In the Gospel of this third Sunday of Lent, Jesus meets the Samaritan woman at the well of Sychar. Friar Luciano Audisio, biblical scholar and Secretary General of the Order of Augustinian Recollects, invites us to contemplate this dialogue as a spiritual journey that reveals the deepest thirst of the human heart and God’s desire to meet us precisely where our wounds are.
The well: a place of descent and of life
The Gospel of this third Sunday of Lent leads us to a deeply symbolic place: a well. And this is no minor detail. In the spiritual grammar of humanity, the well is a space fraught with paradoxes: it is depth, it is descent, almost an image of a tomb; but at the same time, it is a source of life, because from it flows the water indispensable for survival. Where there seems to be death, life can be born.
It is no coincidence that the account is found in chapter 4 of the Gospel of John, the Gospel that most deeply develops the Paschal mystery as a passage from death to life. Beside the well, Easter already begins to appear.
To get from Galilee to Jerusalem, Jesus could have taken alternative routes and avoided Samaria. But He does not. He decides to pass through it. And this is deeply revealing: the Lord does not bypass our wounds, He does not avoid our dark areas, He does not skirt around our shames. He passes through them.
Samaria represents that “cursed land” that we all carry within: the part of our history that we would prefer to hide, the wrong decisions, the broken relationships, the disappointments that weigh us down. And it is precisely there where Jesus wants to pass.
The evangelist shows Him to us weary, sitting by the well. The Son of God, fatigued. He who is the source of life, thirsty. This detail is moving: God does not save us from afar, but by sharing in our fragility. He who will later say on the cross “I thirst,” begins here by asking: “Give me a drink” (δός μοι πεῖν).
The thirst of the human heart
And then the woman appears. She goes to the well at noon, the hottest hour, probably to avoid meeting anyone. Her story is marked by breakups: five husbands, and the man she lives with is not her husband. Beyond any moral judgment, the text hints at an affectively wounded life, a constant search for love that has failed to quench her thirst.
She comes for water. But in reality, she comes for something deeper: she comes for life. Because water in Scripture symbolizes the desire, the longing, the eros that dwells in the human heart. All of us, in some way, are that woman. We go every day to our wells—work, relationships, projects—trying to quench a thirst that reappears.
The dialogue begins with distrust, almost like a confrontation. But gradually, something changes. She perceives that this man is not “just another one.” He does not use her, He does not condemn her, He does not humiliate her. He looks at her. He knows her. And yet, He remains.
The evangelist introduces a profound symbolism: if she has had five husbands and now lives with a sixth man, Jesus appears as the seventh. In the biblical tradition, seven is the number of fullness. He is the definitive man, the true husband, the one who does not wound or abandon, but restores.
The well, which in the Bible is a place of betrothals, becomes here the setting for a new covenant. The baptismal background of the text is evident: Lent, since the early centuries, was the time of preparation for catechumens for baptism. And baptism is, at its core, a spiritual marriage, a transformative covenant between Christ and our humanity.
Throughout the dialogue, the woman undergoes a journey of faith. First, she sees Jesus as a Jew. Then she recognizes Him as someone greater than inherited traditions. Later, she calls Him a prophet. Finally, she reaches the full confession: “the Savior of the world” (ὁ σωτὴρ τοῦ κόσμου).
Such is faith: a progressive recognition. No one passes from ignorance to fullness in an instant. It is a journey. And Lent is precisely that: an itinerary of enlightenment, a letting Christ reveal to us who He is and, at the same time, who we are.
From the wound to the mission
There is one final detail we cannot overlook: the woman leaves her water jar. The jar represents her old way of seeking water, her former way of living. When she finds the true source, she no longer needs to carry it.
And she runs to the town. The isolated woman becomes a missionary. The wound is transformed into a proclaimer.
Where there seemed to be affective sterility and failure, an unexpected fruitfulness springs forth. From the place of death, life arises.
This Gospel invites us to ask ourselves: Where is our Samaria? Where is our well? For what do we thirst? Christ awaits us precisely there. Not in perfection, but in the wound. Not in self-sufficiency, but in need.
If today we allow Him to say to us “give me a drink,” if we accept to dialogue with Him without masks, we will discover that our deepest thirst is not a problem, but the starting point of a new relationship. And then, like the Samaritan woman, we too will be able to leave the jar behind and announce that we have found the one who gives the water that wells up to eternal life.
