Overcoming Objections
Commentary
The Black Angel. That’s what Michael Christopher calls Herman Engel in his famous play. Herman Engel was a cruel man, an “angel” by name, but darkest black in his Nazi soul. During World War II he led his army in a horrible massacre of French villages. And after the war, justice catches up with him at the Nuremberg trials. He is sent to jail.
But not long enough, according to Morrieaux. Morrieaux is a French journalist whose family lived in one of those villages. Only he survived the hand of the Black Angel. After thirty years in prison, Engel is released from prison. Morrieaux says that’s too good for him. He begins his plotting.
Engel rejoined his wife. They bought a little cottage in the mountains near Alsace and tried to get away from it all for their few remaining years.
But they could not get away from Morrieaux. He searched for survivors of other families slaughtered by Engel’s army. He told them of Engel’s release and stirred within them the burning of revenge. He organized them into a lynch mob. They planned to await the cover of darkness before they shot and burn the horrid man who lived in the mountains.
But vengeance from a distance was not enough for Morrieaux. He needed to see the horror and pain in Engel’s eyes. He would go to the general early, under the guise of friendship. He would get the old fellow to talk about the war. He would seek to open up all the crimes of the past, planning to turn on Engel as his comrades joined him for the balancing of the scales of justice. Then, he hoped, they could dance around the Black Angel together as they sent him to hell.
When Engel invited Morrieaux in, however, Morrieaux was a bit shaken. This was no monster, no demon from the dark side. This was an old man, confused about the past, lonely and heartbroken by the years of prison, wanting only to spend a short while with his wife and then die in peace. Morrieaux’s revenge began to turn sour in his stomach. He came for the Black Angel of death, but met only a troubled man, a human much like himself.
Dusk caught them still deep in conversation. And then they heard the sounds of the mob, circling for the kill. Morrieaux hesitated. What should he do? Vengeance tastes bitter, so he opened himself up. He told Engel of his plan, of the lynching plot, of the death that waited outside the door.
“Let me help you!” he begged. “Let me get you away from here! Let me save your life!”
But now Engel hesitated. “Yes,” he said, “I will let you save me. But on one condition. Will you forgive me? Will you release me from the burden of guilt that weighs me down, that floods my soul, that overwhelms my sleepless nights? Will you forgive me?”
Save a life? That Morrieaux could do. That he wanted to do. That he had to do. But release a soul? Let go of the bitterness, the burning hatred, the consuming passion for vengeance? Forgive Engel? Never!
Morrieaux left. Engel died. And everyone loses.
Life without forgiveness is hell. Hell is the place where justice is never tempered by mercy, where relationships are never mended, where grudges grow, and grace has taken a holiday. Hell is eternity apart from God’s forgiving love. And hell is the prison of unforgiveness into which we lock our enemies with no parole.
Each of our lectionary readings for today documents a moment in time where antagonism could have sidelined grace. Yet in each situation, God’s goodness became the champion, and deadly objections were overcome. This is important to keep in mind as we journey deeper into Lent.
Exodus 17:1-7
We don’t like complainers. “Nagging isn’t horse sense!” says one proverb. “When you feel dog-tired at night,” accuses another, “it may be because you growled all day!”
Still, complaining seems to be an essential element of the human condition, as our reading from Exodus reminds us. One of Bishop Berkeley’s “Principles of Human Knowledge” is this: “We have first raised a dust and then complain we cannot see.” Sound familiar?
In 1770 Edmund Burke published a little treatise called Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents. I’m not sure what was bugging the world of his day, but his perception sounds quite contemporary: “To complain of the age we live in, to murmur at the present possessors of power, to lament the past, to conceive extravagant hopes of the future, are the common dispositions of the greatest part of mankind.”
I’ve always enjoyed the lines of another English writer who recorded the state of affairs in his community and called it The Parish Register. Here is one observation: Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain, like other farmers, flourish and complain. The man credited for that observation, ironically, was George Crabbe. Maybe it reflected his own attitudes and feelings.
Some complaining, though, seems justified. I can imagine that the abruptly changed circumstances for the Israelites in the wilderness, and the seemingly endless and uncertain walk ahead of them, rightly challenged the people, even when they recognized the great deliverance of a few short days before. I think of the situation of a weary traveler at a New York City hotel. World-famous violinist Jascha Heifetz was in town for a Carnegie Hall recital. Heifetz’s musical perfection owed much to constant practice. At midnight on the eve of his concert, he was still sawing away in his hotel room.
