We all know the story as we do many of the stories of Jesus' interaction. They are generally clipped and detail is scant. We are encouraged to think; to dig some so our perspective becomes richer. Here is a take which aids in that richness.
WOMAN AT THE WELL
HER STORY
Beverly Beem
THE WOMAN INTRODUCES HERSELF:
I don't know how you good folks could have heard about me, unless it was from that book that John wrote, the one about Jesus. You must have read it. Remember? "I am the Vine. I am the bread. I am the Way, the Truth, the Life." There's no doubt about it. It just grabs my heart.
And not the least of all because I am in it. Can you believe it? Me? Of all the hundreds of conversations that Jesus had, of all the thousands of people that Jesus met, John would tell about me. I can't hide the fact that I'm as pleased as punch about that.
But does something strike you a little strange about the way John tells my story? Did you notice? John is telling my story. And he leaves out my name! Thirteen times. Count them. Thirteen times he calls me "The Woman." You would think that just once he could slip in my name, like it would destroy the narrative flow or something.
Well, before we go any further, I want you to know my name. My mother did not call me The Woman at the Well. I have an old and honored name among my people. My name is Tamara.
I bet some of you know what this feels like. You don't have names either. You, too, are the Girl. The gal, the guy. But you know something, Jesus knew my name. And I am here to tell you about the day that I met Jesus.
COMING TO THE WELL:
I came to the well late that day. All right. So. I came to the well late that day. For twenty centuries, male commentators have been making hay over that. She came late to the well. Now, let's see How many reasons can you think of why a person might be running late? Do you want to hear what they come up with? I'll tell you. I have been collecting their comments for years. I've got a file. I don't mean to brag, but, well, the truth is, I am a bit of a scholar. So, here they are, why the woman was late to the well.
She's a social outcast.
She's too ashamed to be seen in public.
She doesn't get along with the other women.
And how can they say all this stuff about my character? Well, She's been Married Five Times. TSK. TSK.
Garbage. All of it. Slander is what it is. I want you to know that I am an important and influential person in my community. I have ideas about things, and I speak my mind. And people listen to me, too. Social Outcast. My hind foot.
Do you want to know why I came late to the well that day? I'll tell you.
It was Divine Providence. That's what it was. Have you ever read that in any of your commentaries? But think about it. The Word was made Flesh. Right? That's what John says. Well, I'm here to tell you that the Flesh was thirsty. Now, would the heavenly Father sit up there on his throne and let his Son dry up and blow away in the desert heat? I think not. So, he comes down, and he looks through all the city of Sychar, and he picks out me. And he guides me through my day until I arrive at just the right place at the right moment to give his Son a drink of water when he needs it. Stuff that in your commentaries.
These guys are just like the disciples. I'll never forget the look on their faces when they come back and find Jesus and me deep in conversation. Jesus is telling me things he has been trying to tell them for years. But they don't get it. They don't know what he's talking about. But I get it. I know what he's talking about. I had been studying the prophecies for years. All my life, I had been getting ready for this conversation.
But do they see any of that? They do not. All they see is "The Woman." And their brains spin into neutral. Their thought processes screech to a halt. They reach into their grab bag of stereotypes and pull out "Slut," and in a moment, they have me boxed, labeled, and shipped out the door.
But Jesus didn't put me in any box. He didn't slap me with any labels.
THE WOMAN MEETS JESUS:
I hardly noticed him at first. He was sitting by the well. Alone. Hot. The sun beating on his head. Thirsty. Clearly thirsty. I would gladly have given him a drink right then and there, but I didn't dare. I was a woman. I couldn't do anything to help him. Just to look at him could be taken as an insult. So, tough luck, man. I just fixed my gaze on the horizon and went about my work.
And then I heard his voice. He was speaking to me. I looked up. He was looking at me. And when my eyes met His, they didn't dart away.
"Give me a drink," he said. Just like that. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was thirsty. I had water. So... Give me a drink.
