An Empty Water Jug at the Well

When I was in college seminary in New Jersey, I spent summers on staff at an all-boys Catholic sleep-over camp in the rolling hills of Sussex County. The order of religious sisters ran a camp for girls down the road. And at least twice each season, kids would get together from both camps for a bonfire, devour gobs and gobs of sugar, and put on some family-style entertainment. Young people from north and central New Jersey, New York City, Long Island, and the surrounding area were dropped off by their parents at summer camp in the country to learn archery, ride horses, go canoeing, weave some lanyard, and unleash their inner Tarzan. City kids learned the finer points of navigating the perils of life without TV, parents, or free time. The days were usually spent in vigorous physical activity. They were supposed to shower daily and make their beds, and some managed to stay clean for a while. Most learned to eat whatever the cafeteria served with minimal complaints, and that camp counselors get irritable when they don’t get their sleep. Some of the really shy kids would slowly come out of their shells, while the socially challenged learned some valuable interpersonal skills. And every single camper spent more time in church than they ever did all year.

What was always so amazing was how each child would arrive neat and clean and orderly. His every possession, every article of clothing, even contents of his tackle box, was properly tagged and inventoried. He had money in his canteen account, stationery and stamps for writing home periodically, a new toothbrush and several clean pairs of socks and underwear. A few would be slightly homesick, one or two reluctant to participate in activities at first, and the occasional juvenile delinquent who displayed unruly or disruptive behavior. But a transformation would take place at some point during his stay. And by the time the child went home, whether after a week or six, he shot up a few inches, made some new friends, learned the value of deodorant, and with some luck earned some ribbons and certificates to prove to his parents he had a great time. After summer camp ended, there would always be a pile of unclaimed clothes, broken fishing rods, pairs of dirty sneakers, and postcards that never got sent. And every summer, moms and dads would continue to drag their sons to camp hoping for some magical transformation, but rarely that which actually does take place.

The woman at the well in the gospel story reminded me of those summers I spent as a camp counselor. She came to the well in the middle of the day with an empty water jug and a specific outcome in mind: to draw water for use around the house. Yet after all was said and done, the water jug never made it back home, the specific outcome she had in mind overtaken by a most powerful and profoundly life-altering experience, and a gift of life-giving water in abundance for the thirst she never knew she even had. The pattern fits many of our daily experiences. We go to school to learn math and science and history. Without knowing it, we also learn honesty, fairness, and perseverance. We go to work thinking we might accomplish something useful, or at least put in a day’s worth of work to justify our pay. Without knowing it, we grow in maturity, responsibility, and faithfulness. We go to church to sing and pray and listen to God’s Word. Without knowing it, we also gain confidence in God’s love for us, strength to fight against temptation, and a better appreciation of our life as community. Like the woman at the well, we come with an empty jug, a plan, and a handful of hopes for the immediate future. But if we open our hearts and minds to the possibility that God might actually want to accomplish something too, we might get more than we hoped.

This Lenten season, I had a couple of things in mind to accomplish, some new habits to instill, some recurring faults to work on, some early successes to tweak, nothing earth-shattering, but generally positive goals to keep the season memorable. I look at it all like the empty water jug I carry to the well. There I hope to meet a stranger who asks me for a drink, making me think it is I who offers him something worthwhile. And when he stirs in me a thirst I never knew I had, offers me life-giving water to quench that thirst, I am no longer concerned with my empty water jug. In fact, my Lenten season will be less about what I want to accomplish then, because what I will have received is worth more than whatever I had planned to achieve.

So if the stranger at the well has some other plan anyway, what’s the point of bringing an empty water jug, we might ask? The empty water jug is simple evidence that I recognize my own thirst. I come to the well because my prayer life can be more vibrant, because I need more patience, because I waste too much time and money and opportunity. I come to the well because I thirst for meaning and insight and a deeper communion with God’s people. I come to the well because God calls and I recognize his voice and my journey is nowhere near done. The empty water jug is a marker that I have been at the well seeking to quench my thirst. And when I do not come back for it, I hope it is because I have found life-giving water, and have gone off to proclaim to all what I have found, that they too might come to the well, meet the stranger, and quench their thirst. And if I do not meet the stranger this time, I will at least have an empty water jug to fill, so I can return home. I know I will thirst again. Maybe next time will be better. But until my water jug is empty, I will not feel the need to visit the well. Until I recognize my own thirst, I will not seek to quench it. Jesus offers us life-giving water today. Come to him, drink of his life, return to your life refreshed, renewed, and forever transformed. And go tell the whole world about it.