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