When 'Why Not' wins

In Gospel of John 4:7–9, the scene is almost cinematic. It’s high noon. The sun is unrelenting. Heat rises off the stones. And there, beside Jacob’s well, sits Jesus—tired from the journey, thirsty, alone.

A Samaritan woman approaches with her jar. This is not prime time for social interaction. Noon was the hour when you went to the well if you wanted to avoid people. Yet in that moment, Jesus does something startlingly ordinary:

“Will you give me a drink?”

It’s a simple request. A small need. An easy act of kindness.

But her response is layered with reasons.
“You are a Jew and I am a Samaritan.”
“And I am a woman.”

History. Ethnicity. Gender. Cultural rivalry. Religious tension. She lists the barriers instead of lifting the jar. To be fair, the divisions between Jews and Samaritans were deep and bitter. Add to that the social norms separating men and women, and the moment was loaded. Still, it’s striking how quickly the conversation turns to why it can’t happen instead of simply meeting the need in front of her.

Have you ever done that?

Someone asks for help. A door opens. A need presents itself. And almost instinctively, your mind scrolls through the “why nots.”

Not my background.
Not my lane.
Not my responsibility.
Not the right timing.
Not enough resources.

For many of us, that’s the default posture.

In 1990, a man named Jerry Sternin faced his own list of “why nots.” He worked for Save the Children, an aid organization focused on helping vulnerable children. He had been invited to Vietnam to address widespread childhood malnutrition—but the welcome was cool at best. The foreign minister informed him that not everyone appreciated his presence. He had six months to make a measurable difference. If not, he’d be asked to leave.
Six months. Minimal staff. Meager resources. A massive, systemic problem.

Conventional wisdom said malnutrition was tied to sanitation, poverty, lack of clean water, and generational ignorance. All real issues. All complex. All far too big to fix in half a year. Sternin had every legitimate reason to say, “This can’t be done.”

But instead of rehearsing the obstacles, he asked a different question.

He traveled to rural villages and gathered groups of mothers. They weighed and measured every child. Then they looked closely at the data and asked, “Are there any very poor children who are actually healthy?”

Surprisingly, the answer was yes.

So Sternin leaned in. What were these families doing differently?

They discovered small, almost unnoticeable distinctions. Healthier children were fed four smaller meals instead of two large ones—using the same total amount of food. They were actively hand-fed, ensuring they actually consumed what was given. And most unexpectedly, their rice was mixed with tiny shrimp and crabs harvested from local paddies—ingredients considered low-class and overlooked, but packed with protein and nutrients.
These weren’t sweeping reforms. They were small shifts.

Sternin replicated those practices across villages. Within six months, 65% of the malnourished children were healthier—and they stayed that way. Eventually, the approach impacted more than two million people across hundreds of communities.

Why?
Because Sternin refused to let the “why nots” define reality. He didn’t deny the obstacles. He just didn’t let them win.

Back at the well, the woman begins with barriers—but Jesus moves past them. He keeps the conversation going. He reaches beyond prejudice and limitation. And through that exchange, an entire village is changed.

The question isn’t whether there are reasons something can’t be done. There always are.
The question is whether we will let them have the final word.

Don’t let the “why nots” win.