Lectionary Commentaries for March 8, 2026
Third Sunday in Lent

The story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman begins as a literal journey. Jesus leaves Judea, a province in the south, and is traveling to Galilee, in the north. By choosing to travel to Samaria, and not just through it, he encounters not just a Samaritan woman and her story, but the story of the place where she draws water. As we encounter this account in John’s Gospel, we can see how John’s telling of this story shapes our understanding of it.

What’s her story?

Most accounts of the Samaritan woman’s story create a biography out of two details: She came to the well at noon (4:6), and she was not married to the person she lived with, though she had been married five times before (4:18). From these details, it is often assumed that she was ostracized from her community, because noon is a hot time of day to draw water and she is seemingly by herself, and because her marital history is understood to imply poor moral choices. 

Neither implication holds much water based on the context. First, given how those in the city who hear the woman’s proclamation of Jesus immediately come to see him, she seems to be a trustworthy figure in the community (4:30), with “many Samaritans” believing in Jesus “because of the woman’s testimony” (4:39). Second, while some wealthy women in Rome may have had the legal authority to divorce their husbands, this was only possible with the permission of their fathers (or familial equivalents) and would not have been likely or possible for a poorer woman in the province of Samaria. Therefore, she most likely had five husbands due to tragedies, either death or being divorced or both.

Regardless, this woman’s story is so much more than those hypothesized implications. She engages Jesus in conversation, not just once but twice, around questions of theology. While she does not understand Jesus’s double entendre (“living water”; see below), she has great company in John’s Gospel. Everyone misunderstands Jesus, especially initially (2:19–22; 3:1–11; 4:31–34; 6:32–35, 51–52; 7:33–36; 8:21–22; 11:12). What she shows, beyond misunderstanding, is a desire for what Jesus offers (4:15), even if it makes her question her own faith and practice (4:19–20). When Jesus tells her something about her life that she has not told him (4:18), she uses the opportunity to quiz a prophet (4:19) about practices of worship and theology. Ultimately, she is a theologian and an evangelist, leading others to Jesus. That is her story.

What’s the story of Jacob’s well? 

The place that Jesus lingers, “tired out by his journey,” is repeatedly called “Jacob’s well” (4:5–6, 12). While there are many accounts of Jacob in Genesis, there is no story of a well belonging to him. Nevertheless, there are several stories about wells; they were the watering places of Israel’s first families in more ways than one. Abraham’s servant meets his master’s future daughter-in-law at a well (Genesis 24:10–61); Abraham’s grandson, the eponymous Jacob, meets his wife Rachel at a well, at noon (Genesis 29:1–20). Even Moses meets his wife at a well (Exodus 2:15–22). 

In all these stories, a man travels to a foreign land, meets a woman at a well, and they discuss water. Once water has been drawn, the woman leaves the well to tell her community about the man. Her community offers hospitality to the man, and the encounter concludes with their marriage. A well in a story was the equivalent to a modern romantic comedy’s meet-cute, where the two main leads encounter one another for the first time. Such scenes set up expectations for what is to come. 

This backstory makes sense of Jesus’s conversation with the woman about her marital status (4:16–18), as that is what people who knew this tradition would expect to happen when two people met at a well. It is also likely why the disciples objected to Jesus speaking to a woman (4:27), something that happens elsewhere in the Gospel without comment (11:1–44; 20:11–20). Of course, this narrative sets up the expectations of a marriage at this well, only to flout them; Jesus is the bridegroom (3:29), but not for a wedding here and now. 

Lastly, it matters for this “story” that Jacob’s well was, in fact, a well. That seems obvious, but it is essential for understanding how the Samaritan woman misunderstands Jesus’s offer. Jesus says that if she had known who was asking her for a drink, she would have requested “living water” from him (4:10). The underlying double entendre here is that the Greek word for “living” water also means “running” water—in other words, water from a river or stream, rather than well-water. Since a well can be poisoned or tainted, running water was understood to be safer and more valuable. But even with this misunderstanding, she still wants what this running (living) water does: It will forever quench her thirst, and that is what she desires (4:14–15).

What’s John’s story? 

