Sermon – Jesus and Conflict

( I preached this sermon at Christ Lutheran Church in Harrisburg, on Sunday February 1, 2026. It is in response to John 4:1-42.)

I want to begin today with words written more than eighty years ago. They were spoken into a time of political fear, rising authoritarianism, and a church that was struggling with whether it would align itself with power or with the vulnerable.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German Lutheran theologian and martyr, wrote the following:

“Christianity stands or falls with its revolutionary protest against violence, arbitrariness, and pride of power and with its plea for the weak. Christians are doing too little to make these points clear rather than too much. Christendom adjusts itself far too easily to the worship of power. Christians should give more offense, show the world far more, than they are doing now. Christians should take a stronger stand in favor of the weak rather than considering first the possible right of the strong.”

Bonhoeffer wrote those words as the Nazi regime was taking control of Germany and as much of the church was learning how to adjust itself to that power. He did not write them in hindsight. He wrote them while it was happening, when it was costly, dangerous, and deeply uncomfortable to speak clearly.

And the most unsettling thing is how those words still ring true today.

We are living in a world saturated with conflict. We see it internationally in war and occupation, in Ukraine, in Gaza, in entire regions destabilized while the rest of the world watches. 

We see it nationally in ICE actions, budget battles, court cases, investigations, fights over historical signs, and the constant threat of retaliation and shutdown. 

We see it at the state level in drawn-out legislative fights that drag on while real people wait. 

We see it locally, even here in Harrisburg, with elected leaders taking one another to court.

We see it in religious life too. In arguments over Christian nationalism. In protests and counter-protests. In debates about immigration, belonging, and who gets to claim God’s blessing.

Conflict is everywhere.

And beneath so much of that conflict is anger.

Anger is not just an idea. It lives in the body.

Anger makes us feel warm all over.  You can feel it in your chest, in your jaw, in the way your breathing changes. When so much of life feels numb or overwhelming, anger can make us feel alive again. It sharpens things. It gives us clarity. It gives us a sense of righteousness.

Anger tells us who we are and who we are not. It tells us who belongs and who does not. It gives us enemies, and enemies make the world feel simpler.

And that is why anger is so easy to sell.

We are marketed anger constantly. News cycles are built around it. Social media platforms are designed to keep us just outraged enough to stay engaged, just angry enough to keep scrolling. Anger keeps our attention. Anger builds loyalty. Anger keeps us coming back.

Science tells us that anger floods the body with chemicals that energize us and sharpen our focus. In that sense, anger can become addictive. And like all addictions, it promises relief while quietly consuming us.

Anger narrows our vision. It reduces complex human beings into symbols. It trains us to see opponents instead of neighbors, threats instead of people, abstractions instead of bodies. It keeps conflict alive but never healed.

And if we are honest, many of us are exhausted not because we are angry, but because we are living on anger. We are saturated with it. And we are being shaped by it.

So let’s name the conflict instead of pretending it is not there.

People are angry because they are watching wars unfold in real time on their phones, seeing bodies pulled from rubble, civilians killed, and they are being told to choose which suffering matters and which does not.

People are angry because they see budgets debated while healthcare is cut, housing remains out of reach, and whole communities are told to be patient while their lives are on hold.

People are angry because immigration is talked about in numbers and slogans while families live in fear, children wonder if their parents will come home, and human beings are reduced to problems to be managed.

People are angry because courts, politicians, and institutions that are supposed to protect the vulnerable often seem more concerned with protecting power.

People are angry because they feel unseen, unheard, and disposable.

And that anger is not imaginary. It comes from somewhere real.

This is the world John’s Gospel speaks into.

From the very beginning, John sets his story in conflict. Light and darkness. Truth and resistance. Revelation and rejection. Conflict in John is not always violent, but it is constant. It reveals what people love, what they protect, and what they fear losing.

Jesus lives his entire earthly life inside that reality. He does not escape conflict. He manages it.

There are times when Jesus confronts conflict directly. He overturns tables in the temple. He challenges religious authorities over healing on the Sabbath. He speaks openly about power, truth, and freedom even when it puts his life at risk. These are moments when silence would be a lie.

And there are times when Jesus walks away. He withdraws when crowds want to make him king. He avoids Judea when authorities are already hardened and watching for an excuse to kill him. He refuses to engage conflict that would only escalate without opening any hearts.

