Grace Unmasked

 

Grace Unmasked

Grace Unmasked - Audio/Visual (@23:30)

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….”

“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; 8-10; 25-26; 28-29)

The property is like a lot of others holding its own against a river of progress and tract homes. It’s a cemetery, where hundreds of tombstones stand and one of them announcing the location of Grace Llewellyn Smith. No date of birth is listed. No date of death is given. Just the names of her two husbands and this epitaph: Sleeps, but rests not. Loved, but was loved not. Tried to please, but pleased not. Died as she lived – alone. It makes you wonder about Grace’s life. Did she write the words, or did she live them? Was she bitter? Was she beaten? Was she plain? Was she beautiful? Why are some lives so fruitful, while others so futile? For Grace it probably meant long nights, empty beds and the sound of silence. No response to her countless messages and letters; no love returned in exchange for a love she’d given. She tried to please and utterly failed.

How many people will die in loneliness? Maybe it’s the homeless person, or the happy hour hopper; maybe the bag lady at the local grocery store. It could be anyone who doubts whether the world needs them. It’s anyone who’s convinced that nobody really cares. Someone who’s been given a ring, but not a heart; criticism, instead of a chance; a bed, but no rest. These are the victims of futility. And unless someone intervenes, unless something happens, Grace’s epitaph will be theirs, too. That’s why John’s story is so significant. It’s the story of another epitaph of a sort. But this time the tombstone doesn’t mark the death of a person – it marks her birth. It’s about Grace - unmasked.

Her eyes squint against the noonday sun. Her shoulders stoop under the weight of a water jug. She keeps her eyes down so she can dodge the stares of others. She’s a Samaritan and knows the sting of racism; she’s a woman who’s bumped her head on the ceiling of sexism. She’s been married to five men, and her current partner won’t even give her his name, just a place to sleep. On that particular day, she came to the well at noon, perhaps to avoid the other women in town. For her, a walk in the hot sun was a small price to pay to escape their sharp tongues. “Shhhhhh, here she comes. They say she’ll sleep with anyone.” She expected silence. She expected solitude. Instead, she found someone who knew her better than she knew herself. But he was obviously Jewish, so what was he doing here? Then their eyes met, hers quickly ducking in embarrassment and focused on what she came for. She tried to ignore him.

Sensing her discomfort, Jesus asked her for water. But she was too streetwise to think that was all he wanted. And her intuition was correct – sort of. He was interested in more than water, alright. He was interested in her heart. And so they talked. Who could remember the last time a man had spoken to her with respect? He told her about a spring of water that would quench her soul, not her throat, and that kind of water 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 responded, “Go, call your husband and come back.” (John 4:15-16) 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 thought about lying. “My husband? He’s at the office.” Or, maybe she wanted to change the subject. Or then again maybe she just wanted to turn and run away. But she didn’t. She stayed and told the truth: “I have no husband.”

Aren’t there times when we want to take our masks off? Don’t we sometimes want to stop pretending? Don’t we occasionally wonder what God would do if we opened up and revealed who we really are, even though he knows already? This woman did, but she probably wondered what Jesus would do when he heard. She must have wondered if the kindness would cease when the truth came out. And Jesus’ response? “You’re right. You’ve had five husbands and the man you’re with now won’t even give you his name.” What? No criticism? No anger? No what-kind-of-a-mess-have-you-made-of-your-life lecture? No, none of that because it wasn’t perfection that Jesus was seeking. It was honesty. The woman was amazed and said, “I can see that you’re a prophet.” Translation? “There’s something different about you. Do you mind if I ask you something?” And then she asked the question that revealed the gaping hole in her heart: “Where’s God? My people say he’s on the mountain. Your people say he’s in Jerusalem. I’m confused. I don’t know where he is.” (vs. 20)

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 divorcé. And of all the people to be chosen to personally receive the secret of the ages – an outcast among outcasts. Jesus must have smiled when he said, “I Am the Messiah.” And with that the most important phrase in this story is 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?’” (vs. 28-29) Don’t miss the drama of the moment. Look at her eyes, wide with amazement. Watch as she scrambles to her feet, takes one last look at the Nazarene, turns and probably runs right into Peter just returning from the local In-N-Out with burgers and some fries – animal style.

Did you notice what she forgot? She forgot her water jar. She left behind the jug that had caused the sag in her shoulders. She left behind the burden that she’d brought. Suddenly the shame of her tattered romances disappeared. Suddenly the insignificance of her life was swallowed up by the significance of the moment. “God is here! God has come! And 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 women may be touching but distant – distant because maybe you belong; you’ve got more friends than you can visit. Insignificance will not be chiseled on your tombstone. And if that’s you, be thankful. But for others it may be different. We’ve paused at the epitaph because, well . . . maybe it resembles what could be our own. We see the face of Grace Llewellyn Smith when we look into the mirror. We know why the Samaritan woman was avoiding people. We know what it’s like to have no one sit by us at the cafeteria, or at the local Starbucks, or just about any place. We’ve wondered what it would be like to have just one really good friend. And we’ve sometimes wondered, “Where’s God in all of this?” That was Barbara’s question.

Joy teaches Sunday school to underprivileged children in an inner-city church. One year her class was a lively group of nine-year olds who loved life and weren’t afraid of God – with one exception. Barbara. Her difficult home life had left her afraid and insecure. For the many weeks that Joy taught the class, Barbara never spoke. Ever. While the other children talked, she sat. While the other children sang, Barbara was silent. Always present. Always listening. But always speechless. That was until one day when Joy taught a lesson on heaven. She talked about seeing God. Barbara was fascinated and wouldn’t release Joy from her penetrating stare. She listened with a hunger that Joy had never seen before. Then she raised her 9-year-old hand. “Ms. Joy?” Joy was stunned. Barbara had never asked a question. “Yes, Barbara?” “Is heaven for girls like me?”

A tiny prayer that had reached the throne of God. An earnest prayer that a good God in heaven would remember a forgotten soul on earth. A prayer that God’s grace would seep through the cracks and cover someone the church had let slip through. A prayer to take a life that no one else could use and use it like no one else could. Not a prayer from the pulpit, but one from a bed in a convalescent home. Not a prayer prayed confidently by a preacher, but one whispered fearfully by a recovering addict. A prayer to do what God does best – taking the common and making it spectacular. Taking water and making wine; taking a peasant boy’s lunch and feeding a multitude; taking mud and restoring sight; taking three spikes and a wooden beam and making them the hope of humanity; taking a rejected Samaritan woman and making her the first missionary.

There are two graves in the story. The first is the lonely one belonging to Grace Llewellyn Smith. She apparently didn’t know love. She probably didn’t know gratification. She likely knew only the pain of the chisel as it carved the epitaph of her life. The second is near a well with a water jug for a tombstone. It has no words but bears great significance – it’s the place where grace was unmasked.

Grace,

Randy