The telephone rang. It was another guest, whose musical appreciation stopped much earlier in the evening. She demanded a little quiet.
“But I am Jascha Heifetz,” said the violinist.
“I don’t care if you’re Lawrence Welk,” came the sharp reply. “I want to get some sleep!”
We have probably all made that phone call at one time or another. Or wished we had.
But sometimes our complaints seem excessive. British poet Matthew Arnold was neither kind nor gracious. He was known for his overly critical eye. One time he stayed at the home of an American family while on a speaking tour. His hostess offered him pancakes for breakfast. Arnold took one, tasted it, and then passed the plate to his wife. “Do try one, my dear,” he said. “They’re not as nasty as they look!”
When he died, one of his neighbors said of him, “Poor Matthew; he won’t like God.”
Perhaps we are tempted to say that about the Israelites and Moses when reading today’s passage: they don’t seem to like God either. After all, the people yell at Moses and the god he gathers his travel directions from. Even Moses himself opens his prayer by telling God he’s got a complaint. Is it right to complain to God? Isn’t that a bit sacrilegious?
Probably much of our mean-spirited whining doesn’t hold the water of sanctity. But consider this: our excessive complaining is also actually a reflection of the excessive evil that surrounds us and even spills out from our own hearts. Perhaps if we ever stop complaining about that, we won’t have a prayer left.
Romans 5:1-11
Because Paul had not yet made a visit to Rome, this letter was less personal and more rationally organized than was often otherwise true. Paul intended this missive to be a working document; the congregation, already established in the capital city of the empire, would be able to read and discuss it together, in anticipation of Paul’s arrival, which was planned for some months ahead (Romans 1:6-15).
Paul summarized his working theme and emphasis up front: a new expression of the “righteousness of God” had been recently revealed, with great power, through the coming of Jesus Christ (Romans 1:17). Paul moves directly from his brief declaration about the righteousness of God into an extended discourse on the wrath of God as revealed against wickedness (Romans 1:18). Because of this, many have interpreted Paul’s understanding of God’s righteousness as an unattainable standard, against which the whole human race is measured and fails miserably. Only then, in the context of this desperate human situation, would the grand salvation of Christ be appreciated and enjoyed.
But more scholars believe that Paul’s assertions about the righteousness of God have a positive and missional thrust. In their understanding of what Paul says, it is precisely because of the obvious corruption and sinfulness in our world, which are demeaning and destroying humanity, that God needed again, as God did through Israel, to assert the divine will. In so doing, the focus of God’s righteousness is not to heap judgment upon humankind; instead God’s brilliant display of grace and power in Jesus ought to draw people back to the creational goodness God had originally intended for them. In other words, the Creator has never changed purpose or plan. The divine mission through Israel was to display the righteousness of God so that all nations might return to the goodness of Yahweh. Now again, in Jesus, the righteousness of God is revealed as a beacon of hope in a world ravaged by evil bullies. The power of God is our only sure bodyguard against the killing effects of sin and society and self.
This more positive perspective on the righteousness of God fits well with the flow of Paul’s message. In chapters 1:18--3:20, Paul describes the crippling effect of sin. We are all alienated from God (1:18-25). But we are also alienated from each other (1:26-32), so that we begin to treat one another with contempt and painful arrogance, and destroy those around us in the malice that blinds us. We are even, says Paul, alienated from our own selves (2:1-11), not realizing how tarnished our sense and perspectives have become.
We make excuses about our condition (2:12--3:20), claiming that we are actually pretty good people (2:12-16), or accusing society and religion of raising moral standards to levels that are simply unrealistic (2:17--3:4), or even blaming God for all the nastiness around us and within us (3:5-20). Yet the result is merely self-deception, and continued rottenness in a world that seems to have no outs.
Once the stage has been set for Paul’s readers to realize again the pervasive grip of evil in this world, Paul marches Abraham out onto the stage as a model of divine religious reconstruction. God does not wish to be distant from the world, judgmental and vengeful. Rather, Jesus comes, the fullness of God’s healing righteousness revealed.
The story of God’s righteousness as grace and goodness begins with Abraham. God has always desired an ever-renewing relationship with the people of this world, creatures made in God’s own image. Paul describes God’s heart of love in 3:21-31, using illustrations from the courtroom (we are “justified” — 3:24), the marketplace (we receive “redemption” — 3:24), and the Temple (“a sacrifice of atonement” — 3:25). Moreover, while this ongoing expression of God’s gracious goodness finds its initial point of contact through the Jews (Abraham and “the law” and Jesus), it is clearly intended for all of humankind (3:27-31).
