You’ve done it a thousand times. The same errand, the same route, the same parking spot. You know exactly how long it takes, exactly what to expect. Your mind is already on the next thing before you’ve even finished this one. And then—someone interrupts.
Maybe it’s the person in the checkout line who strikes up a conversation when you’re in a hurry. The coworker who shows up at your desk just as you’re about to leave. The neighbor who waves you over when you’re trying to get inside.
Most of the time, we sidestep these interruptions. We keep our headphones in, our eyes down, our pace quick. Not because we’re bad people—we’re just busy people. We’ve got places to be, things to do, lives to manage. But sometimes, the interruption is the point.
What if the encounter you didn’t plan turns out to be the conversation that changes everything? Not for you—for someone else. What if your ordinary errand puts you in the path of someone who desperately needs to be seen, to be heard, to be offered something they can’t get anywhere else?
The Samaritan woman came to the well expecting nothing but water. She didn’t expect to leave with a story she couldn’t stop telling.
We’re in week two of “From Darkness to Light”—a journey through John’s Gospel exploring how people move from confusion to clarity through encounters with Christ. Last week we met Nicodemus, who came to Jesus under cover of darkness with questions he was afraid to ask in daylight. Jesus met him there.
This week the setting shifts. No more protective shadows. It’s high noon, and in the blazing light of midday, another unexpected encounter unfolds—one that transforms a woman who came to avoid people into someone who couldn’t stop inviting them.
This pattern plays out in ways we might not expect. Before we go to the well, consider a more familiar setting—one where we may have been the person trying to stay invisible.
Picture a gym at 6 AM. The same faces show up every morning—same machines, same routines, same unspoken agreement to leave each other alone. Headphones in, eyes forward, everyone invisible by mutual consent.
Then one morning, someone breaks the pattern. A woman who’s usually focused and composed is sitting on a bench near the water fountain, sitting still. Something’s clearly wrong.
The guy who usually uses the machine next to her treadmill faces a choice. Every instinct says keep walking. She clearly wants to be invisible. And what would he even say?
But something makes him stop. “Rough morning?”
The words spill out—divorce papers, didn’t see it coming, whole life upended. He doesn’t have advice. He just listens.
Over the following weeks, their brief check-ins become anchors in her chaotic days. And one morning, he takes a risk. “I go to this church. You wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. You could just not be alone for an hour.”
She comes.
That’s essentially what happens at the well—someone chooses to see a person who expected to be invisible.
John tells us Jesus “had to go through Samaria.” Technically, he didn’t. Most Jewish travelers took a longer route to avoid Samaritan territory—centuries of hostility made avoidance the default. But Jesus chooses the direct path, and that choice puts him at Jacob’s well at noon.
The timing matters. Women typically drew water in the cool of morning or evening, gathering in groups to talk. A woman coming alone at midday is avoiding her community. She expects to be invisible.
Jesus makes himself visible instead. His opening—“Give me some water to drink”—breaks every cultural script. Jewish men didn’t address Samaritan women in public. Religious teachers didn’t initiate conversation with women of questionable reputation. The woman names this directly: “Why do you, a Jewish man, ask for something to drink from me, a Samaritan woman?”
Jesus doesn’t defend or explain. He redirects: “If you recognized God’s gift and who is saying to you, ‘Give me some water to drink,’ you would be asking him and he would give you living water.”
The conversation moves from practical confusion (“You don’t have a bucket”) to theological debate (“Our ancestors worshipped on this mountain”) to personal revelation. Jesus meets each turn without condemnation. When she mentions the coming Messiah, Jesus responds with the divine name itself: “I Am—the one who speaks with you.”
This is the longest personal conversation Jesus has with anyone in John’s Gospel—and it happens with someone most religious leaders would have avoided entirely. The encounter models invitation at its purest: Jesus goes where others won’t go, sees someone others overlook, and offers what she didn’t know she needed.
Though our selected verses end before verse 39, the story’s climax reveals the fruit: she becomes the first evangelist in John’s Gospel, inviting her entire town to “come and see.” She didn’t wait until she had all the answers. She was encountered, known, accepted, transformed—and then unable to keep it to herself.