Lastly, we encounter the Samaritan woman in the context of John’s Gospel, meaning that we, as John’s audience, meet her soon after Jesus has spoken one-on-one with another person—Nicodemus (John 3:1–10). Nicodemus and the Samaritan woman are opposites in many ways: They embody gender, class and status, and ethnic and religious differences. The setup for each encounter also differs: Nicodemus initiates the conversation with Jesus, while Jesus initiates the conversation with the Samaritan woman, and the former is at night (3:2) while the latter is at noon (4:6). 

After the conversation is initiated, however, the similarities stack up. Jesus responds to each of them by introducing a new topic that includes a word play (born again/from above; living/running water). Both misinterpret Jesus, and Jesus repeats his teaching and expounds on it. At that point, Nicodemus is confused and stops speaking (until we meet him again later in John’s Gospel: see 7:50–52; 19:39–42), while the Samaritan woman requests what Jesus offers despite continuing to interpret his offer differently.

In this way, Nicodemus and the Samaritan woman indicate how others will receive Jesus in the Gospel. Whether Jew or Samaritan, some will be curious but cautious, while others will be curious and will invite others into their curiosity. The commonality, though, is Jesus’s hospitality, revealing himself to those who seek him.  

The signature events in the book of Exodus are exodus and Sinai, respectively: crossing the sea, and covenanting with God at the mountain. Between these, literarily, lies the wilderness. The stories that Israel tells about this desolate, in-between place center on complaint. Three wilderness stories follow one another in quick succession, and the same Hebrew word begins them each: lîn, meaning to complain or grumble (Exodus 15:24; 16:2, 7; 17:3). The Israelites experience thirst in the first story, hunger in the second, and thirst again in the third. In all cases, they raise their voice against Moses, and he relays the heartache to the Lord. Across all three stories, the Lord then provides: turning bitter water into sweet water in the first story, sending manna in the second, and bringing water from the rock in the third.

The stories are thus quite similar to one another. They share another literary feature, namely, foreshadowing. They contain hints and anticipations of the great covenant-making moment that is narratively ahead of them. So, for instance, the first wilderness story includes a notice, “There the Lord made for them a statute and an ordinance” (Exodus 15:25b), and it holds out a condition, “If you will listen carefully to the voice of the Lord your God, and do what is right in his sight, and give heed to his commandments and keep all his statutes …” (Exodus 15:26). Such language is covenantal. It feels lifted directly from the book of Deuteronomy. 

The second wilderness story emphasizes Sabbath observance, which represents a key concern of the covenant revealed by God to Moses on the mountain (Exodus 20:8–9; 23:12; 31:12–17; 35:2–3). 

The third wilderness story refers to an important place-name. The Lord says to Moses: “I will be standing there in front of you on the rock at Horeb. Strike the rock, and water will come out of it, so that the people may drink” (Exodus 17:6). Horeb had not been mentioned in the book of Exodus since Moses’s encounter at the burning bush: “He led his flock beyond the wilderness and came to Mount Horeb” (Exodus 3:1b). Its next occurrence names the mountain of God, the site of the covenant (Exodus 33:6). 

In view of their similarities, the differences between the stories are crucial for interpreting them. One key difference concerns the Hebrew verb nāsāh, meaning to test. The first time this verb appears in the Bible is the story of the near-sacrifice of Isaac; God tested Abraham (Genesis 22:1). Its next appearance is in each of the three Exodus wilderness stories. In the opening story, the Lord tested Israel (Exodus 15:25), and so also in the second (16:4). But in the third story, the direction of testing is reversed. Moses names the place Massah, meaning Testing, and Meribah, meaning Quarrel, “because the Israelites quarreled and tested the Lord” (17:7b). This is the Bible’s first instance of humans putting God to the test.  

Another key difference is related; it pertains to the names that Moses gives to these thirsty places. The first wilderness story says that Moses “called its name Marah [meaning Bitter]” (15:23b). This name commemorates the opening challenge the Israelites faced: the problem of bitter water, about which they complained and which the Lord then resolved. By contrast, the third story says that Moses “called the name of the place Massah and Meribah” (17:7a). These names remember not the opening challenge but rather the Israelites’ response that followed. The text links their agitation to a deep theological question: “The Israelites quarreled and tested the Lord, saying, ‘Is the Lord among us or not?’” (17:7b). 