It took me a minute to recover myself. This man had just toppled two social barriers like the walls of Jericho to speak to me. No way was going to hand him a drink of water and watch him ride off into the sunset. I had to know who he was.
So I'm not shy. I come right out and ask him. "What's the deal? How come you a man, ask help from me, a woman? How come you, a Jew, speak to me, a Samaritan?"
You know, his eyes sort of brightened at my questions. He looked at me more intently, and while he drank water from my pitcher, he began to talk about God and worship. And the things that touched my heart. And the things that touched his heart.
And as we talked, I began to think, "This is no ordinary man." He must be a prophet." And then the more we talked, I began to think. "This is no ordinary prophet." And then, cold chills began to run up and down my spine. Is it possible? Could it be?
Well, there are some things you can't just come right out and ask. "Nice chatting with you, might you be the Messiah?"
So, I come at it obliquely. I can be quite diplomatic when I need to be. I make a side reference to the Messiah. I just toss it in, cool-like, into the conversation. I open the door just a crack and stand back to see what he will do. And he takes the door and throws it wide open. "I that speak unto you am he."
"I that speak unto you am he." Not: I who raise the dead. Or: I who heal the sick. Or: I who walk on water.
But, I, who speak to you. I, who knock down the barriers between men and women, between peoples. That is the I who is the Messiah.
Those were the last words he said to me. Just then, the disciples returned. And all the meaningful dialogue was at an end.
THE DISCIPLES RETURN:
Suddenly we were engulfed in this swarm of disciples. They just glared at me. With Jesus there, they didn't dare say a word; but oh, if looks could kill. Puzzled looks. Angry looks. Indignant looks that The Woman dare speak to their personal private Messiah.
I just glared back. It was not a Kodak moment. I know, I wasn't helping the situation any. I knew what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to cover my face and avert my eyes and hang my head in the face of this bank of masculinity. But you know. I just couldn't do that. I had spent the last hour looking on the face of Christ. I was now a disciple. And no one, not even another disciple, would ever make me hang my head.
So, I looked away from those hostile faces and turned my eyes on Jesus. Then it was my turn to drop my mouth open in amazement. This was not the same Man I had first seen at the well. I had seen a man slumped over in exhaustion. This man was charged with energy from head to toe. And his whole face was lit up with one huge grin.
And as I looked into his eyes. I saw him give me a nearly imperceptible nod, and I knew exactly what I had to do. I was not just a disciple. I was a commissioned apostle. I dropped my pitcher and ran full speed back to Sychar.
SYCHAR:
The first person I met was an elder of the city, an official in our temple. A good person, like me, waiting for the Messiah. "He is here," I said. "It has got to be him. It can be no other. You have to come and see for yourself. We all do. Everyone. You go to the North side of the city. I'll take the South side. We will meet in the center."
We didn't miss a soul. Up and down the streets we went, banging on doors, calling out to our neighbors. Over and over and over again, I told my story of how I met Jesus, of all he had said. "Come, the Messiah is here. You must hear him for yourselves."
And when I marched back to the well, I was leading the entire city of Sychar behind me. And you know what I was thinking? I am almost too embarrassed to tell you. But I was thinking "What if he's not there? What if he's gone?" What if the disciples have yanked him along on their journey? What if But I needn't have worried. He was at the well where I had left him, waiting for me and for whomever I might bring back with me. And when he saw me break over the horizon, with the entire city of Sychar.
JESUS AND THE WOMAN MEET AGAIN:
Once again Jesus and I met at the well. Once again Jesus and I were surrounded by a swarm of people. This time happy, laughing people, all eager to meet Jesus, all eager to hear him, to see him, to touch him and to be touched by him.
I introduced him to every person by name. He spoke each name. Held each hand. Looked into each face. Spoke to each heart. We couldn't let him go. We never did let him go.
I don't know when I will see Jesus again. It may well be in his kingdom I wish to thank Elaine Giddings from Andrews University who introduced me to
The Woman at the well and told me her name.
© 1999, Beverly Beem, Seasons of Faith, Pacific Press® Publishing Association, Nampa, Idaho.
