Choices

Choices

      There were also two criminals led out with Jesus to be put to death. When they came to a place called the Skull, the soldiers crucified Jesus and the criminals – one on his right and the other on his left … 

     One of the criminals on a cross began to shout insults at Jesus: “Aren’t you the Christ? Then save yourself and us.”

     But the other criminal stopped him and said, “You should fear God! You are getting the same punishment he is. We are punished justly, getting what we deserve for what we did. But this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  

     Jesus said to him, “I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in            paradise.”  (Luke 23:32-33, 39-43)

During the latter half of the 1800’s, Edwin Thomas had few professional rivals. Standing a modest 5’6”, but blessed with a huge baritone voice, he’s still considered by most theatrical historians as the greatest American actor, and the greatest Hamlet, of the 19^th century. Debuting in Richard III at the tender age of fifteen, he quickly established himself as a premier Shakespearean actor. In New York, he performed Hamlet for 100 consecutive nights, a record that stood for almost sixty years until 1922 when John Barrymore broke Edwin’s streak by playing the title character in 101 consecutive performances. And in London, Edwin won the approval of the notoriously tough British critics. In short, when it came to performing tragedy on stage, Edwin Thomas was in a very select group, indeed. Unfortunately, when it came to experiencing tragedy in life, the same could be said as well.

Edwin had two brothers, John and Junius. Both were actors, although neither rose to Edwin’s stature. But, in 1863, the three brothers decided to unite their talents and perform Julius Caesar. The fact that Edwin’s brother, John, took the role of Marc Antony was, perhaps, a harbinger of what awaited the brothers – and the nation – two years later. You see, John, who played the role of the assassin’s victim in Julius Caesar, is the same John who became the real-life assassin at Ford’s Theatre when, on a crisp April night in 1865, he quietly stole into the rear of the box in the Washington theatre and fired a bullet at the head of Abraham Lincoln. Yes, the last name of the brothers was Booth – Edwin Thomas Booth and John Wilkes Booth.

Edwin was never the same after that night. Shame from his brother’s crime drove him into an early retirement of sorts. And he might never have returned to the stage had it not been for a strange twist of fate at a Jersey City train station.

Edwin was waiting for his train when a well-dressed young man, jostled by the crowd, lost his balance and fell between the railroad platform and an approaching train. Without hesitation, Edwin locked a leg around a railing, grabbed the man by his collar, and snatched him to safety. After sighs of relief, the young man immediately recognized the famous face of Edwin Booth. Edwin, however, didn’t recognize the young man that he’d rescued. That knowledge came a few months later in a letter. The letter was from a friend of Edwin’s, Col. Adam Badeau, who was chief secretary to General Ulysses S. Grant. The letter was sent to thank Edwin for saving the life of the child of an American hero, Abraham Lincoln. How ironic that while one brother killed the President, the other brother saved the President’s son, Robert Todd Lincoln.

Edwin Thomas and John Wilkes Booth. Same father, same mother, same upbringing, same education, same training, same profession, same passion. Yet, one chose life, while the other chose death. How could that happen? I don’t know, but it does. And although their story may seem rather dramatic, it’s not unique – not by a long-shot. Don’t believe me? Well, here are just a few examples.

Cain and Abel were both sons of Adam and Eve, but Abel chose God and Cain chose murder – and God let him. Abraham and Lot were both pilgrims in Canaan, but Abraham chose God and Lot chose Sodom – and God let him. David and Saul were both kings of Israel, but David chose God while Saul chose power – and God let him. Peter and Judas both denied their lord, but Peter sought mercy while Judas sought death – and God let him.

You see, in every age of history, and on every page of the Bible, the simple truth is revealed: God allows us to make our own choices. In fact, no one makes that clearer than Jesus himself. In Matthew 7:13-14, Jesus talks about a number of choices we can make: a narrow gate versus a wide gate; a narrow road versus a wide road; the big crowd versus the small crowd. All of them, choices. And, we can choose to build on rock or sand (Matt. 7:24-27), serve God or riches (Matt. 6:24), or choose to be a sheep or a goat. (Matt. 25:32-33) God gives us eternal choices, and these choices have eternal consequences.

