Jesus Christ: A Life. Chapter 6.
They left the next day to return to Galilee, saying good-bye to Lazarus and his sisters. Jesus led the way north along the road, and Simon and Judas and James followed at a little distance.
Simon said to Judas, “Why are we going this way?”
“Ask him,” Judas said, gesturing toward Jesus ahead of them.
“Does he know we didn’t bring provisions for our trip?”
“I don’t know what he knows.”
Simon took a breath. “I’ll talk to him,” he said, and he quickened his pace until he drew abreast of Jesus.
“Master,” he said.
Jesus looked at him, nodded. “Simon,” he said.
“Do you realize that this road passes through Samaria?”
“Does it?” And he continued walking.
“Master . . .” Though his legs were longer, Simon was having some trouble matching Jesus’ stride. “Master, I…”
Jesus turned his head toward him again, and Simon fell silent.
“Have you ever looked at a map, Simon?”
“Of course.”
“It is true that we can walk a day’s journey to the Jordan, go up the river along the other side, and cross back over the Jordan again into Galilee —”
“Yes,” Simon said, nodding. “That is the way it is always done. Especially since we must purchase food and water along the way.”
“But it’s a circuitous route that requires six days of travel. If we walk in a straight line, we can make our trip in three.”
“But the Samaritans —”
“Simon. Are you trying to tell me that Samaritans live in Samaria?”
Simon’s face cleared. “Yes, that’s it. That’s it exactly.” Israel’s northern kingdom — the capital city of which had been Samaria — had been conquered by the Assyrians seven centuries ago and its people deported into foreign lands. Unlike the Jews of Judah, themselves conquered and deported some centuries later, the deported Israelites had intermarried and disappeared in the foreign lands, never to return. The Israelites left in Israel, mostly those too old or too young or too weak or too sick to survive a journey, had intermarried with the people the Assyrians brought in from other countries. They had given up their racial and religious purity and their right to be called Jews.
“You’re concerned that we’ve brought no provisions with us from the house of Lazarus,” Jesus said.
“Remember the words of the rabbi: ‘Let no man eat of the bread of the Samaritans, for to eat of their bread is to eat the flesh of swine.’” Simon, though no scholar, was familiar with those writings and traditions that condemned the Gentiles, and such he considered the Samaritans — Gentiles, and, because of their heritage, particularly odious.
“And the flesh of swine is unclean, forbidden to God’s people,” Jesus said. All this time, he had continued northward, walking at a brisk pace. “I see,” he said.
“We can hardly go three days without eating, Master.”
“No. We can hardly do that.” But he continued walking.
Routed, Simon dropped back to walk with the others. “It does no good,” he said. “I can’t reason with him.”
Shortly before noon, they came to a fork in the road, just short of the town of Sychar. Jesus approached the well and sat on the stones at the edge of it.
“Without a rope or a bucket, we have no means to draw water from it,” Judas said. All of them were hot and flushed from the exertions of travel, and Judas was in a foul mood as well.
Jesus put his head over the well, and he felt the cool, damp air against his skin. He sighed. “Ah, what I’d give for a sip of that water,” he said.
Judas grimaced in exasperation. “We shouldn’t have come this way. We all need something to drink — and eat, too.”
Jesus wiped his forehead with his palm, and it came away wet with perspiration. “Fortunately, there’s a town nearby.”
“I’m not going into Sychar,” Simon said.
“Nor am I,” Judas said.
Jesus looked at James. James looked startled.
“With you? Wherever you’re going, I’m willing to follow.”
Jesus shifted his gaze to Judas and Simon.
For a moment, neither said anything. “Oh, of course, if you really want to go into Sychar, we’ll go with you,” Judas said.
Jesus nodded, smiling briefly. He stood to go, then stopped. “I need to stay here,” he said.
“I thought you said…,” Judas began.
“We need provisions from Sychar,” Jesus said, cutting him off, “but you’ll have to go without me.”
Judas folded his arms across his chest. His feet were planted, his exasperation plain. Simon looked uncertain. James, noting their unwillingness, said, almost before he thought, “I’ll go.”