These differences—the direction of the testing and the object of commemoration—are sermonically suggestive. They present a third option beside the two common moves for Christian preaching of the wilderness texts. On the one hand, sermons on the wilderness can moralize, admonishing believers not to complain like the Israelites complained. On the other hand, sermons on the wilderness can evangelize, announcing the good news that in spite of distrust on the part of God’s people, God comes through with water, even water from the rock. 

These are both strong messages, to be sure, but the differences outlined above open another possibility, especially in consideration of the final verse questioning the Lord’s presence. These differences can activate preaching that invites discernment. In good Lenten fashion, they help us to take spiritual inventory.

For these stories narrate much the same scenario—thirst; and they relate much the same response—complaint. They furthermore show the Lord acting miraculously to quench that thirst. But only in the third and final wilderness story do the Israelites test the Lord. Only in the third story is the Lord’s presence raised as a question.

These observations mean that the same challenging experience can test our faithfulness toward God—or that through it, we can put God’s faithfulness to the test. Is our situation of deficit or crisis, our thirst, disclosing the character of our commitment to God? Is it ushering us, even painfully, toward a new dimension of trust? Toward a fresh conviction that God is a provider and a healer despite the circumstance of want? This was what happened in the first wilderness story: There, uniquely, in the final verse of the story, the Lord declares, “I am the Lord who heals you” (Exodus 15:26b). 

Or is our situation of lack or hardship, loss or crisis, causing us to find God himself lacking? Do we read the deficit in our circumstances back onto the divine character? Or do we wonder if God is simply absent? So, once again, the very ending of the third wilderness story: “Is the Lord among us or not?” (17:7b). 

God is able to sweeten bitter water and to bring water out of the hardest surface. But our own response to situations of thirst and lack, like the Israelites’, varies. Sometimes it generates new insight about ourselves and about God. Sometimes it occasions new fears and doubts. Which describes you? 

How odd it is to be hearing and singing Psalm 95 in the middle of Lent!¹

The “preacher” who composed the book of Ecclesiastes famously wrote that “for everything there is a season, a time for every matter under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). And just to be sure we understood, he added, “a time to weep, and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance” (3:4).

And this is Lent. The time when we literally silence the “alleluias” and suppress the calls to make a joyful noise.²

Psalm 95 is one of the so-called “enthronement psalms”—Psalms 47, 93, and 95–99. Unlike the so-called “royal psalms,” which focus on the work of the ancient Israelite kings, enthronement psalms celebrate the Lord’s cosmic reign. The feature that the enthronement psalms share is the exclamatory phrase “The Lord is king!” (Hebrew, YHWH malak; see Psalms 93:1; 96:10; 97:1; 99:1; and 47:8). Psalm 95 does not include that precise phrase, but does celebrate that “the Lord is a great God, and a great King above all gods” (95:3).

The term was coined by Sigmund Mowinckel in 1922.³ Mowinckel argued that Psalm 95 and the other enthronement psalms were composed for Israel’s major religious festival of the year: the autumn “harvest and new year festival.” Mowinckel argued that during this festival the “enthronement” of Yahweh was liturgically celebrated with the call, “Yahweh has become king” (his translation of YHWH malak), which he understood as being very similar to the Christian liturgical announcement at Easter, “Christ is risen!” “The situation envisaged in the poet’s imagination is Yahweh’s ascent to the throne and the acclamation of Yahweh as king; the psalm is meant as the psalm of praise which is to meet Yahweh on his ‘epiphany,’ his appearance as the new, victorious king. Hence the name: enthronement psalms.”⁴

Question: Why the brief history of interpretation?

Answer: To emphasize the celebratory, festival, Easter, epiphany nature of the psalm—and therefore the oddness of the psalm in Lent.

A little more background:

This psalm, along with Psalms 50 and 81, has also been classified by Psalms scholars as one of the great “festival psalms.” Meaning that these three psalms were likely composed for and used in the worship at one or more of the three main annual Israelite pilgrimage festivals: Passover, Weeks (Pentecost), and Booths (Sukkot, the fall harvest festival).