Ever thought about why there were two crosses next to Christ? I mean, why not six, or ten, or a dozen or more? And if you’ve actually thought about that, have you then wondered why Jesus was in the center? Why not on the far right, or far left, instead? Maybe this is a stretch, but could it be that the crosses on either side of the savior symbolized God’s gift of choice? Now, before you think I’ve gone just a little too far, keep reading.

The two thieves had a lot in common. They were convicted by the same system; they were condemned to the same death; they were surrounded by the same crowd; and they were equally close to Jesus. In fact, they even began with the same sarcasm: “The two criminals also said cruel things to Jesus.” (Matt. 27:44) But then, one of the thieves changed:

One of the criminals on a cross began to shout insults at Jesus: “Aren’t you the Christ? Then save yourself and us.” But the other criminal stopped him and said, “You should fear God! You are getting the same punishment he is. We are punished justly, getting what we deserve for what we did. But this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Jesus said to him, “I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise.” (Luke 23:39-43)

Now, a lot has been said about the penitent thief, but what about the other guy? “What about him, Jesus? Wouldn’t a personal invitation have been appropriate? Wouldn’t a word of persuasion been timely, especially given the circumstances?” I mean, doesn’t the shepherd leave the ninety-nine sheep and pursue the one, lost sheep? And doesn’t the housewife sweep the house until the lost coin is found? Yes, the shepherd pursues and the housewife sweeps, but the father of the prodigal (the last “lost” parable in the sequence) does nothing. Why? Well, maybe it’s because the sheep was lost innocently, and the coin was lost irresponsibly. But the prodigal son, on the other hand, left intentionally. And the father gave the prodigal son the choice. Jesus gave the criminals the same.

There are times when it feels like God has sent thunder to stir us up, or times when God showers us with his blessings to draw us to him. But then there’s those times when God sends nothing but silence as he honors us with the freedom to choose where we spend eternity. What an honor, don’t you think? I mean, in so many areas of life we don’t have a choice, do we? For instance, we didn’t choose our gender, our siblings (if we have any), our race, or our place of birth. And, let’s face it; sometimes that lack of choice really angers us. “It’s not fair,” we say. It’s not fair that I was born in poverty, or that I sing poorly, or that I run so slowly. All that changed, however, in the Garden of Eden. Man made a choice, and it wasn’t for God. And man is suffering the consequences of that choice. It’s called sin.

The word sin derives from the Old English word, synn, recorded in use as early as the 9th century. The same root appears in several other Germanic languages, e.g., Old Norse, synd, or German, Sunde. But in the Hebrew Old Testament, the generic word for sin is het, which means to err, or to miss the mark. It does not mean to do evil. The Greek word, hamartia, is usually translated as sin in the New Testament, and in classical Greek it means to "miss the mark," or "to miss the target."

Missing the target. In Greek times, archery competitions would be conducted by giving each competitor ten arrows and then drawing a circle on a far-away object. Each archer would draw back his bow and, arrow after arrow, attempt to place his arrow inside the circle. However, even if an archer were to place nine of his arrows inside the circle, but miss with his last, he was said to have sinned, i.e., he "missed the mark."

In the same way, we all sin. We all miss the target. (Rom. 3:23) We all miss the mark of God's perfection. But we do have a choice in the matter, because we've all been given a life and allowed the opportunity to make a mark. And would you want it any other way? I mean, would you have preferred the opposite? You choose everything in this life, and God chooses where you spend the next? You choose the size of your nose, the color of your hair, your sex, your height, your weight, and God chooses where you spend eternity? Is that what you'd prefer?

Granted, it would have been nice if God had let us order life like ordering a meal at a smorgasbord. "I'll take good health and a high IQ, but I'll pass on the music skills. However, give me a big portion of fast metabolism!" That would've been nice, but that's not what happened. When it came to life on earth, you weren't given a voice or even a vote, for that matter.

