Water

​Every glass of water a waiter pours for you, every tear you shed, every time you wash your hands God meets you, reminding you of your belovedness. This is the holy work of water. 

My dog and I were out walking the other day in the hot sun when I decided to cut across the property of a church nearby, so we’d be in the shade.

We were at least halfway across the lawn when the sprinklers opened up like a summer storm. And suddenly Cali and I were drenched to the bone.
 
This unexpected shower was both shocking and refreshing.

​Now, don’t think the irony was lost on me.  Standing on holy ground and God surprising us with a shower of love. And a baptism of grace.

Today, as we continue step through the sacred rhythms of creation as outlined in the 8 Moves program, we find ourselves at the water’s edge in Genesis—ready to meet God and reflect on who we are in this great story.

​And that’s what it is. A story. It’s not science book or a linear timetable. It’s just a way to tell the story about God, who brings life to life.

 And God said, “Let there be a vault between the waters to separate water from water.” So God made the vault and separated the water under the vault from the water above it. And it was so. God called the vault “sky.” And there was evening, and there was morning—the second day. And God said, “Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place, and let dry ground appear.” And it was so. God called the dry ground “land,” and the gathered waters he called “seas.” And God saw that it was good.
​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​        ​Genesis 1:6–10

erScripture begins with the Spirit of God sweeping over the waters. No land, no sky—just deep, swirling mystery stirring with the promise of something new.

God speaks and there is light. And then God speaks again, and the waters begin to gather. Dry land appears. Space opens for life to emerge. And there is sky and earth.
 
Now here’s something I find interesting. In Hebrew scripture, water is never just water.  In fact, the word used for “deep waters”--tehom—also means chaos.

Like Noah’s flood or the crossing of the Red Sea, water keeps showing up - wildly and recklessly as both death and renewal.
 
And we’ve recently seen this paradox play out in real life. In Texas and North Carolina where unexpected floods swallowed neighborhoods, families, and dreams.  Water gives life—and takes it. It both quenches—and overwhelms. It blesses and disrupts.
 
But here, in the beginning, it appears so quietly it almost goes unnoticed. Then God speaks, and amazing happens.
 
The early rabbis spoke of water as the “womb of creation”—the place where life first began. And modern science, in its own way, agrees. Life emerged in water. Which means each one of us carries a part of that first ocean within us. Before we ever take our first breath, we spend months floating in a sacred space filled with…water.
 
It’s shouldn’t surprise us then, that Jesus begins his ministry—at the water’s edge. His baptism becomes a retelling of the Genesis story.

As he steps into the Jordan, the waters of chaos beneath him, the heavens open above, and the Holy Spirit hovers over the water like a dove. Then God speaks—declaring Jesus “the Beloved.”
 
In her book An Altar in the World, Barbara Brown Taylor writes, “Water holds everything together: your body, the planet, the cells of every living thing. It baptizes you every time you drink it, bathe in it, or weep.”  

This brief paraphrase of her work reminds us that every time we get wet, we are met with God’s presence. Let that soak in.

​Every glass of water a waiter pours for you, every tear you shed, every time you wash your hands God meets you, reminding you of your belovedness. This is the holy work of water.
 
Perhaps that’s why St. Gregory of Nyssa described the baptismal font as “an abundant fountain of divine life, quenching every thirst.”

Or why the Gospels are full of stories about Jesus and water. He turns it into wine, calms it during storms, uses it to wash tired feet, offers it to the thirsty, and even bleeds it from the cross.
 
There’s a story in John’s Gospel where Jesus meets a woman at a well —a woman who knows deep spiritual thirst. She’s been through heartbreak, shame, and isolation. And has no right to speak to, muchless argue with, a holy man like Jesus. But instead of condemning her, or shaming her further, Jesus invites her: “Come, drink.”
 
He offers her, and us, a promise: “Whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst.” Jesus tells us, the water he gives becomes “a spring of water welling up to eternal life”  (John 4:13–14).

Just as it was in the beginning, Jesus invites us into a new kind of life. A life where our chaos is finally met by something holy. And transformed into something everlasting. Jesus invites us into the divine flow of God’s grace. There’s no magic words or preconditions needed. If you’re thirsty—come, drink.
 
How does this invitation speak to the space you're in? Do you find yourself thirsting for something more than the world can promise? Maybe you’re experiencing a dry season—emotionally, spiritually, or creatively.
 
