Rev. Dr. Mark David Albertson
Why the first evangelist was a woman—and what that means for the church today.
A Conversation That Changed Everything
It was noon—the wrong time to fetch water. The heat shimmered off the stones of Sychar, and a lone woman approached the well. She wasn’t supposed to be there, not then, not with anyone watching. But there He was—a Jewish man, resting on the stone edge as if He’d been waiting for her.
“Give me a drink,” He said.
In a single request, Jesus crossed every boundary that defined the ancient world: gender, ethnicity, religion, and moral reputation. The woman’s shock is palpable in her answer: “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?”
We often rush past this story, tucking it neatly into the Sunday School folder labeled “Jesus loves outcasts.” But if we listen carefully, something much more revolutionary is happening. This woman—the one dismissed by her own people—is about to become the first preacher of the Gospel.
Her story, if we take it seriously, doesn’t just challenge social norms. It challenges the entire idea that some people are “unfit” to speak for God.
And for those of us who still hear arguments against women in ministry, her conversation at the well sounds less like a quaint Bible story and more like a divine rebuke whispered across the centuries:
Who told you My daughters couldn’t preach?
What the Story Actually Says
Let’s slow down and pay attention to what John is doing in chapter 4.
First, Jesus initiates the conversation. That’s a radical act in itself—Jewish men didn’t casually speak with women in public, let alone Samaritan women. The tension between Jews and Samaritans was centuries old, rooted in political, theological, and racial animosity.
Then, He offers her what He calls “living water.” It’s not a pickup line or a metaphor about hydration; it’s a theological bombshell. He’s offering her direct access to the Spirit of God—the very thing the religious establishment believed they controlled through temple rituals.
When she asks about worship, Jesus doesn’t scold her for asking theological questions. He teaches her. Patiently. Respectfully. He explains that true worship isn’t about geography or gender or ritual. It’s about spirit and truth.
Then comes the moment no one expected:
“I who speak to you am He.”
This is the first time in John’s Gospel that Jesus directly reveals His identity as the Messiah—and He does it to her. Not to Peter. Not to Nicodemus. Not to the priests or scribes. A Samaritan woman.
And what does she do? She runs to tell others.
That’s evangelism. That’s preaching. That’s the first recorded sermon in John’s Gospel.
If ordination is the recognition of one’s call to proclaim the Gospel, then by any fair reading, this woman was the first ordained evangelist. She was the first person Jesus entrusted with His message.
And she didn’t wait for anyone’s permission to share it.
The Biblical Case for Women in Ministry
It’s striking how often Scripture elevates women as bearers of God’s message—especially in moments when society least expected it.
Consider Deborah, who ruled Israel as both prophet and judge. She led armies, issued verdicts, and sang victory songs that made even the bravest generals look timid by comparison. No one in the text questions her right to lead.
Or Huldah, the prophetess who authenticated the rediscovered Book of the Law in 2 Kings 22. When the king wanted to know whether the ancient scrolls were truly the Word of God, he didn’t call a priest. He called Huldah.
Mary Magdalene, the first witness to the resurrection, is told directly by the risen Christ to “go and tell” His disciples. The Church would later call her apostola apostolorum—the apostle to the apostles.
Phoebe, a deacon of the church at Cenchreae, is entrusted by Paul to carry his letter to the Romans—a role that likely included explaining its contents to the congregation.
Junia, whom Paul calls “prominent among the apostles,” was recognized by early church fathers like Chrysostom as a respected leader. It was only centuries later, under patriarchal pressure, that translators tried to masculinize her name into “Junias.”
From Genesis to Revelation, women are there—preaching, prophesying, leading, and teaching. And every time the institutional church has tried to silence them, God has raised up another voice from the well, another Mary at the tomb, another Deborah under the palm tree.
The Long Shadow of Patriarchy
So why does this even remain controversial?
Because tradition dies hard, and patriarchy is nothing if not persistent.
For centuries, church hierarchies built theology around exclusion—sometimes subtle, sometimes explicit. Women were told that Eve’s sin made them unfit for leadership. They were told that Paul’s letters forbidding women to “speak in church” were timeless commands, not situational instructions to specific communities.
The irony is almost too rich: Paul, who worked alongside women like Lydia, Priscilla, and Junia, gets used as a weapon against the very people he empowered.
But the tide is shifting. Across denominations, more congregations are re-examining Scripture not through the lens of fear or hierarchy, but through the radical inclusivity of Christ Himself.
In the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA), for example, women have been ordained for over fifty years. The first was Rev. Elizabeth Platz in 1970. Since then, countless others have followed—preaching, baptizing, marrying, burying, comforting, and leading.
Still, resistance lingers. Some corners of the church continue to insist that women “aren’t called” to pastoral ministry, as though God’s Spirit obeys gender rules written by church committees.
But history keeps proving otherwise. When the church has refused to bless what God is clearly doing, God simply goes around the church.
What the Woman at the Well Teaches Us About Leadership
There’s a detail in the story we often miss. When the woman runs back to her village, she leaves her water jar behind.
It’s a small thing—but symbolically powerful. The jar represented her daily labor, her isolation, her shame. She came for water; she left with a calling.
That’s what happens when someone truly encounters Christ. The ordinary vessels of survival are replaced with extraordinary purpose.
And that purpose doesn’t wait for ordination paperwork. It bursts forth in testimony:
“Come and see a man who told me everything I’ve ever done!”
That’s what good preaching sounds like—not polished, not perfect, but personal and urgent.
