Sermon by Rev. Russell Daye
St. Andrew's United Church, Halifax

The Woman with Five Husbands

Exodus 17:1 - 7; John 4:5-30, 39a

Let me take you to first century Samaria, to a well where a remarkable Samaritan woman has come to draw water. She has come not early in the morning as is the custom. She has come not with other women to catch up on the news, as is the custom. She has come not in the cool of dawn or of evening but at noon, when her labours must be carried out under the hot sun. She is a lonely and isolated figure, perhaps scorned by other women, who labours alone.

This is a remarkable woman! She has had five husbands. How can this be? Is she a murderess? Is she the world's worst cook? Is she the Elizabeth Taylor of Samaria? Does she have incredibly bad fortune? Actually, it was common for residents of the near East to have multiple spouses in the first century - because everyone had bad fortune. They were unfortunate enough to be born in a time when medical treatment was primitive, when nutrition was abysmal, when armies marched back and forth, using Palestine as their battlefield. Many people were widowed multiple times.

But still, this is a remarkable woman! She has lost five husbands, perhaps some to divorce and others to death. In any case, she has a tough life. In that society, women were absolutely dependent upon men for their economic life and social standing. Females were owned by a father until the age of 14 or so and then ownership was passed through marriage - arranged between families for economic purposes, usually without the girl's consent - to a husband. If that husband died, or divorce the woman by simply saying three times 'I divorce you; I divorce you; I divorce you' then the woman fell outside of the social network of care and concern. Now, if the abandoned woman were young and strong and comely she might stand a good chance of remarrying, but by the time she had lost her fifth husband she would really be between a rock and a hard place, perhaps too old to even to make a miserable living as a prostitute. Our woman seems to be attached to a man who will not even marry her.

But our woman is a remarkable woman! Her abysmal luck has not driven the moxie out of her. She comes to the well and there encounters a stranger, a Jew even, a member of the people with whom Samaritans share mutual hatred. And this Jew says to her gruffly 'give me a drink.' Instead of running away for fear of being seen alone with a strange man, instead of quickly fulfilling his demand and fleeing before someone can reprimand her for conversing with a Jew, she stands before him and demands 'How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?' They then engage in a kind of peculiar and riddle-filled conversation that could be scripted only by John or Zen masters:

"If you knew who it is that is saying to you, 'Give me a drink,' you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water."

"Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob?"

"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."

And then they wander into a conversation about history and faith and prophecy that reminds me of a discussion I once witnessed when a bunch of theological students broke into the stash of communion wine.

This is a remarkable woman! And now she has met a remarkable man and they are having a remarkable conversation. Not only is a Samaritan conversing with a Jew about the very things that divide them, not only is a man conversing with a strange woman, but he is offering to fetch her a drink (unheard of!) - and of a special water that will refresh forever. One could go on at great length about the intricacies and anomalies of their exchange but I will cut to the chase.

Somehow, this conversation transforms a woman and a man and then a whole community. Our woman is transformed and runs back into the city - where she is no prominent citizen! - calling out for the people to come see a man who is at least a prophet and at best the Messiah. Our man, Jesus, is transformed such that he now has a ministry that extends beyond the Jews to the very objects of their scorn: the Samaritans. And the people of the city are so quickly and dramatically changed that they find themselves following the call of a woman of the very lowest social standing and being transformed by the teachings of their enemy, a Jew.

Is this not a remarkable moment? Is this not an instance of the kingdom of heaven breaking into the midst of the people? Can you not feel the waters of life pouring into the lives of these people through the very rivalries and prejudices that divide them? What a baptism! Oh, there have been times when I thirsted for just such an outpouring of the waters of life, when I yearned for such an inundation, for such a cleansing. Indeed, this longing has been with me lately.