That is not cowardice. That is wisdom.

And that brings us to today’s Gospel.

John tells us that Jesus learns the Pharisees are paying attention. They are comparing numbers. Measuring influence. Watching closely. This is conflict waiting to happen. So Jesus leaves Judea.  It’s not the right time for the conflict.  

And then John says, “He had to go through Samaria.”

He leaves one conflict and walks directly into another.

Samaria is not neutral territory. It is centuries of resentment. Jews and Samaritans share history but not trust. Disagreements about worship, land, and identity have hardened into inherited hostility over generations. This is not abstract conflict. This is lived memory.

And Jesus walks straight into it. He’s a part of it whether he wants to be or not.  

He does not arrive as a conqueror. He does not arrive with an argument. He arrives tired. He sits down at a well. It is noon. The heat of the day. The wrong time for safety. The wrong time for polite encounters.

A woman comes to draw water.

This is where the Gospel becomes concrete. No slogans. No abstractions. Just a body, a bucket, a well, and a tired man asking for a drink.

Jesus does something crucial here. He shifts the conversation out of abstraction and into lived reality. When it drifts toward theological debate, toward safe ideas floating in the air, he brings it back down into her story. Into truth that is embodied and messy.

Abstract conflict keeps issues safely out of reach. It lets us stay sharp without being changed. Concrete encounter does the opposite. It reveals complexity. It forces us to see one another.  It forces us to think about why we believe what we believe.  

This is where shalom enters the story.

Shalom is not the absence of conflict. If it were, Jesus would never have gone to Samaria. Geographically, he didn’t have to – there were two other ways he could have traveled. Shalom is wholeness in a fractured world. It is the capacity to remain human when everything around you is trying to make you less than human.

Jesus sees this woman fully. Not as a problem. Not as a stereotype. Not as a moral lesson. He sees the image of God in her. And in being seen, she begins to see herself differently.

And then something astonishing happens.

She goes back to her town. The very people who knew her story. The people who taught her to come to the well alone. She speaks. And they listen.

She is welcomed.

Jesus is welcomed.

For two days, Jews and Samaritans share space. Share meals. Share life. Barriers that existed long before Jesus ever arrived begin to loosen.

The conflict does not disappear. History does not vanish. But conflict no longer gets the final word.  Conflict doesn’t get to shape the interaction.

This matters for us.

We live in a time when anger is constantly offered as the primary way to engage conflict. But anger alone cannot heal. It can expose injustice. It can energize movements. It can force attention. But it cannot restore humanity.

There is a time to protest. There is a time to confront power. There is a time to speak clearly and refuse silence. Jesus does all of that. And there is also a time to step away from the addictive pull of anger so that it does not shape who we become.

This week, some of us will walk through downtown Harrisburg on a peace pilgrimage. We will stop at different places. We will read scripture about peace. We will sit in silence together. We will pray prayers of peace in public spaces that know conflict, grief, and power.

This is not a protest. And it is not an escape either. It is a practice. It is a way of forming our hearts and our bodies so that anger does not get the final word. So that when conflict comes, and it will, we are able to face it without losing our humanity.  We will face it without losing our ability to see the humanity in those we conflict with.  

Jesus does not deny the conflict of his world. He does not pretend Samaria and Judea have no history. He does not erase pain or disagreement or injustice.

He does something far more dangerous.

He sits down.

He asks for water.

He sees the person in front of him.

And in a world addicted to anger, he offers living water.

Not water that keeps us inflamed, but water that restores our capacity to see one another as human. Water that loosens the grip of fear. Water that makes room for truth without turning us into weapons.

Jesus leaves Judea to avoid a conflict that would only harden hearts. And he walks into Samaria to create a space where humanity can breathe again.

And he is still doing that.

Still crossing lines.

Still sitting with the outcast.

Still refusing to let anger define who we are.

Still offering living water in a world that survives on outrage.

And wherever that water is received, even briefly, even imperfectly, something shifts. People come together in unexpected ways. Old barriers loosen. Conflict does not disappear, but it no longer gets the final word.

This is the work of Christ.  And it is already happening.

And this is the invitation that Jesus has for us.  

Thanks be to God.  Amen.