In a way, every woman who has ever stood in a pulpit, or led a prayer circle, or preached from her kitchen table, is echoing that same cry.
“Come and see.”
The Early Church and the Forgotten Mothers of the Faith
Long before church councils debated the legitimacy of women in ministry, the early Christian movement depended on them.
Archaeologists have uncovered ancient inscriptions referring to women as presbyterae (elders), diaconissae (deacons), and even episcopae (bishops). In catacombs near Rome, frescoes depict women standing behind communion tables, arms raised in blessing.
These weren’t anomalies—they were leaders.
In the first few centuries, house churches were often hosted and led by women. Lydia, a dealer in purple cloth, opened her home in Philippi for the first European congregation. Priscilla and her husband Aquila trained Apollos, one of the early church’s most eloquent preachers.
But as Christianity became institutionalized—especially after Constantine’s conversion—the power dynamics shifted. Hierarchies formed. And with them came a narrowing of who could speak for God.
By the Middle Ages, the pulpit was effectively closed to women. The Spirit that once moved freely through Deborah, Huldah, Mary, and Junia was domesticated, confined, reinterpreted as “helpful” rather than “authoritative.”
Yet even then, voices refused to be silenced. Hildegard of Bingen, Catherine of Siena, Teresa of Ávila, and countless unnamed mystics and reformers kept proclaiming truth from the margins. Their writings, prayers, and visions preserved the heartbeat of a gospel that refuses to belong to one gender.
When Tradition Becomes Idolatry
There’s a difference between honoring tradition and worshiping it.
Jesus never said, “Blessed are the traditionalists.” He said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” He never handed out gold stars for keeping systems intact; He disrupted them constantly.
If the church’s attachment to male-only leadership keeps it from hearing the voices God is raising up, then tradition has become idolatry.
When we make a rule that says “God only speaks through men,” we are not protecting Scripture. We are limiting God.
And if the story of the woman at the well teaches us anything, it’s that God doesn’t follow our limits. Jesus deliberately went out of His way—literally through Samaria—to show His disciples that the Spirit speaks where they least expect it.
That’s the pattern of the Gospel:
- God calls the unlikely.
- The powerful protest.
- The Spirit prevails.
The Cost of Exclusion
The conversation about women in ministry isn’t abstract. It has consequences.
When churches refuse to ordain women, they lose half their prophets. They silence the voices best equipped to speak to the lived experiences of half their congregations. They model exclusion for young girls who are listening closely and learning who’s allowed to matter.
And perhaps worst of all, they misrepresent the character of God.
A God who created both male and female in the divine image surely doesn’t revoke half that image when it’s time to preach. A Spirit poured out “on all flesh” doesn’t come with a gender disclaimer in the fine print.
We forget that at Pentecost, when Peter quoted the prophet Joel—“Your sons and daughters shall prophesy”—he was declaring the birth of an inclusive church. To deny women ordination is to unbirth part of Pentecost.
Signs of Renewal
Thankfully, new winds are blowing.
Across the world, women are leading congregations, preaching in pulpits, planting churches, and re-imagining ministry. Their sermons are reshaping how communities see God—not as a distant patriarch, but as a living presence who speaks through all people.
In the ELCA, the United Methodist Church, the Episcopal Church, the United Church of Christ, and many others, women now serve as bishops, seminary presidents, theologians, and denominational leaders.
Their presence is not a modern concession to feminism—it’s a rediscovery of the Gospel’s original trajectory. The same Spirit that met the woman at the well is still calling, still empowering, still sending.
And when those women preach, something holy happens: the body of Christ sounds more like the whole body again.
The Well and the Pulpit
In many ways, the pulpit is the modern well. It’s the place where people come to draw living water—to find words that make sense of their pain, their doubt, their longing.
When a woman steps into that space and preaches with authority, she’s doing exactly what the Samaritan woman did: inviting others to come and see the One who knows them fully and loves them still.
And if that isn’t pastoral ministry, what is?
The Real Question
Maybe the question isn’t “Should women be ordained?” but “What’s stopping us from recognizing what God has already ordained?”
The Samaritan woman didn’t need anyone’s approval to tell her story. The Spirit moved, and she moved with it.
The tragedy is that for two thousand years, the institutional church has tried to re-impose the boundaries Jesus already erased. We’ve turned “living water” into a gated well.
But the Spirit has a way of breaking through. It finds the cracks in our theology and flows right through them. It speaks through women who refuse to stay silent. It preaches through voices that don’t fit our categories.
And every time it happens, we’re reminded that God is still God—and we are still learning what that means.
A Closing Reflection
Maybe, in the end, ordination isn’t something we grant to women at all. Maybe it’s something we finally recognize.
When a woman stands to preach, she’s not claiming new territory. She’s reclaiming ancient ground. She’s drawing from the same well where the first evangelist once stood.
And she’s still saying the same thing:
“Come and see.”
Because the Gospel is not bound by gender, nor limited by tradition. It’s a story of liberation—one that began with a conversation between a man, a woman, and a well that never ran dry.
Epilogue: The Water Still Flows
Today, across sanctuaries and seminary classrooms, across hospital rooms and protest lines, women are still carrying living water into dry places.
They baptize and bless, preach and pray, challenge and comfort. They keep the church honest. They remind us that the Spirit of God is still pouring through unexpected vessels.
The question of whether women should be ordained is no longer a theological debate. It’s a spiritual mirror.
What kind of church do we want to be—one that guards the well, or one that lets the water flow?
