Exodus 17:1-7; Psalm 95; Romans 5:1-11; John 4:5-42
The Rev. Candice B. Frazer
Since the age of eight, she had come to the well every day to draw water. When she was little, she took the responsibility very seriously, which is why her mother soon gave her the job. She knew how important water was for the life of the family. They needed it to drink, to cook, to wash plates and pots, clothes and bodies.
In her youth she came in the morning, when the other women of the town gathered to collect water. There she heard all the gossip and goings-on of the town. She also heard the stories of her ancestors—especially Jacob, who had dug the well and given it to his son.
As the years passed, she fell in love and was married. Now she drew water for her own family. She no longer simply listened to the goings-on of the town—she participated in the gossip. Her days were filled with laughter and friendship, and her nights with love. Life was perfect.
Until the accident.
She was cooking dinner when they brought him home. His wounds required more water than she had to clean them. First one woman, and then another, appeared at her door bringing water, food, and cloth to bind his wounds. They helped her care for him.
He was so thirsty. But she had been warned to give him only small sips of water, for too much might cause further harm. She was diligent, careful in every detail. But it was not enough. The water would not quench his thirst, the bleeding would not stop, and he died in her arms.
She sat shiva—the mourning practice of the Jews. After all, she was Jewish, even if she was also a Samaritan. For seven days she sat on a low stool inside the door of her home. People came and went. Her friends tried to get her to eat. They drew water for her, but it was hard for her to drink. Tears leaked from her eyes and crept down her cheeks. She could not stop crying. The water of life seemed to slowly recede from her.
When the mourning period was over, her father came and brought her back to her childhood home. Soon an older man, a widow, from the town came to her father and asked for her hand in marriage. He was gentle and kind and provided a good home. But she did not love him—at least not as she had loved her first husband.
She went back to the well every day, though a little later in the morning now. The joy of gossip felt emptier, especially since she knew she had become the center of it. but tragedy did not stay away for long. Soon her second husband fell ill and died.
She married for a third time. But this husband was a cruel man. When she came to the well, she often had bruises on her face. She would not look at the other women, much less gossip with them. There was no laughter left in her eyes or in her heart.
When her father heard what was happening, he and the elders of the town came and took her away from her husband. They granted her a divorce. She felt shame, but her father’s love sustained her.
Now she no longer drew water early in the morning or even in mid-morning. She came later and later to the well. The women she met there always had a kind word for her, but the tragedies of her life had made her quiet. She no longer gossiped or shared in the life of the town.
She met her fourth husband at the well. He was a shepherd watering his flock when she came one afternoon. Soon he began to meet her there regularly, and little by little he coaxed laughter from her again. She found new life and a new spirit. They were married.
He was a religious man, and they went regularly to the synagogue. They even dreamed of traveling to Jerusalem one day to visit the Temple. But alas, it was not to be.
Their habit was to meet at the well in the afternoons when he brought his flock to be watered. Sometimes she arrived early and bathed with water from the well to freshen herself after the day’s work, hoping to look her best when he arrived. He was dependable. He always came to the well at the same time every day. But on this day, he did not come.
She looked to the hills watching for him. Every shadow that moved across the grass tricked her into believing he would appear. Time slipped by. The sun dipped lower and lower. Soon it would be night.
Others came to the well as she waited, but no one knew where her husband might be. The men cautioned her to return home before dark. They tried to reassure her that sometimes the flock stayed out overnight.
But she knew something was not right. And she could not leave the well.
She stayed there all night, watching and waiting. Morning came, and still there was no sign of her husband. The women began arriving in the early light. Word had already begun to spread that he had not returned. They tried to comfort her. They gave her water from the well to drink. But she was beyond comfort.
By afternoon, word came that the flock had been found—but her husband was not with them. The men brought back his shepherd’s crook, the seamless tunic he liked to wear as an outer garment, the satchel where he carried cheese and bread for lunch, and one of his sandals. But they could find nothing more.
His disappearance was a mystery. Perhaps a wild beast had taken him. Roman soldiers had been seen in the area recently, though no one wanted to say that aloud.
Still she waited.
Day after day she returned to the well in the late afternoon, lingering until dusk. The men pitied her but could give her no hope. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. And still she came to the well.
It was over a year later when she met the man who became her fifth husband—though they could not marry, for her fourth husband was neither confirmed dead nor divorced from her. No one faulted her. Her life had been filled with too much tragedy.
The once joyful girl was now older and careworn. Her face was lined and her hair had begun to gray, though she was not yet forty. Her skin—like her spirit—felt dry and tired. She noticed her hair beginning to fall out and wondered if she might soon be bald, which would only deepen her skeletal appearance.
Laughter ceased when she entered a room. People whispered around her as if she were already dying. She began going to the well at noon—the hottest part of the day—when no one else was there.
Once the responsibility of drawing water had empowered her and given her purpose, friendship, and life. Now it was simply a drudgery. The well no longer promised life. There was no more laughter.
One day, when she arrived, she saw a man sitting beside the well. He was a Jew. Though he looked tired from travel, he seemed to radiate a light and energy she had once known long ago. When he asked her for a drink of water, she was taken aback. Jews did not often associate with Samaritans—even though they shared common ancestors—and they certainly did not ask them for favors. Still, she would not deny him water. But she wondered what kind of Jew would lower himself to speak to someone beneath his station. When she questioned him, his answer was absurd—and a little cryptic.
He told her that she should be asking him for water—living water, he called it. But he had no bucket. And wasn’t he the one who had just asked her for a drink? She felt as though this Jew might simply be trying to assert his superiority over her. Well then. She would challenge him. “Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?” (At the mention of flocks, a pang went through her heart as she remembered her lost husband.) But his reply gave her hope.
Something within her—something that had long been dry and hard—began to crack. The faintest trickle of joy began to flow. Could he really give her water that would quench the thirst within her? Enough water that she might never again have to return to this well of grief and pain?
But that was not the water he meant. Instead, he told her the truth of her life—her five husbands, of which the fifth she was not even married to, the tragedy and despair that had gripped her heart and imprisoned her soul for so many years. As his words, the truth of her story, washed over her, she discovered something astonishing: She was no longer ashamed. She felt liberated from her shame and pain and grief. She was free.
Could it be? Should she ask? Dare she not ask? She spoke carefully, “Sir, I know that the Messiah is coming.”
And he answered her plainly. “I am he.”
This was the living water.
Her pain, her sorrow, her shame—all of it washed away. Liberation flowed through her like a river. Without another thought, she left her water jar behind and ran back to the city. “Come and see!” she cried. “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He could not be the Messiah? Could he?”
And the Good News spread: the Savior of the world was among them.
The man at the well watched her go, his heart full.
Later, when his disciples returned and urged him to eat, he was not hungry. He had already been fed. For his food, he told them, was to do the will of the one who sent him.
Amen.