But when it comes to life after death, you've got a choice. Seems like a pretty good deal to me. Wouldn't you agree? Honestly, have we been given any greater privilege than that of choice? Not only does this privilege offset any injustice, but the gift of free will can offset any mistakes. Really? Yes, really, and here's why.

 Think about the thief who repented. We don't know a lot about him, but we know this: he made some pretty bad mistakes in life. He chose the wrong crowd, the wrong morals, and the wrong behavior. But would you consider his life a waste? Is he spending eternity reaping the fruit of all the bad choices he made? No, just the opposite. He's enjoying the fruit of the one good choice he made. In the end, all of his bad choices were  redeemed by one good choice.

And we've all made bad choices in life. We've chosen the wrong friends, the wrong car, the wrong way, or maybe even the wrong career. We look back over the years of our life and say, "If only ...." "If only  I could make up for all those bad choices." Well, you can. One good choice for eternity offsets a million bad ones made on earth - and the choice is yours to make.

So, how can two brothers be born of the same mother, grow up in the same home, and one chooses life while the other chooses death? I don't know, but they did. Or, how could two men see the same Jesus and one choose to mock him and the other choose to pray to him? I don't know that either, but they did. And when one prayed, Jesus loved him enough to save him. And when the other mocked him, Jesus loved him enough to let him.

It's your choice. Choose wisely.

Grace,

Randy

Irresistible

Irresistible

                One of the Pharisees asked Jesus to have dinner with him, so Jesus went to his home and sat down to eat. When a certain immoral woman from that city heard he was eating there, she brought a beautiful alabaster jar filled with expensive perfume. Then she knelt behind him at his feet, weeping. Her tears fell on his feet, and she wiped them off with her hair. Then she kept kissing his feet and putting perfume on them.

When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know what kind of woman is touching him. She’s a sinner!”…

[Jesus said] “I tell you, her sins – and they are many – have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love.”

(Luke 7:36-39; 47 NLT)

Tell me, could two people possibly be any more different? He’s looked up to; she’s looked down on. He’s a church leader; she’s a streetwalker. He makes a living promoting standards; she’s made a living breaking them. He’s hosting the party; and she’s crashing it. Ask the residents of Capernaum to point out the more pious of the two and they’d pick Simon in a heartbeat. After all, he’s a student of theology, a man of the cloth. Anyone would pick him, right? Well, anyone, that is, except Jesus.

Jesus knew them both. And Jesus picked the woman. What’s more, he tells Simon why he picked her. Not that Simon really wanted to know because his mind was elsewhere. How did this tramp get into my house? And Simon doesn’t know who to yell at first – the woman, or the lazy servant who let the riff-raff in. After all, this dinner is a formal affair. Invitation only. The upper crust. The crème de la crème.

But it was customary in that day for outsiders to hover around these kinds of banquets so they could watch the “pretty people,” and eavesdrop on their conversations. And, since everything was open, they could even enter the banquet hall and speak to a guest since, in that day, women were never invited to banquets. So, there’s Simon – fuming. Just look at her – groveling at Jesus’ feet. Kissing them, no less! Disgusting. Why, if Jesus was who he said he is, he would have nothing to do with this floozy! Unfortunately, one of the lessons Simon learned that day was: Don’t think thoughts you don’t want Jesus to hear. Because Jesus heard them, and when he did, he chose to share a few thoughts of his own.

“Simon,” he said to the Pharisee, “I have something to say to you.” “All right, Teacher,” Simon replied, “go ahead.” Then Jesus told him this story: “A man loaned money to two people – five hundred pieces of silver to one and fifty pieces to the other.[1] But neither of them could repay him, so he kindly forgave them both, canceling their debts. Who do you suppose loved him more after that?” Simon answered, “I suppose the one for whom he canceled the larger debt.” “That’s right,” Jesus said.

