You gotta say this for President Bush—his visit to Africa last week must have stirred up a lot of good will towards the
Although, come to think of it, I never posted an online help wanted ad. And I don’t have any products to sell. And no website either. And I suppose that thing with the bank account is bogus too, don’t you think? Ah, pity. For a minute there, I was thinking—can this be it? The answer to my prayers, the solution to my problems, the long-awaited hero who will make everything right? I was thinking: “This can’t be it, can it?”
Can it? Obviously not in these scenarios. You’d be a fool to think otherwise. But sometimes, it’s harder to tell what’s the real deal. When the lines are blurrier and the details much more plausible, then—then it becomes an exercise in cold, clear logic versus against pure, unbridled optimism. And logic always has the upper hand. Because we are trained skeptics. We have been programmed by our modern world to be analytical, critical thinkers—to question all aspects of the miraculous, to pick apart the heroes motivations, to find the catch in everything and anything.
What’s the old saying, “If it sounds too good to be true…it probably is. Probably. That’s where the difficulty comes in. “Probably” shuts the door, but leaves the window open a crack, giving just enough room so that hoping against hype, we may just be able to place our tentative trust in something not readily verifiable. Probably can’t be—can it?
So it was for one Samaritan woman on a hot summer’s day by Jacob’s well. She had come in the heat of the noonday, not by choice—for fetching water was a morning and evening chore for the women—better to draw and carry in the cool of the day. No, she was there in the hottest part of the day because that was the only time she was sure no one else would be there. Be there to remark upon her living arrangements, to gossip loudly about her string of husbands, or to speculate on the reasons for both. She had heard all of them already—she was a prostitute, or she was barren, or she had a demon—take your choice, they all hurt. Coming for water at this hour was worth it for the solitude.
But as she approaches the well, she sees someone is there. But no matter—it is a man. He’ll not even acknowledge her, much less speak with her. She couldn’t have been more wrong. For less than five minutes later, she will be revealed for who she really is—and he will reveal, for the first time ever, his true identity. To her. A Samaritan. A Samaritan woman. A Samaritan woman who lived with a man out of wedlock.
Oh, there was bantering back and forth before they got there. He asking for water. She wondering out loud why he, a Jewish man, would want water from her. He offering her living water that would satisfy thirst forever. She asking for that water so she’d never need come to the dreaded well again. He revealing her history and present living arrangements. She retreating behind a practical theology question. He giving her a surprising answer. She mentioning the Messiah. He telling her, “That’s me.”
And then, suddenly, something that was too good to be true—that God’s anointed one would appear to her, a troubled woman on the edges of society, at a well in Samaria, in the form of an itinerant rabbi—something way too outrageous to be true, just maybe is. Possibly is. Perhaps is. Is it? She runs off to the city, leaving her water jar behind, and telling everyone she meets, not afraid of what they think now--“Come meet a man who told me everything I’ve ever done. He can’t be the Messiah—can he?”
Well, can he? That’s the basis for the questions we wonder about still today, even knowing what we know about Jesus. We say to ourselves: I’m a wreck—Jesus can’t love me, can he? Or: He can’t bring real meaning to my life—can he? Or: he can’t heal my child who’s ill—can he? Or: What I’ve done is bad—he can’t forgive me—can he?
Can he? That’s a question born of faith. Faith sprouting from amazement. We usually ask such questions when we’re surprised by Jesus, like the Samaritan woman was. Jesus surprised her first by interacting with her, then by telling her about herself, and then by offering her living water—despite the first two.
Jesus surprises us first by showing up. He does so in unexpected form, in all kinds of circumstances—like a woman bringing you a meal after your hospital stay, like a card of condolence at the death of your uncle, like a teen with a snow shovel clearing your roof, like someone to cry with you over the demise of your favorite teddy bear in the washer-dryer. Jesus shows up. You may or may not recognize him. But he shows up.
Jesus surprises us by telling us all about ourselves. Not just the good things we’re proud of and show to the world. Also the things we’re ashamed of and would never let see the light of day. Things we don’t confess to ourselves, much less anyone else. Things we thought no one knew. But Jesus knows, and no matter how much we maneuver away from and dance around the truth—the truth remains. “You’ve had five husbands and the one you’re living with now is not your husband.” Insert your sin here. Surprise!
Jesus then shocks the hell out of us. And I say that quite literally because Jesus’ final surprise is that while we are still sinners he offers us that living water he told the woman at the well about. He drives the hold and threat of hell out of us with the power and promise of the cross, renews and restores us from the fountain of God’s love, and then he turns us loose in the world on a mission to tell the world to be on the lookout for him. To be looking for Jesus. Because he shows up. Freely. Unbidden. Powerfully. Graciously.
I know, I know. It sounds too good to be true. And if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. But not in this case. In this case, it’s too good not to be true. It’s so counter cultural, counter intuitive, and counter productive, that no one could have possibly made it up. They would have done a much better job if they had.
I mean, who ever heard of a god who gives up his life for those who, by their actions, are opposed to him?
Whoever heard of a god who breaks the sinful boundaries of human society bursting the bonds of racism, sexism, ageism, and any number of other –isms—to reach out in love and respect to someone different?
Whoever heard of a god who dispenses forgiveness and favor both lavishly and gracefully, without concern for who you are or what you’ve done?
Whoever heard of such a god? You have—his name is Jesus. You have—and his forgiveness is yours in the tangible form of bread and wine. You have—and he gave his life that you might live with God. You have heard of such a God.
And now that you’ve gotten your water from the well, it’s time to turn around and head back into the community with what you’ve encountered rushing off your lips. Come and see! Come and see! See a place where everyone doesn’t get along all the time, but that doesn’t keep them from being brothers and sisters. Come and see a place where you can reveal your inner hurts and not be brushed aside, but cared for. Come and see a place where everybody knows my name—cause I wear a nametag to help visitors get to know me. Come and see. Come and drink of the living water that satisfies forever.
We are filled up and sent out. Into the harvest. And we will, like the Samaritan woman, by our excitement and exuberance, attract people to this place. And we will bring people to this place where Christ can meet them. And not just a few. Many.
How do I know? Because I have faith that the time is right, the place is right, the people are right—everything is right now for an abundant harvest.
And Jesus cannot be willing it—can he?
No comments:
Post a Comment