution is a person. When she says, "I know the Messiah is coming," Jesus replies with the simplest, most staggering claim: "I am he." 

So, we find ourselves at a crossroads. We see that doing God’s will isn't a chore—it’s our fuel. And we see that meeting Him doesn't require a pilgrimage—it requires an open heart. 

And there is another, small detail in this story that is easy to skip over. After Jesus reveals himself, John tells us: "Then the woman left her water jar and went back to the city." 

Think back to that heavy, clay jar—the symbol of her daily toil, the weight she had to carry to the well every single day just to stay alive. That jar was her most precious tool. It was her survival. 

But the moment she encounters the Messiah, the jar becomes irrelevant. She leaves it behind. Why? Because you don't need a jar when you have become a spring. 

Perhaps during Lent, we think we are giving things up as a sacrifice to prove our piety. But the Gospel suggests a different motivation. We leave our jars behind - our self-reliance, our frantic efforts to fill ourselves - not because we are trying to be good, but because we have found a Source that makes the jar unnecessary. 

Jesus sat by that well, parched and weary, so that he could offer us a drink from a different stream. He allowed himself to be hungry so that he could become the Bread of Life. As we continue through this season, how about we stop trying to carry our empty jars to the world's broken wells. Why don’t we instead find that doing the Father’s will is the only food that truly satisfies, and that the Christ who meets us in the heat of the day is the only water that can ever quench the heart. 

Let’s close with a prayer: 

Lord Jesus, in this season of Lent, grant us the grace to leave our burdens behind and find our only true nourishment in doing the Father’s will. Turn our lives into springs of living water, flowing from the inside out, that we might never thirst again. 

Amen.