12.14.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

Introduction to Isaiah 55:1–13

Last week, we heard Ezekiel speak to a people in exile, standing in the ruins of what once was, and daring to imagine life where there had been only loss.

Today, Isaiah addresses that same displaced community, still living far from home, still unsure whether return and restoration are truly possible.

It is important to realize that these words are spoken - not after everything has been resolved, but while the people are still in exile, still scattered and in many ways, shattered.

Listen now for the word of God as it comes to us through the prophet Isaiah.

Introduction to John 4:13–14

As we read these stories through the lens of the Gospel of John, we encounter a Samaria woman at a well, an ordinary location that becomes the setting for an unexpected conversation.

This brief portion comes from the middle of that encounter, grounded in the daily rhythms of life and shaped by long-standing boundaries that frame the scene.

Listen now for the word of God as it comes to us through the Gospel according to John.

Sermon: The Grace We Are Seeking

Isaiah’s words sound lyrical because they are.

This section of Isaiah is part of a larger song or poem.
I have been wondering if perhaps we could call it a psalm of Isaiah.

It opens and closes with proclamations of redemption.
With release.
With the promise that something has been paid, something has been set right.

This song of redemption, points not to a vague spiritual idea, but to something more concrete.
Redemption is the paying of a debt.
To be redeemed is to have what binds you released.
To have access restored.
To be freed from what kept life out of reach.

But this song is sung not in a moment of triumph,

but to a people in exile.

Isaiah is addressing people whose city has been destroyed, whose temple is gone, whose lives have been upended.

They are far from home, living under systems they did not choose, learning how to survive in a world shaped by scarcity and loss.

And into that reality, Isaiah does not offer modest hope.
He does not say “One Day, Every Little Thing Is Gonna Be Ok”

Isaiah sings about abundance right now.

“Come, all you who are thirsty.”
“Come to the waters.”
“Come without money and without price.”

He is using redemption language.
Debt language.

Presbyterians are one of the few traditions who have prayed the Lord’s Prayer asking for debts to be forgiven, not just sins or trespasses.

That choice reminds us that redemption has economic undertones,
even when it is not about the U.S. dollar, or any nation’s currency.

Of course, sometimes, it is about actual money too!

But we pray collectively for the forgiveness of debts because we know that brokenness and sin are not only personal.
They are structural.

As we ask for our own debts to be forgiven,

We also ask for forgiveness for the ways we exploit others,
for the systems we benefit from,
for the ways we participate in scarcity rather than abundance.

And we remember that these things are connected.

Forgive us our debts, as we forgiven those who are indebted to us!


Isaiah’s song imagines a people no longer defined by what they owe, what they lack, or what they cannot access.

It imagines a world reordered by grace and abundance.

Isaiahs song reminded the original hearers. And us. 

That even in the midst of scarcity.
Even in the midst of crushing debts for some and huge profits for others.
Even in the midst of chaos and devastation,
God has not stopped imagining a world ordered by grace and abundance.

There is a game my kids like to play sometimes.
As I move through the house, folding laundry or starting dinner or heading toward the next task, they quietly sneak up behind me.
They fall in step just a pace or two back.
They follow me from room to room without saying a word.

So I keep going, assuming I’m on my own.

And then I turn around suddenly and there they are, right behind me.
Close enough to startle me.
Close enough that it’s clear they’ve been there for a while.

Sometimes my experience of God is like that.

I’m going about my day, managing responsibilities, dealing with what’s in front of me, trying to meet the basic demands of life.
Maybe I remember to pray.
Maybe I don’t.
Maybe I’m seeking God.
Maybe I’m just trying to get through the day.

And then I realize God is here.
Now.
Already.

Isaiah’s song, and the gospel story we heard today, both tell us that God does not wait for ideal conditions.
God does not wait for us to be spiritually focused or even actively searching for God.

God shows up in exile.

God shows up among people who are scattered and shattered.
God shows up in ordinary days.
God shows up right behind us, beside us, even when we assume we are on our own.

Which brings us to a Samaritan woman at a well - not looking for God, but just looking for water.
She is seeking access to something basic.
Ordinary.
Necessary.
She is meeting the demands of daily life.

And Jesus is already there.

Even for the Samaritan woman.

Samaritans, of course, were not friends of the Jews.

Samaria was the capital of the northern kingdom of Israel. But when the Assyrians conquered that land, the Jews living there began to intermingle with the Assyrians and so the Jews of the southern kingdom (Judah) began to see them as a watered down, corrupted version of the true kingdom...

The division was about race, and culture, and politics, and religion, and economics… because of course it was.

John’s Gospel is pointing out that Jesus is not just for who we think is the in-group and God’s plan for redemption of the world is not just for some in-group in our day either.

God shows up even for those we might think undeserving.
Even for those not looking for more.
Even for those whose hopes have narrowed to just survival.

Jesus does not shame this woman’s ordinary hunger. Bodies still need water.
Lives still require food, shelter, care.
God is not offended by basic need.

But Jesus offers more than she could reasonably think to ask for.

“Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again,” he says, “but those who drink the water that I will give will never thirst.”

The promises of God stretch beyond our own rationality.

Isaiah’s song sounds a lot like the concept of Jubilee to me.
Jubilee years in the Hebrew Scriptures were supposed to be held every 49 years.  They were a time when
Debts would be released.
Access would be widened.
Abundance would be shared.

Jubilee was about joy breaking out where there had been only endurance.

The jubilee, Isaiah, Jesus…
All are reminding us of Gods dream for this world. A dream of abundance and grace.

Everyone who thirsts should come and drink.
There is no price that we have to pay.
God has purchased it for us.
There is enough for all.

And much like it did for Isaiah’s world, this dream of God’s still feels like an irrational impossibility.
We live in a world where access to food, clean drinking water, healthcare, housing, and basic human dignity is contested every single day.
We live in a time when we are told that scarcity is inevitable and abundance unrealistic.

Into that world, God keeps singing a different song.

Which is why the invitation this Sunday is not simply to find God or seek God, as though God were missing.

God is already here.
At the well.
With people who are scattered or shattered.
Walking quietly behind us through our ordinary days.

Our invitation is to seek God’s dream.

A dream where debts are forgiven and access is shared.
A dream where communities are shaped by abundance rather than fear.
A dream where joy is not a private possession but a collective reality.

We are called together to build a world, a community, a way of being, a people shaped by that vision.

God has already set the vision before us.
Not as a fantasy.
Not as wishful thinking.
But as a reality that already breaking in to our world.

Joy flickers today not because the work is finished, but because the world God dreams of is already here among us.

We are invited to believe it is possible.
And then to live our way into it.

May we do so with faith and courage. Amen.