But let me ask you this: What if that longing wasn’t a dark, hollow void, but a time of preparation? A space between what was and what can be, where something beautiful and sacred is waiting to emerge.
 
Picture the Atacama Desert in Chile; one of the driest places on Earth. Beneath its cracked, barren surface lie dormant seeds of all kinds of wildflowers. Each one waiting for rain. And when it finally comes, the entire landscape is transformed blooming wildly in brilliant color. What seemed empty and lifeless wasn’t at all—it was simply waiting for its hidden beauty to be revealed. (McWherter)

I think that’s how it is with us. But unfortunately, we’re impatient most of the time. We don’t like doing the hard work of waiting.
 
Abba Moses, one of the most well-known desert fathers, often compared one’s spiritual journey to digging a well in dry land. This journey of understanding and discovery that we are on takes patience, steady work. And the willingness to dig through the hard ground of the heart to find the sacred water within.
 
Most of us, however, are only skimming the surface when God’s calling us to dig deeper, past the noise, down to that sacred space where living water flows.

This echoes what the great Spanish mystic, St. Teresa of Ávila, taught. She believed each of us carries a deep wellspring within that must be drawn from daily; with prayer and acts of love.
 
At the end of the day, we don’t just drink the water Jesus offers—we are to become living water… a source of refreshment for others. That’s our calling— to become water people. A community soaked in love and service where others can draw freely from a deep well of grace. A space that surprises and refreshes like church sprinklers on a hot, summer morning.
 
But here’s the thing, a sprinkler system doesn’t work if the water is shut off. Likewise, we can’t pour water from an empty cup. We can’t offer mercy to others if we haven’t learned to receive it ourselves. Jesus is making us an offer, but we have to make the choice to accept or not.
 
Jesus tells us, “Whoever believes in me, rivers of living water will flow from within them.” (John 7:38)

This isn’t an insurance policy, it’s a calling. Our ministry starts at the well, drawing from his water before we can share it with others. To follow the way of Jesus means allowing God’s Spirit to flow freely and wildly through us.
 
In Proverbs it’s written, “The purposes in a person’s heart are like deep waters, but the one with insight will draw them out” (Proverbs 20:5).

Wisdom means going deeper—naming the currents beneath our lives and letting God redirect them toward love. Jesus teaches us that love is the current which moves the flow of grace towards our neighbors, our enemies, the strangers in our land.
 
I’ve told the story before of when Colleen was little and noticed a day laborer digging a trench outside in the sweltering summer heat. Without overthinking it, they went inside, grabbed two bottles of water, a cup of ice, and brought it to him. Thirst meeting thirst. Love sharing love.
 
This is how we build a community of love together in the space between. And how we are to follow Jesus who welcomes us saying, “Come, you that are blessed, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; ... I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink” (Matthew 25:34-35).
 
There’s a wellspring in everything God has made—in you, in me. In us and them. In the calm and the chaos. This water has a name: Christ the divine flow of all that is sacred and holy which God has soaked into everything.

Just as it was at the beginning of this story, God’s Spirit still hovers over us; drawing out our hidden divinity from our humanity and sending us to quench the thirst of the world longing to bloom.
 
This week, I invite you to dig deep into that well. With every glass of water you drink whisper, “Satisfy my thirst, O God.” Let each sip remind you of the grace that flows in you.
 
When you turn on the faucet to splash water on your face, let it remind you to be the flow of God’s love that surprises others with unexpected joy.
 
When your heart starts to harden—toward neighbors, strangers, even yourself—stop and pray, “Lord, let your mercy flow instead.”
 
In the end, it’s not about being thirsty. It’s about learning where to bring our thirst. And becoming people who help others do the same.
 
As we leave here today, let’s go with open hearts and open hands, to allow God’s love and grace flow through us like a wild and powerful river.
 
Where weary souls are refreshed. The thirsty are welcomed. And every heart blooms like wildflowers after a rain.

Work Cited
Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith (New York: HarperOne, 2009), 137.
Glen McWherter, 8 Moves, accessed July 13, 2025, https://8moves.com.
St. Gregory of Nyssa, On the Baptism of Christ, in Select Writings and Letters, trans. and ed. Philip Schaff and Henry Wace, Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 5 (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1999), 519.