Sunday, February 24, 2008
You forgot your bucket, Miss!
and. She was going out to fetch water. The sun was beating down and the white-washed homes of Sychar were bathed in bright sun light: no place to hide, and making it hard to see. The streets were empty, bar a few goats which were trying to find a little shade under the olive trees, and a few young boys who were more interested in playing than in looking after their goats. Most other villagers were staying inside, taking shelter from the sweltering heat. But Nushtar headed off, in the heat of the day. She had long stopped caring about the whispers of the neighbours, the critical looks, the comments just loud enough for her to hear them. But facing the women at the well was too much for her; so she had taken to fetching water when nobody else would, in the middle of the day. Morning and evening she stayed well
away from that place of meeting and gossip.
As she approached the well, she seemed to make out a figure, leaning against the parapet, his white garment glisteing in the
“Why are you talking to me, man?” she asked. But the man seemed to ignore the reproach; instead he mentioned that he had water to give, even though he clearly had no bucket to draw with.
While Nushtar still pondered the puzzle, the man said “Go, get your husband!” Evidently this man had no idea who he was talking to, for Nushtar lived with a man who was not her husband, but she was not about to tell this complete stranger about that. “I have no husband”, she said simply. “I know”, replied this Jew, “you have had five husbands, not counting the man you are living with now”. Suddenly time semed to stop: did this man just say that he knew all about Nushtar’s private life? Was he a prophet? But not only that he seemed to know more than he was letting on, his look was deeply unsettling. This stranger had eyes, oh man, deep, kind and true eyes, and now he was looking at her in a way Nushtar had never known. When men looked at her it was either to check out her body, or to express disdain; but these eyes were different, full of compassion, even though they seemed to know her past.
Nushtar made one last attempt to change to subject, getting the stranger to talk about about differences between Samaritans and Jews, but it was to no avail. In fact the more they talked the clearer it was becoming that this was a holy man. As they discussed theology, Nushtar remembered what she had learned long ago about a Messiah who was supposed to come and save them; she was no expert in such matters, but she always thought such a person would be glorious, powerful and with no time for little people like her. But a guy like him, who looked into your heart, yet was not shocked by what he saw, and who communicated love, compassion, acceptance…now that would be a Messiah. “I am he”, said the stranger, “and what you are witnessing is the age of Messiah, when your thirst will be quenched. I have come to bring forgiveness and restoration to people like you, Nushtar”.
He could not finish his sentence, Nushtar was off already, leaving her bucket behind. She was running, running, while tears were rolling down her cheeks: could it be true? Could it be that God existed? That he had sent a messenger, a human being? That he loved people like her? Could it be? She was confused, but happy the way she had not been for years. It was as if all her wants, desires, hurts, all was washed away and stilled…Yes, he did say that he had water to offer, and somehow he was right: she felt as if she had taken a deep drink of fresh, clean pure water…She was running, stumbling, shouting, as she entered Syc
har: “I have met a man who told me everything I ever did! Come and see! Could that be the Messiah?”
And Nushtar is still running, and not looking back, because Nushtar is everybody who has had the same encounter with this stranger at Jacob’s well. Men and women from all walks of life have met him, and he looked into their eyes, telling them all they ever did, yet not condemning them, but rather refreshing them with his looks and words. And so men and women through the ages have left their bucket at the well: they left behind their old life, to go and tell others about the man they met. Could he be the Christ?