Then he turned to the woman and said to Simon, “Look at this woman kneeling here. When I entered your home, you didn’t offer me water to wash the dust from my feet, but she has washed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You didn’t greet me with a kiss, but from the time I first came in, she has not stopped kissing my feet. You neglected the courtesy of olive oil to anoint my head, but she has anointed my feet with rare perfume. I tell you, her sins – and they are many – have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love.”  (Luke 7:40-47 NLT)

So, get the picture. Simon invites Jesus to his house for dinner and then treats him like a red headed step-child: no customary courtesies; no kiss of greeting; no washing his feet; no oil for his head. Today, that’d be like saying no one opened the door for Jesus, took his coat, or even shook his hand and said “hello.” Frankenstein had better manners. But Simon does nothing to make Jesus feel welcome. The woman, on the other hand, does everything that Simon didn’t.

We aren’t told the woman’s name, just her reputation – a sinner. (Probably a prostitute) She had no invitation to the party, and had absolutely no standing in the community. But people’s opinions didn’t stop her from coming, because it wasn’t for their opinions that she came. She came for Jesus. Her every move was measured and meaningful. Each gesture was extravagant. She put her cheek to his feet, still dusty from the path. She had no water, but she had her tears. She had no towel, but she had her hair, and she used both to bathe the feet of Jesus. As one translation puts it, “she rained tears” on his feet. (Verse 44 MSG) And then she opened a vial of expensive perfume, perhaps her only possession of worth, and massaged it into Jesus’ skin. And the aroma must have been as inescapable as the irony. You see, the vial was likely a delicately carved alabaster container (finely grained gypsum) that had a long neck. And the only way to pour out the contents would be to break the neck of the vial. (In other words, a broken vessel) And if the perfume were to be saved, a new container would have to be found.

The thing is you’d think Simon, of all people, would show this kind of love. I mean, isn’t he the preacher at the local church, the student of the Scriptures? He invited Jesus to dinner, for crying out loud! But he’s harsh and distant. But then you’d think that the woman would avoid Jesus at all costs. Isn’t she a woman of the night, the town hussy? But she can’t resist him. Simon’s “love” is calibrated and stingy. Her love is extravagant and risky. So, how do you explain the difference between these two? Was it their training? Maybe their education? Their money? Nope. Simon wins that competition going away, and on all accounts. But there’s one area where the woman leaves Simon in the dust – literally.

What one discovery has she made that Simon hasn’t? What one treasure does she cherish that Simon doesn’t? That’s simple, and it’s not perfume. The one treasure she cherishes more than any is God’s love. Now, we don’t know when she received it. We aren’t even told how she heard about it. Maybe she overheard Jesus’ words, “Your Father is merciful.” (Luke 6:36) Or, maybe she heard Jesus say, “Come unto me … and I will give you rest.” (Matt. 11:28-30) Perhaps someone told her about Jesus touching lepers and turning tax collectors into disciples. We just don’t know. But we do know this: she came thirsty. Thirsty from guilt. Thirsty from regret. Thirsty from countless nights of making love and finding none. Thirsty.

Simon, on the other hand, doesn’t even know he’s thirsty. You see, people like Simon don’t need grace; they analyze it. They don’t require mercy; they debate it, instead. It wasn’t that Simon couldn’t be forgiven. It’s just that he’d never asked! “A person who is forgiven little shows only little love.” In other words, Simon couldn’t give what he never received! And I think it’s the same for us, too. Like trying to get blood out of a turnip. If we’ve never received love, how can we love others?