Give me a drink: when God thirsts for us
In the Gospel of this third Sunday of Lent, Jesus meets the Samaritan woman at the well of Sychar. Friar Luciano Audisio, biblical scholar and Secretary General of the Order of Augustinian Recollects, invites us to contemplate this dialogue as a spiritual journey that reveals the deepest thirst of the human heart and God’s desire to meet us precisely where our wounds are.
The well: a place of descent and of life
The Gospel of this third Sunday of Lent leads us to a deeply symbolic place: a well. And this is no minor detail. In the spiritual grammar of humanity, the well is a space fraught with paradoxes: it is depth, it is descent, almost an image of a tomb; but at the same time, it is a source of life, because from it flows the water indispensable for survival. Where there seems to be death, life can be born.
It is no coincidence that the account is found in chapter 4 of the Gospel of John, the Gospel that most deeply develops the Paschal mystery as a passage from death to life. Beside the well, Easter already begins to appear.
To get from Galilee to Jerusalem, Jesus could have taken alternative routes and avoided Samaria. But He does not. He decides to pass through it. And this is deeply revealing: the Lord does not bypass our wounds, He does not avoid our dark areas, He does not skirt around our shames. He passes through them.
Samaria represents that “cursed land” that we all carry within: the part of our history that we would prefer to hide, the wrong decisions, the broken relationships, the disappointments that weigh us down. And it is precisely there where Jesus wants to pass.
The evangelist shows Him to us weary, sitting by the well. The Son of God, fatigued. He who is the source of life, thirsty. This detail is moving: God does not save us from afar, but by sharing in our fragility. He who will later say on the cross “I thirst,” begins here by asking: “Give me a drink” (δός μοι πεῖν).
The thirst of the human heart
And then the woman appears. She goes to the well at noon, the hottest hour, probably to avoid meeting anyone. Her story is marked by breakups: five husbands, and the man she lives with is not her husband. Beyond any moral judgment, the text hints at an affectively wounded life, a constant search for love that has failed to quench her thirst.
She comes for water. But in reality, she comes for something deeper: she comes for life. Because water in Scripture symbolizes the desire, the longing, the eros that dwells in the human heart. All of us, in some way, are that woman. We go every day to our wells—work, relationships, projects—trying to quench a thirst that reappears.
The dialogue begins with distrust, almost like a confrontation. But gradually, something changes. She perceives that this man is not “just another one.” He does not use her, He does not condemn her, He does not humiliate her. He looks at her. He knows her. And yet, He remains.
The evangelist introduces a profound symbolism: if she has had five husbands and now lives with a sixth man, Jesus appears as the seventh. In the biblical tradition, seven is the number of fullness. He is the definitive man, the true husband, the one who does not wound or abandon, but restores.
The well, which in the Bible is a place of betrothals, becomes here the setting for a new covenant. The baptismal background of the text is evident: Lent, since the early centuries, was the time of preparation for catechumens for baptism. And baptism is, at its core, a spiritual marriage, a transformative covenant between Christ and our humanity.
Throughout the dialogue, the woman undergoes a journey of faith. First, she sees Jesus as a Jew. Then she recognizes Him as someone greater than inherited traditions. Later, she calls Him a prophet. Finally, she reaches the full confession: “the Savior of the world” (ὁ σωτὴρ τοῦ κόσμου).
Such is faith: a progressive recognition. No one passes from ignorance to fullness in an instant. It is a journey. And Lent is precisely that: an itinerary of enlightenment, a letting Christ reveal to us who He is and, at the same time, who we are.
From the wound to the mission
There is one final detail we cannot overlook: the woman leaves her water jar. The jar represents her old way of seeking water, her former way of living. When she finds the true source, she no longer needs to carry it.
And she runs to the town. The isolated woman becomes a missionary. The wound is transformed into a proclaimer.
Where there seemed to be affective sterility and failure, an unexpected fruitfulness springs forth. From the place of death, life arises.
This Gospel invites us to ask ourselves: Where is our Samaria? Where is our well? For what do we thirst? Christ awaits us precisely there. Not in perfection, but in the wound. Not in self-sufficiency, but in need.
If today we allow Him to say to us “give me a drink,” if we accept to dialogue with Him without masks, we will discover that our deepest thirst is not a problem, but the starting point of a new relationship. And then, like the Samaritan woman, we too will be able to leave the jar behind and announce that we have found the one who gives the water that wells up to eternal life.
Related posts
Give me a drink: when God thirsts for us
Educating in Beauty: Why Contemplation and Wonder are Key in Education
The Transfiguration: the light born of self-giving
Suscribe to our newsletter