Judas said, “Alone? Among Samaritans? You won’t be safe.” To Jesus he said, “You’re not going to let the boy go into Sychar by himself, are you?”
Jesus looked up at him and continued looking until Judas’s gaze shifted uncomfortably. “If only we had a couple of armed men here to go with him,” he said. “The boy wouldn’t have to go alone.”
“I’ll go,” Simon said.
Judas’s head swung toward him.
In the end, they all three went, leaving Jesus still sitting at the edge of the well. He looked after them until the dust of the road obscured them, and he continued watching as another shape came out of the dust — a woman, walking slowly beneath a great clay pitcher.
She stopped at a distance of some dozen paces from the well, her eyes on the ground. After standing a moment, she turned to walk the half-mile back into Sychar.
“Did you come for water?” Jesus said, and she jumped, nearly dropping her pitcher. She stood stock still, without turning toward him.
“Because if you did come for water, it’s still here,” he said. “I haven’t poisoned the well.”
Her head turned, and she studied him. After giving her a moment to adjust to his appearance, he smiled at her.
“I myself am very thirsty,” he said. “I see you brought your rope with you, and a bucket.”
She did a full turn toward him. “What?” she said, not comprehending.
“I’m asking for water.”
“From me?”
He smiled encouragingly.
“You’re a Jew, aren’t you? Am I wrong about that?”
“No. I am a Jew,” he said. “Is that a problem?”
She spluttered. “A problem!” she repeated. “You’re a Jew, and I’m a Samaritan. Doesn’t that sound like a problem?’”
He raised his eyebrows. A half-smile touched her features.
“Okay, so maybe it’s not a problem,” she said. “Sure, I’ll give you a drink.” Approaching the well, she put down her clay jar and uncoiled her rope and bucket from her shoulder.
“If you knew who I am, you’d ask me for a drink,” Jesus said as she lowered the bucket.
“It doesn’t matter who you are; you haven’t got a bucket.” Her own bucket hit the water with a faint sound that echoed far below them. “Or a rope, for that matter. I think the heat must be getting to you.”
“Do you think so?” He wiped more sweat from his forehead. He was perspiring freely.
“I don’t know what to think. You, a Jew, initiate a conversation with me, a Samaritan woman. You ask me for water; you offer me water — what am I supposed to think?” She drew up her bucket, pulling it hand over hand.
“Perhaps you and I aren’t talking about the same kind of water.”
“There’re different kinds of water? No. Water is water, my friend.” She reached down to grasp her bucket and pulled it out. “I just have the one ladle,” she said. “From what you’ve said so far, I don’t guess that’s a problem, either.”
Jesus smiled and took the ladle from her. His head went back, and his throat worked as he drank.
Watching him, the woman said, “So what kind of water are you talking about?”
“Living water.”
She stood looking down at him, her fists resting lightly on slender hips. “Do you know who dug this well?”
“Jacob.”
“Yes, Jacob. The patriarch. He dug the well, and he drank from it, as did his sons and his livestock. Are you greater than Jacob?”
Jesus handed her back the ladle. “Jacob was a great man — but those who drink this water become thirsty again.”
“You want more?” She dipped the ladle again in her bucket and handed it back to him.
“Living water becomes a gushing spring inside you, going on forever.”
She looked at him, then turned to look back in the direction she had come. She sat abruptly beside Jesus on the stones at the edge of the well. “Mister,” she said. “It is a half-mile from the village to this well. I come here for water every day of my life. I could use some of this living water.”
“And how about your husband? Go and get him and bring him here.”
She looked sidelong at him. “I don’t have a husband.”
“But you have had a husband.”
“How would you know?”
“Isn’t that why you come to this well alone in the heat of the day? To avoid the other women of your village?” The women of Sychar would do as the women of any village did, gathering each morning at the well to pound soiled clothes on rocks, to gossip, to carry pitchers of water home on their heads.
“Okay, I’ve had a husband.”
“More than one perhaps.”
Her mouth curled as she turned her face toward him. “You tell me,” she said.
Jesus returned her gaze. Nothing happened but that they each sat staring into the eyes of the other. The faintest of smiles had begun to stretch her mouth when he said, “Five.”