Oh, mind you, we try. It’s as if we can conjure up love by the sheer force of our will; as if there is a distillery of affection inside us that lacks only a piece of wood, or a hotter fire. So we poke it and stoke it with conviction. For instance, what’s our typical strategy for treating a troubled relationship? Trying harder. “My friend needs forgiveness? I don’t know how I’m gonna do it, but I’m gonna forgive him anyway.” Or, “I don’t care how much it hurts; I’m going to be nice to that bum.” We try. Teeth clenched. Jaw firm. We’re going to love even if it kills us! And it just may do that. But aren’t we missing a step? Could it be that the first step of love is not toward them but toward Him? Could it be that the secret to loving is receiving? You give love by first receiving it. “We love, because He first loved us.” (1 John 4:19)

So, do you want to be more loving? Begin by accepting your place as God’s child. “Be imitators of God, therefore, as dearly loved children and live a life of love, just as Christ loved us.” (Eph. 5:1-2) Want to learn how to forgive? Then consider how much you’ve been forgiven. “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” (Eph 4:32) Finding it hard to put others first? Think of how Christ put you first. “Though he was God, he did not think equality with God as something to cling to.” (Phil. 2:6) Need more patience? Drink from the patience of God. “The Lord isn’t really being slow about his promise, as some people think. No, he is being patient for your sake. He does not want anyone to be destroyed, but wants everyone to repent.” (2 Pet. 3:9) Is generosity an elusive virtue? Then consider how generous God’s been with you. “But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.” (Rom. 5:8) Having trouble putting up with ungrateful relatives, or cranky neighbors? Just remember that God puts up with you when you act the same way. “He is kind to the ungrateful and wicked.” (Luke 6:35) Get the picture?

OK, then can’t we just will ourselves to start loving like this? Well, not without God’s help we can’t. Oh, we may succeed for a time. Just like Simon, we may open a door. But our relationships need more than a mere social gesture. Some of our friends need a foot washing. A family member needs a flood of tears. Our kids need to be covered in the oil of our love. But if we haven’t received these things ourselves, how can we give them to others? You see, a marriage-saving love is not within us. A friendship-preserving devotion isn’t in our hearts. "The human heart is the most deceitful of all things, and desperately wicked. Who really knows how bad it is?” (Jer. 17:9) We need help from an outside source. A transfusion. And it starts by receiving God’s love.

The problem seems to be, however, that most of us are guilty of skipping that first step. “Love each other!” we preach. “Be patient, kind, forgiving,” we urge. But instructing people to love without telling them they are loved is like telling them to write a check without having made a deposit into their accounts. So is it any wonder why so many relationships are overdrawn? Hearts have insufficient love. (And those NSF charges can really pile up!)

In my opinion, the apostle John models the right sequence. He makes a deposit before he tells us to write the check. First, the deposit: “God showed how much he loved us by sending his one and only Son into the world so that we might have eternal life through him. This is real love – not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins.” (1 John 4:9-10) And then, having made such an outrageous, eye-opening deposit, John tells us to pull out the checkbook: “Dear friends, since God loved us that much, we surely ought to love each other.” (vs. 11)

The secret to loving, I think, is living loved. This seems to be the forgotten first step in most of our relationships. It’s kind of like taking down your Christmas tree – which is my usual responsibility during the New Year’s holiday. You know the routine, don’t you? Remove the ornaments, tear down the lights, carry out the tree, take it to the local disposal site, and then sweep up all the needles. Thousands of needles. (Why are there so many needles?) Because the tree’s falling apart! And you can blame that on bad rooting, because for a month or more (my family’s tradition is to get it the day after Thanksgiving), the tree’s been planted in a plastic bowl. And what kind of nutrients come from a plastic bowl? Uh, none. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. And Simon had the same problem. He was impressive to look at, nicely decorated and all, but he fell apart when shaken.

Maybe some of us are thirsty for this kind of love. Those who should have loved us but didn’t. Those who could have loved us but wouldn’t. We were left at the hospital. Left at the altar. Left with an empty bed. Left with a broken heart. Left with our question: “Does anybody really love me?” But listen to heaven’s answer: God loves you. Personally. Powerfully. Passionately. Others have promised and failed. But God has promised and succeeded. He loves you with an unfailing love. And his love – if you’ll let it – can fill you and leave you with a love worth giving.

