Woman at the Well

(Woman comes out animatedly talking) I can't believe it!  I just can't believe it!  He actually TALKED to me—to ME!  And, He wasn't interested in this (motion outward appearances), He knew me (point in).  ME!  He knew me!  He knew all about what I had ever done.  Oh, just wait until they hear about this at home!  Will they ever be nervous!  He had the low down on it all, (pause) yet it didn't matter.  He talked with me.  He—a respected teacher—talked with me.  He told me all I had ever done.  I've got to share this with the people back home.

(glancing up and noticing the audience)  Oh, Hi.  I didn't notice you there.  You're probably wondering who I am, where I'm from and all of that—probably most importantly what I am babbling on about.  I must share with you about the man who told me all I have ever done.

I live in a village you probably have never heard of before, Sychar (Su-har) in the plain of Samaria.  No, you haven't heard of it.  Well, I think you would say it's located in modern day Jordan West Bank.  Our land has been fought over for years.  We got our land from our ancestor Jacob.  He gave it to his son Joseph.  All of Jacob's family moved to Egypt because of a famine and didn't come back until 400 years later.  They had to fight to get the land back.  They had relative peace for centuries then Assyria came and took most of my ancestors away.  They replaced them with other nations from far away.  The Jews who were left intermarried with these people.  We became half-breeds.  When Assyria left us in peace, Egypt decided on a tug of war over my homeland.  Then Greece came in and stomped us all to smithereens.  Finally, Rome came in.  They brought peace in my time.  What is that you say?  They're still fighting over my homeland?  It doesn't surprise me.

Well, to understand my story, you'll have to understand the culture I live in.  Being a mixture of peoples we decided to take things from both cultures; unfortunately, we don't fit in with either.  My people read the Torah of the Jews and took some of their rules and regulations and those became traditions.  But, they also took bits and pieces from the other cultures that became tradition too.  That is what caused the Jews to look down upon us.  The Jews won't talk to us, eat with us, or even pass through our land unless they absolutely have to.

Tradition is what runs my life—or it did when I was growing up.  Tradition said Papa would choose my husband.  Tradition dictated how it would go.  Papa looked for a good match—a man of wealth who would provide for me.  He found that man in Ali.  Ali was a kind, caring man, and our marriage was happy.  Life was good until Ali had an accident on a trip to Shechem.  The news reached me a day later.  I was left a widow and childless.  You see, the one sad spot in our marriage was that I had not provided Ali with a child.  Tradition said that a woman's job was to make a home and to bear children—specifically sons!  Tradition also said that if a husband died without sons, his brother was obligated to marry the wife and produce sons.

Neither Ali's brother nor I thought much of that idea, but tradition ruled.  So, Ahal and I were married.  Ahal though had his eyes on another young woman in our village.  He waited out the wedding week then started to look for "just cause" to divorce me.  He found his cause when he encountered me talking with another man in the market.  It was totally innocent, but it was all Ahal needed.  He made a writ of divorce and I found myself a widow and divorced within three weeks time.

The next brother then took me as his wife.  He was cruel and jealous.  I endured his treatment, but was looking for a way out.  That way out presented itself in the form of a handsome, dashing young man.  He was a stranger to our village and came to do some business.  My husband found me with Marcus walking alone out by the well after dark.  My husband wrote his bill of divorce and forced Marcus to marry me.  

Marcus wasn't interested in marriage!  He went back to his home and left me alone.  At least he provided me with a house.  Three months later divorce papers were sent with a merchant.  I was allowed to keep the house, but was left alone.  

It was about then that things started to change in my status with the women of the village.  Women aren't viewed well in my culture.  As I said, we're there to bear children and make a home for our husbands.  So, women bond together.  We gain friends and work together.  We go out to the well to gather water together; we do our laundry together.  These are times to laugh, cry, share, and gossip together.

Gossip!  How I hate that word.  When Ali died, talk started.  It wasn't much, but the occasional comment about no children.  Then Ahal's rejection brought a few more comments, but after my marriage to Marcus, the remarks that were made behind my back, were now made to my face.  This rejection from the women of my village, who I had grown up with as friends, caused me to look for affection and attention from men.  They'd give it to me, but it wasn't the attention I was longing for deep inside me.  After another failed marriage, I gave up on official relationships.  Short-term relationships became the norm.  With that choice, the women made it known I was not welcome at the well or doing laundry with them.

I soon took to sleeping in late in the morning.  That fit my lifestyle better and allowed me to make my trek to the well later in the day and alone.  I could enjoy the view from the well and could think.  The well became my place to reflect on my life and a sanctuary.

So, it was that today as I made my late morning trip to the well, I passed a group of Jewish men.  I could plainly see the look of disgust on their faces as they passed me heading into town.  I should have realized that my sanctuary was going to be shattered.  I never dreamed of what was waiting for me when I arrived at the well.