A Time for Reproof?

Following the opening call to worship and praise (verses 1–7c), the psalm switches to reproving, castigating language at verse 7d:

O that today you would listen to his voice!
Do not harden your hearts, as at Meribah,
as on the day at Massah in the wilderness,
when your ancestors tested me,
and put me to the proof, though they had seen my work.
For forty years I loathed that generation
and said, “They are a people whose hearts go astray,
and they do not regard my ways.”
Therefore in my anger I swore,
“They shall not enter my rest.”

In ancient Israel, the festival worship included moments that were both celebratory or joyous and castigating or penitential. In the modern, Christian liturgical year, we have separated these two moods into different seasons.

During Advent, we prepare for Christmas with a preparatory, hopeful focus. At Christmas, we celebrate the incarnation of God in human flesh.

During Lent, we prepare for Easter with a penitential, introspective tone. At Easter, we celebrate the resurrection of Christ.

We have separated that which is penitential and reproving from that which is joyful and celebratory. But in ancient Israel, these theological moves were united in the festival worship. This seems odd to us. Can you imagine Christmas Eve or Easter morning worship with a penitential, reproving sermon? Neither can I. A Christian pastor may want to reflect a bit on why our culture has separated theological moves that were once united.

Be that as it may, and given the Lenten season, a sermon on Psalm 95 should focus on the latter half of the psalm.

This part of the psalm pleads with the congregation to “listen” to God’s voice. The verb translated as “listen”—shamah—carries the sense of “obey.” This is not merely a hearing, but a hearing-and-obeying-without-arguing-back quality. Like when my parents would say, “LISTEN TO ME!” (They never said this to me. I was a perfect child. They only had to say this to my sisters and brother.)

Then the psalm appeals to history, reminding the Israelites of times when they tested or disobeyed the Lord. These events are brought up as negative examples—don’t be like our disobedient ancestors! That generation—the exodus generation, no less—had witnessed the great signs of the plagues, the delivery at the Sea, and the establishment of the covenant at Sinai. And still they grumbled against the Lord and tested him! For that reason, the exodus generation was not allowed to enter into the land. They wandered in the wilderness for 40 years (a full generation), and only their children were allowed into the land.

The psalm ends with the quotation of God’s judgment against the exodus generation.

God did not abandon the people. But God did exercise discipline of the people—disciplining them, punishing their transgressions—but not abrogating the covenant or extinguishing the relationship with the people.

The message here, in the Lenten season, is that God’s law in its first use remains in effect. Even as God recommits to the covenantal relationship, even as God remains committed to God’s people, God nevertheless calls the people to obedience. God is holy, and God calls the chosen people to holiness in response to God’s grace.

For everything there is a season. Lent is the time for this message of joy and reproof.

 Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website for March 23, 2014.
2. For the Lutherans in the audience, it is fun to point out that Luther was against the custom of silencing the alleluias: “In church we do not want to quench the spirit of the faithful with tedium. Nor is it proper to distinguish Lent, Holy Week, or Good Friday from other days, lest we seem to mock and ridicule Christ with half of a mass and the one part of the sacrament. For the Alleluia is the perpetual voice of the church, just as the memorial of His passion and victory is perpetual” (LW 53:24).
3. As with all things scholarly, there is some disagreement about exactly which psalms should be classified as enthronement psalms. Some exclude Psalm 95, and others exclude Psalm 98. But Mowinckel, the scholar who coined the term, included both—as I will do here. See Sigmund Mowinckel, The Psalms in Israel’s Worship, 2 vols., trans. D. R. Ap-Thomas (Abingdon, 1962), 1:106.
4. Ibid.

Paul’s pithy saying that “suffering produces endurance” (Romans 5:3) encapsulates the human intuition that suffering is meant to have a purpose. We could think of Paul’s verse as an anticipation of the contemporary “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” 

This English idiom finds its musical manifestation in Kelly Clarkson’s song “What Doesn’t Kill You,” released in 2007. This track achieved significant global acclaim, reaching the pinnacle of the Billboard Hot 100 for two consecutive weeks and securing top positions in several countries. The song’s melody is undeniably catchy, while its lyrics encapsulate a prevalent Western ethos centered on resilience and virtue. Furthermore, within queer culture, it has attained iconic status for its ability to succinctly articulate a fundamental aspect of LGBTQ+ existence: the capacity to endure and flourish despite social rejection.