Several years ago, I was challenged to replace the word Love in 1 Corinthians 13 (the “Love” chapter) with my name. When I did, I became an instant liar. For instance, “Randy is patient, Randy is kind. Randy does not envy, Randy does not boast, Randy is not proud. Randy does not dishonor others, Randy is not self-seeking, Randy is not easily angered, Randy keeps no record of wrongs.” (Vs. 4-5) Like I said, it made me a liar. And for years that was my problem with this paragraph and, frankly, with the entire 13^th chapter of 1 Corinthians. It set a standard I couldn’t meet. No one can meet it. Well, no one, that is, except Jesus. Need proof? Try it: “Jesus is patient, Jesus is kind. Jesus does not envy, Jesus does not boast, Jesus is not proud. Jesus does not dishonor others, Jesus is not self-seeking, Jesus is not easily angered, Jesus keeps no record of wrongs.” (Thank God!) Now, do you get the picture?

So, instead of letting this scripture remind us of a love we can’t produce, maybe we should try letting it remind us of a love we can’t resist.

Grace,

Randy

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[1] A piece of silver, or denarius, was equal to a day’s wage. So, in this example, $3,200.00 is compared to $32,000.00, based upon current California minimum wage.

Significance

Significance

                Jesus, tired from the long walk, sat wearily beside the well about noontime.  Soon a Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Please give me a drink.”

The woman was surprised, for Jews refuse to have anything to do with Samaritans.  She said to Jesus, “You are a Jew, and I am a Samaritan woman.  Why are you asking me for a drink?”

Jesus replied, “If you only knew the gift God has for you and who you are speaking to, you would ask me, and I would give you living water.”

“But sir, you don’t have a rope or a bucket,” she said, “and this well is very deep.  Where would you get this living water?  And besides, do you think you’re greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us this well?  How can you offer better water than he and his sons and his animals enjoyed?”

Jesus replied, “Anyone who drinks this water will soon become thirsty again.  But those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again.  It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life.”

“Please, sir,” the woman said, “give me this water!  Then I’ll never be thirsty again, and I won’t have to come here to get water.”

“Go and get your husband,” Jesus told her.

“I don’t have a husband,” the woman replied.

Jesus said, “You’re right!  You don’t have a husband – for you have had five husbands, and you aren’t even married to the man you’re living with now.  You certainly spoke the truth!”

“Sir,” the woman said, “you must be a prophet.” “So tell me, why is it that you Jews insist that Jerusalem is the only place of worship, while we Samaritans claim it is here at Mount Gerizim, where our ancestors worshiped?” …

“I know the Messiah is coming – the one who is called Christ.  When he comes, he will explain everything to us.”

Then Jesus told her, “I AM the Messiah!”…

The woman left her water jar beside the well and ran back to the village, telling everyone, “Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did! Could he possibly be the Messiah?” (John 4:6-7; 9-20; 26-26; 28-29 NLT)

On a marker in Lockehill Cemetery in San Antonio, Texas, the following words are written of Grace Llewellyn Smith:

Sleeps, but rests not.

Loved, but was loved not.

Tried to please, but pleased not.

Died as she lived – alone.

Words of futility. No date of birth or death is even given, just her marriages. And you stare at that marker and wonder about her life. Did she write those words, or did she just live them? Reportedly, she chose her epitaph. But did she deserve the pain? Was she bitter, or was she beaten? Was she plain, or was she pretty? Why are some lives so fruitful, while others are so futile?

“Loved, but was loved not.” Long nights. Empty beds. Silence. No response to messages left. No return to letters written. No love exchanged for love given. “Tried to please, but pleased not.” You can just hear the hatchet of disappointment, can’t you? “How many times do I have to tell you?” Chop. “You’ll never amount to anything.” Chop. Chop. “Why can’t you do anything right?” Chop. Chop. Chop.

How many people will die in loneliness? The homeless person in Escondido? The happy-hour hopper in San Diego? A bag lady at the local Albertson’s? Any person who doubts whether the world needs him or her. Any person who’s convinced that nobody really cares. A person who’s been given a ring, but never a heart; criticism, but never a chance; a bed, but never rest. These are the victims of futility. And unless someone intervenes, unless something happens, this epitaph will be there’s as well.

