The whole event was entirely confusing. Beginning. Middle. End. She had questions about every part of it. Like, why was he even there in the first place? What was a Jewish man doing parked by a well in Samaria? He didn’t have to be there. Didn’t have to travel this way. Didn’t have to pass through Samaritan land at all. Although not as direct, there were other routes to travel between Judea and Galilee. Known routes. Common paths. Many Jews chose them, preferring their inconvenient length over possible contact with the Samaritans. This path was a choice. An intentional choice. He had purposely chosen to travel this way.
Stopping in the middle of Samaritan territory at a popular well was also a choice. An interesting decision for a lone Jewish man in enemy land. He clearly wasn’t trying to sneak through unnoticed. Not sitting by the well. That would only get him noticed. A lot. All the women came there. Mostly in the morning and evening. Midday wasn’t usually so busy. Unless you were avoiding the other women. Unless you were the outcast, the laughingstock, the socially unclean among them. Unless you wanted to draw your water unseen, unheard, unnoticed. Then you went to the well at midday. When the sun was high, and the heat was suffocating. When no one else would be there. When you didn’t have to endure the hard stares, the side-eye, the whispers, the obvious insults. Noon was the perfect time to draw water if you were someone like that. And she was.
Life’s circumstances had forced her to make some hard decisions. Apparently she wasn’t good at it. Her choices hadn’t all been stellar. She had upset some people. Made a name for herself. Built a reputation. Not a good one. No one wanted to associate with her. No one reputable, anyway. Women lucky enough to stay married to the same man for several years looked pretentiously down their noses at her. Men leered as if counting the days until the next unfortunate event put her back on the market. Death or divorce. They didn’t really seem to care which. She knew she should be grateful someone always stepped up to marry her or take her as their new partner. She was. Sort of. It kept her off the street. It had also stolen every ounce of her dignity, robbed her self-respect, and drained her self-esteem. Try as she might, every time she looked in a mirror or saw her reflection in a bowl of still, clear water, she saw the same thing the local women saw. A fallen woman. Dirty. Disgusting. Disgraced. The dregs of society. A person not worthy of their kindness, their inclusion, their time.
She couldn’t really blame them for their ostracization. In their position, she might do the same. Association with her would mark them as well. Put them in the same position. One of being outcast, rejected, snubbed. It could harm their own reputations, their husband’s businesses. Interaction with her was a detriment to their lifestyles. She knew it. She didn’t judge. She did her best to stay out of their way. Make life as easy on everyone as possible. Men and women alike. Kept her socialization minimal, her head down, tried to stay invisible. Yet, despite her best efforts, here was this man, sitting by the well, when it was her time to draw water.
Approaching slowly, she cautiously watched him from the corner of her eye. He was obviously Jewish, but didn’t seem to be looking for trouble. Didn’t appear to be a criminal. Didn’t seem to be trolling for a companion. Instead, he looked exhausted. From travelling, she assumed. He didn’t appear chronically ill or in the throes of a medical emergency. He didn’t seem malnourished. His pallor was good, his hair combed, his clothes neat. Maybe he really did just need a rest and chose to pop a squat by the city well. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t let it stop her. This was her watering time. She wasn’t in a terrible rush, but she did want to be quick. Squaring her shoulders, she resolutely stepped forward, ignoring his presence as any decent Samaritan would do, and began to lower her bucket into the well with meticulous care.
His softly spoken words startled her. Had her jumping, nearly dropping the bucket. Not the request itself. That was not alarming. He asked for a drink. Politely. It was the fact he spoke to her at all that shocked her. He must be severely dehydrated. Desperate for water. Otherwise he surely wouldn’t have spoken. Not to her. Because he was a Jew. Because she was a Samaritan. Because everyone, everywhere seemed to recognize the social disgrace that surrounded her. Because no one ever spoke to her at the well. But Jesus did. He asked for a drink of water. Kindly. Calmly. Without presumption or pretension. And the questions in her brain tumbled out of her mouth before she could filter them. Why was he talking to her? Was he unaware of the social standoff between Jews and Samaritans? Why was he asking her for a drink?
Jesus’ response only deepened her confusion. After having asked her to give him a drink of water, He offered to give her water. Different water. Special water. Living water. Better water than was in the well before them. Water that would quench her thirst. Eternally. It sounded like a work of fiction. Felt like he was baiting her, taunting her. Indignation rose up alongside her confusion and loosened her lips even more. She let loose with a volley of questions. If the man had water, why had he asked her to give him a drink? Why had he made a point of talking to her if he could fulfill his own needs? And how, exactly, was he going to give her water? He was travelling light. No bucket. No rope. Nothing to lower into the well and draw up water. She didn’t even see a canteen. He didn’t have water with him. So where was he getting this special water? And how, without trying the water from the well, could he say he had better water than what had been coming from this well since the time of their ancestors?
No part of his story made sense to her. She couldn’t see how it could possibly be true. But she couldn’t completely discard it, either. If this man had better water, water that would quench her thirst forever, water that would reduce her need to make this particularly unpleasant journey every day, she absolutely wanted it. Right now.