The idea that adversity can foster character and virtue is undoubtedly not a modern invention; it has deep roots in ancient mythology. Greek myths richly illustrate the concept of the hero shaped by trials and tribulations. For instance, Hercules undertook 12 labors, each serving as a test of his physical prowess and mental strength. Similarly, Prometheus faced severe retribution for defying the gods in an effort to benefit humanity. His act of stealing fire embodies the enduring struggle and suffering that can ultimately pave the way for strength. Perhaps the most notable example is Odysseus, whose odyssey involves significant trials that foster growth through hardship and resilience.

The Hebrew Bible also presents numerous illustrations of this principle. We find a compelling example in the Aqedah (Genesis 22:1–19), where Abraham’s faith is tested through a seemingly illogical command. Through his internal conflict over sacrificing his son, Abraham emerges as a paragon of faith and fortitude. In a similar vein, the figure of Job epitomizes this principle. Once a prosperous man, Job faces profound suffering—losing his wealth, health, and family—but ultimately achieves a deeper understanding of and relationship with Yahweh through his trials.

Kelly Clarkson’s anthem closely resembles key cultural figures who exemplify this resilience. For instance, the character of Rocky Balboa from the movie “Rocky” (1976) illustrates the journey of an underdog boxer confronting both physical and emotional challenges. His relentless training and commitment reveal that hardship and pain are instrumental in building personal strength. 

Similarly, in “The Lion King” (1994), Simba faces significant adversity following his father’s death. His journey from living in exile to reclaiming his throne exemplifies personal growth stemming from trauma, highlighting broader themes of responsibility and resilience. Simba’s eventual return poignantly illustrates how confronting and overcoming adversity can fortify character and enhance leadership abilities, deeply resonating with the saying mentioned above.

Any reader familiar with feminist literary analysis will notice that many of the examples discussed are framed predominantly around male experiences. While there are indeed instances of female characters who achieve their strength through various challenges, the Western archetype of the (male) hero fundamentally relies on the notion that true strength is cultivated through adversity. This trend raises a pertinent question: Is there a distinctly Christ-centered interpretation of this principle? This question is crucial because it puts on the table the central Christian phenomenon: the crucifixion and resurrection. After all, if we center these two events, the saying shifts: “What does kill you makes you stronger.” 

Paul, likely addressing an audience facing some form of conflict, captures their attention by pointing out that rejoicing in sufferings and tribulations (5:3) leads to endurance or perseverance. So far, so good. However, Paul’s argument goes further in explaining suffering and perseverance. If suffering produces endurance, then endurance shapes character: If it doesn’t kill you, your character will be strengthened.

Paul further argues that the strength gained from perseverance fosters hope. This introduces a new perspective on the connection between suffering and resilience. It’s common to notice a sense of cynicism in those who face many challenges, as if they no longer anticipate much from life. In fact, there is a hidden cynicism in the saying “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” because it implies that everything that happens has a negative side: It will either kill you or make you stronger, and both outcomes stem from an adverse event. 

But if, as Paul suggests, such perseverance yields hope, there is no room for cynicism in the Christian imagination: Suffering creates resilience, and this dynamic drives the believer into a cycle of hope. 

For Paul, hope is not human-made but a gift of the Spirit (5:5) that has been manifested in the fact that Christ died for us (5:8). Later, Paul makes a simple but profound pronouncement on hope: “We were saved in hope. Now, hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen?” (8:24). Paul is undoubtedly correct that hope, very much like faith, is, by definition, not empirical. However, if we follow his rationale in this passage, hope is not an illusion either, as it is cemented by the character and virtue that arise from suffering. 

Ultimately, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger” both captures and misrepresents Paul’s ultimate anthropological argument. In Romans 5:3, since “suffering yields endurance,” Paul would seem to endorse the philosophy behind the contemporary saying. However, since Paul argues that hope is the goal and the origin of the ensuing strength, his rhetoric divests itself from the implied cynicism that characterizes Kelly Clarkson’s hit.