That’s why this story in John is so significant. It’s the story of another tombstone. But this time, however, the tombstone doesn’t mark the death of a person – it marks a birth. And here’s her story.

Her eyes squint against the noon-day sun. Her shoulders stoop under the weight of the water jar. Her feet trudge, stirring up the dust on her path. She keeps her eyes down so she can dodge the stares of the others. She’s a Samaritan – she knows the sting of racism. She’s a woman – she’s bumped her head on the ceiling of sexism. She’s been married to five men. Five. Five different marriages. Five different beds. Five different rejections. She knows the sound of slamming doors. She knows what it means to love and receive nothing in return. Her current significant other won’t even give her his name, just a place to sleep. The epitaph of insignificance could have been hers. And it probably would have been, except for an encounter with a stranger.

On this particular day, she came to the well at noon. Why hadn’t she gone in the early morning with the other women? Maybe she had. Maybe she just needed some extra water on a hot day. But then again, maybe not. Maybe it was the other women she was trying to avoid, because a walk in the hot sun was a small price to pay to escape their sharp tongues. “Here she comes,” one said. “Have you heard? She’s got a new man,” said another. “They say she’ll sleep with anyone,” says a third. “Shhhhhh. There she is.” So, she came to the well at noon. She expected silence. She expected solitude. Instead, she found someone who knew her better than she knew herself.

There he was, seated on the ground – legs outstretched, hands folded, back resting against the well. His eyes were closed. She stopped and looked at him, and then she looked around. No one was near, so she looked back at him. He was obviously Jewish. So, what was he doing here? Then, his eyes opened and hers ducked in embarrassment. She quickly went about her task.

Sensing her discomfort, Jesus asked her for water. But she was too streetwise to think that was all he wanted. “Since when does an uptown fellow like you ask a girl like me for water?” She wanted to know what he really had on his mind. She knew men. And her intuition was partly correct. He was interested in more than just water. He was interested in her heart. So, they talked. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had spoken to her with respect. He told her about a spring of water that would quench not the thirst of her throat, but the thirst of her soul. That intrigued her. “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming back here to draw water.” Jesus replied, “Go, call your husband and come back.”

Her heart must have sunk. Here was a Jew who didn’t care if she was a Samaritan. Here was a man who didn’t look down on her as a woman. Here was the closest thing to gentleness she’d ever seen. And now he was asking her about … that! Anything but that. Maybe she considered lying. “Oh, my husband? Uh, he’s busy.” Or, maybe she wanted to change the subject. Perhaps she wanted to leave – but she stayed. And she told the truth: “I have no husband.” (Kindness has a way of inviting honesty.)

And haven’t you wanted to take off your mask, too? Haven’t you wanted to stop pretending? Haven’t you wondered what God would do if you opened your cobweb-covered door of secret sin? This woman wondered what Jesus would do, too. She must have wondered if the kindness would cease when the truth was out. He’ll be angry. He’ll leave. He’ll think I’m worthless. “You’re right. You’ve had five husbands and the man you are with now won’t even give you a name,” Jesus said. What? No criticism? No anger? No what-kind-of-a-mess-have-you-made-of-your-life-this-time lecture? No. It wasn’t perfection that Jesus was seeking. It was honesty. And the woman was amazed. “I can see that you’re a prophet.”  Translation? “There’s something different about you.” “Do you mind if I ask you something?” Then she asked the question that revealed the gaping hole in her soul.

“Where is God? My people say He’s on the mountain. Your people say He’s in Jerusalem. I don’t know where he is.” Of all the places to find a hungry heart – Samaria? Of all the Samaritans to be searching for God – a woman? Of all the women to have an insatiable appetite for God – a five-time divorcee? And of all the people to be chosen to personally receive the secret of the ages, an outcast among outcasts? The most “insignificant” person in the region?