Lately, I've had a smell caught in my nostrils. It's a familiar smell, but not a pleasant one. It's a smell that arises in the presence of a particular social dynamic: I get a distinct and insistent smell stuck in my nose when I am in a context of inequality and exploitation, when I am trying to understand what is going on, but I'm having a hard time of it because I belong to the group that benefits from the exploitation. This smell lingered in my nose during my summer with the Micmac at burnt church. It came and went and came again during my three years living in Fiji with indigenous people and the descendents of slaves brought from India. Since returning to Nova Scotia, the smell has wafted up again and again in response to encounters between women and men.

When I look at relations between women and men here, especially power dynamics, I see contradictory things. On the one hand I see that men have most of the senior jobs. I read that, as elsewhere, women get paid less for the same work and that the percentage of female CEOs is going down. I see that few women get senior minister positions in our churches, and the ones who do often suffer from inordinate scrutiny. I see that at social functions, including church ones, perhaps especially church ones, women serve men much more than the reverse. I am stunned occasionally by the little sexist remarks and jokes that we men feel to offer. I hear exclusive language creeping back into our churches. I rage when my wife is courted for a civil service job and then cast from consideration because she spent the last five years as a stay-at-home-mother.

On the other hand, I see powerful women holding sway almost everywhere I cast my gaze. Just look at St. Andrew's. When Saint Betty or Saint Esther speak, we listen. When I survey our congregation, I see women who lead government agencies, thrive as entrepreneurs, direct key service organisations and foundations, and excel as doctors, professors, and university administrators. But still the smell lingers. It includes the scent of paradox - but also of injustice, of oppression, and especially of misunderstanding.

The scent in my nose has become especially strong since the death of a remarkable woman here in Halifax three weeks ago. Rev. Dr. Shelley Finson was a remarkable woman: a prophet, a preacher, a pastor, a teacher, a fearless advocate for the battered and belittled. Shelley Finson, despite being from a generation of women who had to struggle and fight for every inch of leadership ground gained, despite being denied jobs because of her sexual orientation, made a great difference in the lives of many and helped change the very nature of ministry in our church. She was perhaps the best moderator we never had (a sad commentary in itself).

Even Shelley's death was a prophetic moment. It has sent waves of awareness through the church, calling on women to pick up the mantle and reminding all of us that much injustice remains. With your permission, I would like to speak personally for a moment, for I don't know any other way to cover this terrain. When the waves of awareness spread from Shelley's funeral service, with powerful remembrance and truth-telling by strong women, they struck me and that peculiar little smell gained strength in my nose. It led me to ask - in a way I hadn't for a long time - 'am I a part of the solution or a part of the problem?' When I was a young and relatively powerless minister I was clearly in solidarity with women leaders of the church. Now that I am in a position with more sway, now that I have something to lose, yes even power, am I still in solidarity? Or have I become a cog in the system that pushes women to the edges? Have I been absorbed by patriarchy?

Shelley Finson was a remarkable woman. Like the woman at the well, she had an extraordinary conversation with Jesus (Shelley's lasted decades). Like the woman at the well, she was transformed in dialogue with Jesus and Jesus was transformed in dialogue with her. Like the woman at the well, she called whole communities to conversion. Like the woman at the well, she was listened to. I need to change something here. I need to switch into the present tense. Shelley Finson is a remarkable woman, having a remarkable conversation with Jesus, for the conversation goes on with those who have picked up her mantle. I invite you to be drawn into that conversation. I invite you, even those of you who never met her. I invite you to hear her call to conversion. I invite you to ask yourself, 'am I a part of the solution or a part of the problem?' I invite this church to ask itself, 'are we a part of the solution, or a part of the problem?' I invite you to go to your homes and your workplaces and watch the power dynamics of gender and to ask yourself, 'am I a part of the solution or a part of the problem?'

I am asking myself this question these days; I don't have a quick answer. I wish I did, for that darn smell might leave my nose and leave me alone! But it won't, and so I'm inviting you to share it. I am inviting you into conversation, into conversation with Shelley and with Jesus, into a conversation that just might - no, that will! - convert this community.