The Gospel for the Hurting: What I Learned at the Well

I was thumbing through an old notebook the other day—the kind filled with sermon notes that rarely get revisited. You know the type. Like a blurry fireworks video from the Fourth of July or a photo of the neighborhood’s Christmas lights. Captured in the moment, but rarely replayed. This particular notebook was from 2019, and I had taken it with me to The Gospel Coalition Conference that year.

As I flipped through the pages, I came across notes from a session led by Ed Welch on biblical counseling. At the time, I was serving as the Senior Director of Ministry at the Downtown Rescue Mission, and this was one of the sessions I was eager to attend. What Ed said that day was simple—but it stuck with me.

He said: “Biblical counseling and evangelism are the same thing.”

At first, it didn’t hit me. Sure, I understood it in theory, but I’m not sure I had ever lived it out that way. His point was that both counseling and evangelism involve meeting people in their suffering—with the hope of the gospel.

That might seem obvious to you. But for me, that day, it reframed everything.

I’ve heard people say religion is a crutch for the weak-minded or something desperate people turn to in times of crisis. And sure, we’ve all heard about foxhole prayers or deathbed conversions—when someone who had never acknowledged God suddenly calls out to Him in their final moments. A plane hits turbulence, and even the most irreligious person may whisper a prayer.

But the older I get, the more I realize: suffering isn’t the exception to life—it’s part of it. It’s baked into our existence. Nobody gets a free pass.

If you love anyone in this life—if you have friends or family—you’ll eventually grieve them or feel the sting of disappointment in those relationships. People will let you down. Situations will unfold that you didn’t plan or want. Life will get hard. Illness, death, economic uncertainty, social unrest, stress, anxiety, divorce, addiction, financial instability… no one is untouched.

And not only does suffering affect you—it’s affecting everyone around you. The woman at the checkout counter. Your boss. The customer you’re serving. The nurse who just took your blood pressure. The guy who messed up your coffee order. Your neighbor who never waves. Everyone is carrying something.

Which is why I’ve come to believe: evangelism must be relational.

You can stand on a street corner with a sign and shout verses through a megaphone—but does that really touch the soul of the person passing by? Does it know them? Does it see their pain? Their story? Their trauma? Their baggage?

Does it make the connection that the gospel is not just true—but that it’s good and needed for them, right where they are?

I keep coming back to John 4, the story of the woman at the well. I’ve written about it before. It’s not that I don’t study other scriptures—it’s that this one won’t let go of me.

This woman isn’t just thirsty for water—she’s worn down by life. And Jesus meets her there. Not with a lecture. Not with a bullhorn. But with a conversation.

He names her brokenness, not to shame her, but to show her that he already knows. And even still, he offers her living water.

I wish I could be her. I wish Jesus would walk up to me, in the flesh, sit beside me, and speak directly to my heart. I wish I could see His eyes when He says, “I know.” I wish I could feel the warmth in His voice when He says, “And I’m still here.”

But what gets me even more is how Jesus doesn’t avoid the mess of her situation. He enters into it. He acknowledges it. And He loves her anyway.

What if that was what our outreach looked like?

Not detached theological statements or moral judgments. Not social media debates or drive-by evangelism.

But a moment beside someone. A shared silence. A listening ear. A kind question. A human conversation.

What are you afraid of?

What’s hurting right now?

Where do you feel unseen?

When we truly know people—when we listen for the longings of their hearts—we can begin to offer them the gospel in a way that feels less like a sales pitch and more like a cup of cold water.

Because the gospel is good news. Especially to the suffering. Especially to the broken. Especially to those sitting by the well with questions they can’t answer and wounds they don’t know how to heal.

Maybe evangelism is simply this: sitting beside someone and reminding them that living water is still available—and that Jesus already knows, and He’s still here.