Impatiently waiting for him to produce this miracle water, her heart sunk to her toes at Jesus’ next words. Her past, with its series of unpleasant events, popped up to plague her. Again. He wanted her to go get her husband. The husband she didn’t have. Not currently. Hope died within her at his words. This would be the end of it. There would be no living water for her. She knew how this would go. No one ever looked past the mess behind her. The five husbands. The current cohabitating partner. The blight on her character. The disreputable reputation. The uncleanness. No one saw more than that. No one talked to her after hearing it. No one who already knew it gave her the slightest acknowledgement. She wouldn’t be getting the thirst-quenching water. She knew it. She was too dirty. Too disgusting. Too disgraced.
Resting her bucket on the edge of the well, she swallowed the despairing sob swelling in her throat and assessed the man before her. He must be a prophet. What other explanation could there be? How else could He know all those things about her? He had to have some divine inspiration. Had to have been told in advance. But if He already knew, why was He still sitting there talking? To her? No one did that. No one kept interacting with her once they knew her story. But Jesus did. He had not chosen that route on a whim. He had not stopped by that well because it was the only resting place. No. It was all on His divine itinerary. An appointment with grace for a woman in disgrace. This specific interaction with that particular Samaritan woman on that precise day beside that exact well was definitively where He was intended to be. A heavenly pitstop orchestrated by God.
You see, Jesus wasn’t in Samaria, near Sychar, beside Jacob’s well on accident. He wasn’t in a hurry, necessitating that route. He hadn’t left too late in the day or dawdled along the way, forcing a stop there. Jesus was there on purpose, at that specific time of day, when no other women would be about, the exact time when that one, nameless woman would come to the well in search of water. Jesus wanted to talk. To her. Specifically. Individually. He wanted to speak with this woman who was outcast by society, shunned by neighbors, stuck in the cycle of questionable choices. He had things to tell her. About herself. About Himself. Things He hadn’t outright said to others. Things like His identity. He was the Messiah. And this shunned woman who had been through nearly half a lineup of husbands and was currently cohabitating with a man who was not on that list was the first person to whom Jesus specifically revealed His identity. Of all the people who were expecting the Messiah, the devout law observers, the priests and religious leaders, even His own disciples, God chose a Samaritan woman whose character was suspect and whose past was dodgy to be the first person to get confirmation of His identity. “I am the Messiah.” (John 4:3-26; John 3:17)
Essentially, Jesus said to her, “I am the One everyone has been waiting for. I am the One who came to take away your sin and offer you hope. I am the answer to the desperate cries of your heart.” At that moment, she had to know this meeting was not a mistake. Not at all. It was an appointment written in divine ink on the calendar of Heaven. An appointment Jesus was happy to keep. Because that is what He does. That is why He came. That was His mission on earth and His message as He ascended. When Jesus told His disciples to go everywhere they could to anyone they could, spreading the gospel as far as they could, He was sending Himself to every person on earth. The lost. The lonely. The least. The last. Those forgotten by society, rejected by humanity, disdained and disrespected for their obvious failures and inordinately poor choices were absolutely included. Those were the people Jesus was trying to reach. People like you. People like me. Because that is what Jesus does. (John 10:10; Mark 16:15; Acts 1:8; Revelation 22:17)
Into our darkness and despair, our loneliness and lostness, Jesus comes. Purposely. He comes to where we are. Meets us where our schedule places us. He speaks to us when no one else will, accepts us when people reject us, fills the emptiness in our hearts left by the betrayals of others. He clears our vision. Changes our lives. Draws us to Himself and leads us to faith in Him. Encourages us to throw our sins on His shoulders, acknowledge our need, and accept His redemptive grace. Teaches us to lean on Him. Trust Him. With our lives. In every season of our lives. That is why Jesus comes. To talk to us. To live in us. To walk with us. Daily. Individually. Wherever we are. Whoever we are. Whatever we have become due to circumstances beyond our control or choices within our command, Jesus meets us where we are and speaks to us when society says we are too dirty, too broken, too wasted to deserve a second of His time, a moment of His grace, an increment of His love. Jesus openly disagrees with society because we are the reason He came. (Matthew 9:12; Luke 5:32; 12:6-7; I Timothy 1:15; John 3:16)
Jesus had no human reason to be at that well. There were no celebrities to meet, no public engagement with crowds to feed and people to heal, no group of children to bless. The only person there was that one scarred, scared, scandalous woman. She was the reason He was there. Her name was on Jesus’ schedule. In bold print. An appointment with grace for a daughter in shame. That is the lesson from the well. When everyone has written us off, determined us lost, decided we are irreparably damaged by the choices we made in the worst times of our lives, when they exclude us, ignore us, reject us, refuse us, Jesus comes to us. On purpose. Wherever we are. Makes us an offer too good to refuse. The water of life to cleanse our lives for the rest of our lives and give us eternal life in the afterlife. That is the reason He came. (Luke 19:10; I John 4:14; I Samuel 2:8; Psalm 113:7-8; John 7:37-38; Revelation 21:6)