Beverly Beem is professor and chair of the Walla Walla College English department, where she has taught since 1976.
WOMAN AT THE WELL
HER STORY
Beverly Beem
THE WOMAN INTRODUCES HERSELF:
I don't know how you good folks could have heard about me, unless it was from that book that John wrote, the one about Jesus. You must have read it. Remember? "I am the Vine. I am the bread. I am the Way, the Truth, the Life." There's no doubt about it. It just grabs my heart.
And not the least of all because I am in it. Can you believe it? Me? Of all the hundreds of conversations that Jesus had, of all the thousands of people that Jesus met, John would tell about me. I can't hide the fact that I'm as pleased as punch about that.
But does something strike you a little strange about the way John tells my story? Did you notice? John is telling my story. And he leaves out my name! Thirteen times. Count them. Thirteen times he calls me "The Woman." You would think that just once he could slip in my name, like it would destroy the narrative flow or something.
Well, before we go any further, I want you to know my name. My mother did not call me The Woman at the Well. I have an old and honored name among my people. My name is Tamara.
I bet some of you know what this feels like. You don't have names either. You, too, are the Girl. The gal, the guy. But you know something, Jesus knew my name. And I am here to tell you about the day that I met Jesus.
COMING TO THE WELL:
I came to the well late that day. All right. So. I came to the well late that day. For twenty centuries, male commentators have been making hay over that. She came late to the well. Now, let's see How many reasons can you think of why a person might be running late? Do you want to hear what they come up with? I'll tell you. I have been collecting their comments for years. I've got a file. I don't mean to brag, but, well, the truth is, I am a bit of a scholar. So, here they are, why the woman was late to the well.
She's a social outcast.
She's too ashamed to be seen in public.
She doesn't get along with the other women.
And how can they say all this stuff about my character? Well, She's been Married Five Times. TSK. TSK.
Garbage. All of it. Slander is what it is. I want you to know that I am an important and influential person in my community. I have ideas about things, and I speak my mind. And people listen to me, too. Social Outcast. My hind foot.
Do you want to know why I came late to the well that day? I'll tell you.
It was Divine Providence. That's what it was. Have you ever read that in any of your commentaries? But think about it. The Word was made Flesh. Right? That's what John says. Well, I'm here to tell you that the Flesh was thirsty. Now, would the heavenly Father sit up there on his throne and let his Son dry up and blow away in the desert heat? I think not. So, he comes down, and he looks through all the city of Sychar, and he picks out me. And he guides me through my day until I arrive at just the right place at the right moment to give his Son a drink of water when he needs it. Stuff that in your commentaries.
These guys are just like the disciples. I'll never forget the look on their faces when they come back and find Jesus and me deep in conversation. Jesus is telling me things he has been trying to tell them for years. But they don't get it. They don't know what he's talking about. But I get it. I know what he's talking about. I had been studying the prophecies for years. All my life, I had been getting ready for this conversation.
But do they see any of that? They do not. All they see is "The Woman." And their brains spin into neutral. Their thought processes screech to a halt. They reach into their grab bag of stereotypes and pull out "Slut," and in a moment, they have me boxed, labeled, and shipped out the door.
But Jesus didn't put me in any box. He didn't slap me with any labels.
THE WOMAN MEETS JESUS:
I hardly noticed him at first. He was sitting by the well. Alone. Hot. The sun beating on his head. Thirsty. Clearly thirsty. I would gladly have given him a drink right then and there, but I didn't dare. I was a woman. I couldn't do anything to help him. Just to look at him could be taken as an insult. So, tough luck, man. I just fixed my gaze on the horizon and went about my work.
And then I heard his voice. He was speaking to me. I looked up. He was looking at me. And when my eyes met His, they didn't dart away.
"Give me a drink," he said. Just like that. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was thirsty. I had water. So... Give me a drink.
It took me a minute to recover myself. This man had just toppled two social barriers like the walls of Jericho to speak to me. No way was going to hand him a drink of water and watch him ride off into the sunset. I had to know who he was.