Jesus didn’t reveal the secret to King Herod, and he didn’t request an audience of the Sanhedrin and tell them the news. It wasn’t within the colonnades of a Roman court that he announced his identity. No, it was in the shade of a well in a rejected land to an ostracized woman. Jesus must have smiled, maybe even winked, when he said, “I AM the Messiah.”

Interestingly, the most important phrase in this chapter is one that can be so easily overlooked.  “The woman left her water jar beside the well and ran back to the village, telling everyone, ‘Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did! Could he possibly be the Messiah?’” And don’t miss the drama of the moment, either. Look at her eyes, wide with amazement. Listen to her as she struggles for the words. “Y-y-y-you a-a-a-are the M-m-m-messiah!” And watch as she scrambles to her feet, takes one last look at this grinning Nazarene, turns and runs right into the burly chest of Peter. She almost falls, but regains her balance and hotfoots it toward her hometown.

Did you notice what she forgot? Yep. She forgot her water jar. She left behind the jug that had caused the sag in her shoulders. She left behind the burden she brought. Suddenly the shame of the tattered romances disappeared. Suddenly the insignificance of her life was swallowed up by the significance of the moment. “God is here! God has come! God cares … for me! That’s why she forgot her water jar. That’s why she ran to the city. That’s why she grabbed the first person she saw and announced her discovery, “I just talked to a man who knows everything I ever did … and he loves me anyway!”

For some, the story of these two (2) women is touching, but distant. You belong. You’re needed, and you know it. You’ve got more friends than you can visit, and more tasks than you can accomplish. Insignificance will not be chiseled on your tombstone. Be thankful. But others are different. Some may have paused at the epitaph because, maybe, it’s their’s. They see the face of Grace Smith when they look in the mirror. They know why the Samaritan woman was avoiding people. They do the same thing.

They know what it’s like to have no one sit by them at the cafeteria, at the bus stop, or just about anywhere else. They’ve wondered what it would be like to have just one really good friend. They’ve been in love and wondered if it’s worth the pain to do it again. And they, too, have wondered where’s God!

Max Lucado recounts a story about his friend, Joy, who taught underprivileged children in an inner city church. Her class was a lively group of nine-year olds who loved life and weren’t afraid of God. There was one exception, however – a timid girl by the name of Barbara. Her difficult home life had left her afraid and insecure. For the weeks that Joy taught the class, Barbara never spoke. Never. While the other children talked, she sat. While the other children sang, Barbara was silent. While the others giggled and joked and rough-housed, Barbara was quiet. Always listening, but always speechless.

That was until one day when Joy taught a lesson on heaven. She talked about seeing God. She talked about tearless eyes and deathless lives. Barbara was fascinated and wouldn’t release Joy from her penetrating stare. And then she raised her hand. “Ms. Joy?” Joy was stunned. Barbara had never asked a question before. “Yes, Barbara?” “Is heaven for girls like me?”

A tiny, little prayer that had reached the throne of God. Yes, that was a prayer; an earnest prayer that a good God in heaven would remember a forgotten soul on earth. A prayer that God’s grace would seep into the cracks and cover one that the church had let slip through. A prayer to take a life that no one else could use and use it as no one else could. Not a prayer from the pulpit, but perhaps one from a bed in a convalescent home. Not a prayer prayed confidently by a black-robed seminarian, but one maybe whispered fearfully be a recovering addict. A prayer to do what God does best: to take the common and make it spectacular. To once again take the rod and divide the sea; to take a pebble and kill a Goliath; to take water and make sparkling wine; to take a peasant boy’s lunch and feed a multitude; to take mud and restore sight; to take three spikes and a wooden beam and make them the hope of humanity; to take a rejected woman and make her a missionary.

There’s two graves here. The first is the lonely one of Grace Llewellyn Smith.  She apparently didn’t know love. She didn’t know gratification. She knew only pain – of the chisel as it carved the epitaph of her life. The second is near a water well. The tombstone? A water jug. A forgotten water jug. It has no words, but has great significance – because it was the burial place of insignificance.

Grace,

Randy