There he was just sitting there; a look of expectation on his face, as if he was waiting for me.  But that couldn't be—he was a Jew.  In fact, by his dress I realized he must be a teacher.  The Jewish men I had met on the read must be his students.  The thought of the look that those men had on their faces was the exact opposite of their teacher.  There was a look of love, of compassion, of innocence and yet all encompassing knowledge of life.  Then the unthinkable happened.  He asked ME for a drink of water!  He, a Jew, asked me a Samaritan Woman of all people for a drink of water.  Needless to say, I was flabbergasted.  I looked up at him and asked him—how do you a Jew ask me a Samaritan for a drink?  That first question should have clued me in that this was a different type of person.  The whole conversation became very extraordinary, for his next statement left me mystified.  He said, if you knew who it was that asked you, you would have asked HIM and he would have given you living water.  Now I knew he was a stranger, but even strangers have heard of Jacob's well.  This well was deep!  I pointed this out to him politely.  Sir, where would you give me water from?  This well is deep and you don't have anything with which to draw the water.  (I had to ask this next question.  Jews always were trying to say they were so much better than us Samaritans.)  So, I asked are you greater than our father Jacob who dug this well and from which he, his sons and his cattle all drank.  His reply was intriguing.  He really didn't even address my dig at him about being greater than Jacob.  He just said that anyone who drinks from the water in the well would be thirsty again.  Anyone who drank from his water would never thirst again, and besides all that, his water would spring forth for eternal life.  Well, I didn't know about eternal life, but the part about not being thirsty was quite intriguing.  I didn't mind the trek to the well; it was the trip home that was always the worst.  I now had to carry the heavy jar full of water back the quarter mile to the house.  This idea of never again being thirsty had my attention.  Sir, I said, please give me this water so I don't have to come here again and draw water.  He replied, Go, call your husband, and come here.  What did that have to do with anything!  Unless, I thought, he must be like the Jews and the rest of my society that doesn't work with women, just the men.  I had thought maybe since he talked with me, he wouldn't be that way.  Well, I told him, I don't have a husband.  His reply shook me up; I had spent years building up a wall around my emotions, and with just one statement, he had that wall part way torn down.  He said, you have spoken truthfully when you said you have no husband, because you have had five husbands and the man you now are living with is not your husband.  How could he have known this?!  I couldn't believe what I heard!  Sure, everyone in town knew about my history, but this was a Jewish teacher!  There was absolutely no way he could have found out about me—unless, he had to be a prophet!  I wasn't going to let him see how he had caved in my emotional wall; so, outwardly calm, I said, "Sir, it appears to me that you are a prophet."  Then I figured I could get him away from my past and my problems with the age-old religious argument that the teachers—both Jewish and Samaritan—had fought over for years.  I said, you Jews say that we are to worship in Jerusalem, but we have always said here on Mt. Gerezim is the place to worship.  This question was bound to take the pressure off me.  It would make it appear that I really cared about where to worship and he would stop talking about my husbands or lack thereof.  This teacher astounded me again.  He said it's not in Jerusalem or on Mt. Gerezim that people are to worship God.  He said true worshipers of God must worship him in spirit and in truth.  I wasn't sure what all that meant but it wasn't what I was expecting.  I had expected him to go on about Jerusalem being the place to worship.  Instead, he said that worship came from inside and didn't mater where it was done.

Well, I was ready to brush him off and get my water and leave.  This guy wasn't helping me in that matter.  So, I decided to end the conversation.  I had heard all my life about one sent from God who would tell us how we should live.  One day, this one, the Messiah, is what he was called, would come.  No one knew when, and I half expected it was another one of those religious tricks to get kids, and those who would fall for that stuff, to obey the rules.  But, talking about the Messiah usually ended a conversation, for who could argue with the one sent from God.  So, I said, when the Messiah, the sent one, comes, he'll tell us all about this.  It was my way of ending the conversation, and with any other person it would have, but it didn't end this conversation.  That emotional wall I had built up was completely crumbled with his next simple statement.  It wasn't a long drawn out statement; it was short and to the point.  He told me, I am the Messiah.  The one who speaks with you, is the sent one.

There was no way to keep my mouth shut.  It had to have fallen almost to my knees!  No one ever claimed to be the Messiah!  I knew there had been Jewish teachers who had claimed to be the sent one, but none of them had EVER come to Samaria!  Then there was the fact that he knew all I had ever done!  Only a prophet could do that!  Besides, there was really only one real prophet—the one sent from God to tell us how to live.  This man had done that!  He said, I needed his water and I needed to worship God with truth!  This man must be the Messiah—the one sent from God!  I turned and ran back to the village.  I barely even realized that the men who had passed me heading to town were now back staring openly at their teacher talking to a Samaritan woman.  I didn't have time to let that thought sink in, but later as I have thought about it, it was rather funny to see the looks on their faces.

Well, I haven't made it to the village—it's just over there.  I have got to go tell the men that I met a man who told me all I have ever done.  I will ask them if they think it is the Messiah—the sent one.  Good-bye.