So I'm not shy. I come right out and ask him. "What's the deal? How come you a man, ask help from me, a woman? How come you, a Jew, speak to me, a Samaritan?"
You know, his eyes sort of brightened at my questions. He looked at me more intently, and while he drank water from my pitcher, he began to talk about God and worship. And the things that touched my heart. And the things that touched his heart.
And as we talked, I began to think, "This is no ordinary man." He must be a prophet." And then the more we talked, I began to think. "This is no ordinary prophet." And then, cold chills began to run up and down my spine. Is it possible? Could it be?
Well, there are some things you can't just come right out and ask. "Nice chatting with you, might you be the Messiah?"
So, I come at it obliquely. I can be quite diplomatic when I need to be. I make a side reference to the Messiah. I just toss it in, cool-like, into the conversation. I open the door just a crack and stand back to see what he will do. And he takes the door and throws it wide open. "I that speak unto you am he."
"I that speak unto you am he." Not: I who raise the dead. Or: I who heal the sick. Or: I who walk on water.
But, I, who speak to you. I, who knock down the barriers between men and women, between peoples. That is the I who is the Messiah.
Those were the last words he said to me. Just then, the disciples returned. And all the meaningful dialogue was at an end.
THE DISCIPLES RETURN:
Suddenly we were engulfed in this swarm of disciples. They just glared at me. With Jesus there, they didn't dare say a word; but oh, if looks could kill. Puzzled looks. Angry looks. Indignant looks that The Woman dare speak to their personal private Messiah.
I just glared back. It was not a Kodak moment. I know, I wasn't helping the situation any. I knew what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to cover my face and avert my eyes and hang my head in the face of this bank of masculinity. But you know. I just couldn't do that. I had spent the last hour looking on the face of Christ. I was now a disciple. And no one, not even another disciple, would ever make me hang my head.
So, I looked away from those hostile faces and turned my eyes on Jesus. Then it was my turn to drop my mouth open in amazement. This was not the same Man I had first seen at the well. I had seen a man slumped over in exhaustion. This man was charged with energy from head to toe. And his whole face was lit up with one huge grin.
And as I looked into his eyes. I saw him give me a nearly imperceptible nod, and I knew exactly what I had to do. I was not just a disciple. I was a commissioned apostle. I dropped my pitcher and ran full speed back to Sychar.
SYCHAR:
The first person I met was an elder of the city, an official in our temple. A good person, like me, waiting for the Messiah. "He is here," I said. "It has got to be him. It can be no other. You have to come and see for yourself. We all do. Everyone. You go to the North side of the city. I'll take the South side. We will meet in the center."
We didn't miss a soul. Up and down the streets we went, banging on doors, calling out to our neighbors. Over and over and over again, I told my story of how I met Jesus, of all he had said. "Come, the Messiah is here. You must hear him for yourselves."
And when I marched back to the well, I was leading the entire city of Sychar behind me. And you know what I was thinking? I am almost too embarrassed to tell you. But I was thinking "What if he's not there? What if he's gone?" What if the disciples have yanked him along on their journey? What if But I needn't have worried. He was at the well where I had left him, waiting for me and for whomever I might bring back with me. And when he saw me break over the horizon, with the entire city of Sychar.
JESUS AND THE WOMAN MEET AGAIN:
Once again Jesus and I met at the well. Once again Jesus and I were surrounded by a swarm of people. This time happy, laughing people, all eager to meet Jesus, all eager to hear him, to see him, to touch him and to be touched by him.
I introduced him to every person by name. He spoke each name. Held each hand. Looked into each face. Spoke to each heart. We couldn't let him go. We never did let him go.
I don't know when I will see Jesus again. It may well be in his kingdom I wish to thank Elaine Giddings from Andrews University who introduced me to
The Woman at the well and told me her name.
© 1999, Beverly Beem, Seasons of Faith, Pacific Press® Publishing Association, Nampa, Idaho.
Beverly Beem is professor and chair of the Walla Walla College English department, where she has taught since 1976.
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