John Wesley understood this pattern. His field preaching scandalized respectable religion—meeting coal miners at pit entrances, preaching in open fields to people who’d never enter a church. Like Jesus at the well, Wesley went where people actually were, not where religious convention said they should be. He called Christianity a “social religion”—not meant to be hoarded but shared. The Methodist class meeting system created spaces where people could bring others into community before they had all the answers.
Grace received becomes grace shared. That’s still the pattern.
Most of us know someone who’s struggling—a coworker going through divorce, a neighbor who just lost a parent, a friend whose kids are making choices that keep her up at night. We see them at the gym, in the pickup line, across the fence. We exchange pleasantries and move on.
The woman at the well teaches us that invitation doesn’t require a script. It starts with presence. Noticing. Asking a real question and actually listening to the answer. Relationships built over time create the credibility that makes invitation possible. The man at the gym didn’t lead with church. He led with “rough morning?”—and the invitation came naturally months later.
People are most open during transitions—new to town, new job, new diagnosis, new grief. January brings resolutions and restlessness. These aren’t opportunities for manipulation; they’re moments when the ordinary defenses come down and people become honest about what they’re missing.
Sometimes the most powerful invitation isn’t words at all. It’s how you handle the difficult coworker. How you respond when plans fall apart. How you talk about your faith without making it weird. People notice peace that doesn’t make sense, hope that persists through hardship. Eventually someone asks why.
The woman at the well didn’t have a theology degree. She had a story: “Come and see a man who told me everything I’ve ever done.” Her encounter became her invitation. Yours can too.
The good news is that we get to share good news—and the pressure is off. The woman at the well didn’t convert her town. Jesus did. She simply said, “Come and see.” Her job was invitation, not transformation. She pointed people toward an encounter and let Jesus do the rest.
This matters because most of us feel unqualified. We don’t know enough Bible. We can’t answer hard questions. We’re afraid of being pushy or weird or rejected. So we stay quiet, and people who might have come never hear the invitation.
But here’s what the well teaches us: God has already been working in the people around us. Wesley called it prevenient grace—the grace that goes before. The neighbor struggling with anxiety, the coworker whose marriage is falling apart, the friend searching for meaning—God is already stirring something in them. Our invitation doesn’t start the process; it joins what God has already begun.
And every invitation matters, even when the answer is no. We plant seeds. Doors crack open. The Holy Spirit works on timelines we can’t see. You don’t have to be an expert. You just have to have encountered something worth sharing—and be willing to say, “Come and see.”
So what does that look like in practice? As United Methodists, we make five promises when we join the church: to support the church with our prayers, presence, gifts, service, and witness. This week, we focus on witness—sharing faith and inviting others in. The Samaritan woman’s simple invitation, “Come and see,” reminds us that witness doesn’t require expertise. It requires encounter and willingness.
Start by thinking of one person in your life who might benefit from community, hope, or faith. Don’t overthink it—just let a face come to mind. This week, reach out with genuine connection. Ask how they’re doing and actually listen.
Then practice your story. In two sentences, how has your faith made a difference? You don’t need a dramatic testimony—just honest words about what you’ve found here. And consider inviting someone to worship next Sunday. The words can be simple: “I go to McPherson First at Kansas and Maxwell. Would you want to come with me?”
Consider leading a Grace Group after Ash Wednesday for accountability, growth, and encouragement as you grow in sharing your faith with others.
The woman came to the well expecting nothing but water. She left unable to stop talking about what she’d found. From darkness to light doesn’t happen only in dramatic conversions. It happens when ordinary people interrupt their routines long enough to notice someone who needs to be seen—and take the risk of saying, “Come and see.”
Will you pray with me?
Living Water, give us eyes to see and courage to invite. Use our ordinary encounters for your extraordinary purposes. Send us in the power of your Spirit. Amen.
AI tools assisted with drafting and research for this sermon, working within a theological framework I developed for preaching at McPherson First UMC. Scripture selection, theological direction, and final content remain my pastoral responsibility.
Rev. Andrew Conard 