Nobody acknowledges this, but I was there that day too. I watched the woman approach from the shimmering village in the distance, and I calculated the time it would take for the rabbi to reach me at the well from the other direction. Two lines, two realities converging on a single territory. Mine. Yes, I waited and watched, letting my boots dangle from the wall on which I was perched. The water below was infuriatingly clean, and I remember kicking my heels against the stone to knock the filth off my soles. It fell in pieces, splashing delightfully below. I made a note to come back with something more rotten another time.
Of course, I never did make it back. I couldn’t bring myself to stomach it. The ground there is stained with holiness.
Jesus reached me first. He looked at me like he always does, and I stuck my tongue out to complete the picture for him. I know what he thinks: I’m a spoiled child. Well, judge for yourselves which of us is the bratty runt because he didn’t even return insult for injury. He just sat down. He doesn’t know how to defend himself. I’ll really kill him one of these days. And it’ll stick.
Scowling, I looked away, and we waited until the woman finally arrived. She stepped lightly, despite the shadows I could see surrounding her. She gracefully avoided eye contact with the rabbi; I tilted my head and let my eyes bore into her soul. It was the deepest color of abandonment I’d seen in a long time, so saturated that I guffawed with glee! She jerked her head in my direction, and I bared my teeth in welcome, though I know she couldn’t have heard much more than a whisper of my growl. Her gaze cut through me into the desert beyond. She shivered in the glaring heat. She glanced at Jesus’ feet, but respectfully continued her silence. Slowly, she returned to her work, unraveling the ropes with which she would lower the bucket.
Her fingers worked confidently, but I could smell her fear. She knew. We’d met before, decades ago, and she remembered. She remembered my face – the one I’d revealed at the climax of what has turned out to be one of my most excellent accomplishments so far. Her husband turned toward her with one last snarl, and his face mutated into mine!
Barren, I said. Barren and broken. Oh, she cried and cried.
I admit, I was disappointed at how content she seemed at the well. Sickening shalom. And as I plotted against her, Jesus began to speak.
He talked about how thirsty he was, and he practically begged the dirty woman for her pity. I remember the way she looked at him, and I still feel a twinge of pride – she was so suspicious back then, trust didn’t come easily. Some of my best work gone to waste…
“…ask me for living water,” Jesus was pleading. Nobody of much consequence, certainly none of the leading authority in Jerusalem, were listening to his ramblings, so here he was, sharing his nonsense with a Samaritan.
And at first, she laughed in his face. Yet, he kept urging her, and this is really where it all started going wrong. Her woman’s instinct, that putrid holy spirit, began to flicker.
“You won’t be thirsty anymore,” Jesus extended his hands. “Ask me.”
And the woman let her water jar fall beside her. She could see past the dusty rim of the well, past the pool of water below, past her shame. She could see something true past the illusion I’d designed! “Please. I need that water.”
She saw something reliable in him. He promised her his same old line, and I do have to admit, his eyes were convincing. Of course, he’s a liar! Eternal life?! He’s a liar or a lunatic if he thinks he’ll ever find a way to transform these walking corpses into life.
I was seething, perched on the edge of the well. I danced vigorously for her attention; nothing could break her gaze as the selfish healer reached into her history with his meddling hands. Spiritual surgery – that’s what I’ve heard they call it. It’s not like it’s really anything special, all he did was treat her like she mattered. He asked about the men who had left her. In his despicably gentle way, he probed for truth; he invited her pain into himself…
And the stories tell it as if their conversation was brief – as if the men in her life were all she had ever done. No, I drenched my writhing body in sweat. I competed for her allegiance. She whispered for nearly an hour. He listened. I howled in her face, “YOU ARE ALONE YOU ARE UNHEARD YOU ARE FORGOTTEN YOU ARE UNKNOWN YOU ARE ABANDONED YOU ARE UNWANTED YOU ARE BROKEN – ” Oh! how I hurled my hate!
…the stories make him out to be some kind of king. But what kind of king sits and speaks with a woman? Especially one I’d ruined so well…
John 4:1-30