The smile disappeared.
“And you are now living with a man who is not your husband.”
She dropped her eyes. “Just my luck,” she said, looking at the ground. “When I’ve made every mistake a woman can make, who do I meet at Jacob’s well but a prophet?”
“A little more than luck, wouldn’t you say?”
“What would you call it?”
“Providence.”
“You haven’t denied being a prophet.”
“No.”
“A prophet to the Jews or to the Samaritans?”
“God sends his prophets to all his people.”
“Huh. So tell me, can God only be worshipped at Jerusalem, as the Jews say, or does he honor worship on that mountain as well?” She gestured toward Mount Gerizim, which rose from the plain immediately to the west of them. Even from there they could see the white of the temple on top of it.
“God is spirit,” Jesus said. “Those who honor him in spirit can worship him anywhere.”
“So the Jews are wrong.”
“No. God is as the Jews believe him to be. Though you Samari¬tans worship him, too, you don’t see as clearly who it is you are worshiping.”
“So what’s your role?”
“To tell you what God is like. To offer reconciliation.”
“I thought it was the Messiah who was going to set things right between God and His people.”
“It is.” He sat looking at her, and her eyes widened.
“It can’t be,” she said.
“Can’t it?”
A man coughed, interrupting them, and the woman jumped to her feet. It was Judas, with James and Simon, returned from Sychar.
“Oh,” the woman said. “Oh.” She bent and began gathering up her rope, not bothering to coil it but merely bundling it to her chest.
“It’s all right,” Jesus told her.
“Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.” And she dropped her rope. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” she said, backing. “I mean it was really good to meet you. I mean . . .”
“I know what you mean.”
“Good. Very good.” She bobbed her head at him a few more times, then turned north toward her village and began walking swiftly away. Jesus’ disciples stood looking after her.
“That was odd,” Judas said.
“She left her bucket and her water jar,” James said.
Jesus nodded. “She was very excited.”
“About what?”
Jesus got to his feet without answering, and Simon held out a cloth sack.
“Here. We brought food — some salted fish, some fruitcake.”
Jesus held open the mouth of the bag. “Looks good. I don’t think I need it now.”
“But —”
“You three share it. I’ve had all the nourishment I need for the moment.”
The disciples looked at one another.
“Come on, let’s go.” He started off on the road into Sychar, leaving them standing.
“Do you think she brought him food?” James whispered.
Ahead of them, Jesus turned back. “Are you coming?”
Judas made a face. “We’re coming.”
“You’re about to see something exciting,” Jesus said as they caught up to him.
“What kind of food did the woman bring you?” James asked him.
“No food.”
“But . . .”
Jesus grinned at James and rested an arm on James’s shoulders. “My food is to do the will of the One who sent me.”
“You mean God?”
“So what exciting is about to happen?” Judas asked.
“Look about you,” Jesus said to Judas. “See how the fields are ripe for harvesting?”
Judas did look, and what he saw were fields newly plowed and fields whose grasses were tinged with the first green of spring.
“You’re speaking metaphorically again,” he said dryly.
Jesus laughed out loud. “Yes, you look at these fields, and you say, ‘Four months until the harvest.’ But listen, if you had eyes to see it, you would see that the fields are already ripe for harvesting. The seed has been sown, and the reaper is gathering grain. You and I will share in that work.”
Simon said, “Master — none of us knows what you’re talking about.”
“Look.”
A crowd had come out from Sychar to meet them, men and women, children in their twelfth year, just short of the responsibili¬ties of adulthood, and babes in arms. One of the men stepped forward ahead of the rest and said, “Rabbi? Shera’s been telling us about you.”
“That you told her everything she had ever done.”
“That you are a prophet,” said a woman, stepping forward.
“The Messiah,” said another.
The man who had first spoken cleared his throat. “We would like — that is, we would be most appreciative —”
“We want you to come stay with us awhile and teach us,” the woman said.
Jesus smiled at her. “I would like that very much,” he said.
Anyone looking at his disciples would have seen consternation on the face of James and no expression at all on the faces of Simon and Judas; their faces might have been turned to stone.