This is nothing new, according to Paul. In fact, if we return to the story of Abraham, we find some very interesting notes that we may have glossed over. “Blessedness” was “credited” to Abraham before he had a chance to be “justified by works” (4:1-11). In other words, whenever the “righteousness of God” shows up, it is a good thing, a healing hope, an enriching experience that no one is able to buy or manipulate. God alone initiates a relationship of favor and grace with us (4:1-23). In fact, according to Paul, this purpose of God is no less spectacular than the divine quest to re-create the world, undoing the effects that the cancer of sin has blighted upon us (Romans 5). It feels like being reborn (5:1-11). It plays out like the world itself is being remade (5:12-21). This is the great righteousness of God at work!
John 4:5-42
John tells us that Jesus had to go through Samaria has he made his way between Galilee and Jerusalem. This was not true from either geographical or a cultural standpoint. Although Samaria lies between Galilee and Judea on maps, the topography of Palestine makes north-to-south travel extremely difficult. Most of Jesus’ northern ministry happened near the Sea of Galilee, which is around 640 feet below sea level. The Jordan River valley provides a natural travel route south, without having to climb up into and through the central mountainous area that comprises Samaria, with its 2000-foot altitude plains and 4000-foot-high mountains. Unless a Palestinian traveler had a specific destination calling in Samaria, she or he would either take to the Mediterranean seacoast (the ancient Via Maris), or move from village to village along the Jordon River until tackling the Judean hills and mountains at Jericho.
Culturally, Jewish avoidance of Samaritan territory was legendary. From the first interactions between the people of Judah and the foreign displacers of Israel during the waning days of the Assyrian Empire (2 Kings 17), through the post-exilic challenging encounters between the two peoples (Ezra 1-6), culminating in recent (at the time of Jesus) terrorist attacks that had put both Jews and Samaritans on edge about one another, each community kept a wary distance from the other.
So the only reason for Jesus to “have to” go through Samaria was because he wanted to meet this woman and transform her life. Between the mountains of Gerizim and Ebal, where Moses commanded the Canaan-invading Israelites to renew their covenant with Yahweh (Deuteronomy 11:29-30) and Joshua followed through (Joshua 8:31-35), Shechem stood as witness to Israel’s place in this land. That is why the late-comers, who wished to be instructed in some form of the Israelite religion (2 Kings 17), and who were thwarted from participating in Jewish worship at Jerusalem (Ezra 3-6), decided to build a rival temple of the same architectural footprint on top of Mount Gerizim, locus of the shouts of covenant blessing (Joshua 8:31-35).
These things play into the dynamics of Jesus’ dialogue with the Samaritan woman. Her arrival at the Sychar (the current name of Shechem in Jesus’ day) well alone at mid-day appears to be symptomatic of her multiple alienations. Women of the village families usually drew water as part of a community experience in the cooler hours of morning or late afternoon, helping one another with the lifting and pouring processes. Water-drawing was essential for every household, but became also a time of community communications (including gossip), and event planning. A woman who arrived at the well at mid-day was likely seeking to avoid contact with others, braving the worst part of daytime heat in an effort not to have to face the scorn of others. As Jesus uncovers her domestic secrets, the reason for her isolation from other village women becomes apparent.
Furthermore, neither Jews and Samaritans nor women and men would actively seek an encounter like this. Jews and Samaritans were deeply antagonistic toward one another, especially due to recent attacks by each community against the other. Women and men, at the same time, were not supposed to be alone with one another outside of marriage, and the peculiarity of this private dialogue in a setting visible from the village would certainly cause tongues to wag.
Although these many factors discouraged their interaction, John makes this conversation one of the strongest and most well-documented in his gospel. After attempts to push apart from Jesus, the woman throws out theological distractions. Yet Jesus manages to bring all things to their appropriate focus, overcoming her objections. The outcome is a new disciple who quickly evangelizes her whole village, providing Jesus an opportunity to teach the Twelve about the purpose of his coming and kingdom.
Application
Every parent of young children can identify with this: A little boy was asked his name, and he replied, “John Don’t.”
Sometimes it seems that parents have only “no’s” for their little ones. “No, Sarah!” “You mustn’t do that, Matthew.” “John, don’t!” It may sound harsh, but when we say “no” to our children it is often a matter of safety, a means of survival. We say it to keep them from falling out of a window or stepping out into a busy street or drinking poison.
Adults need “no’s” in their lives too. But for adults it is not always a matter of safety or survival. Usually it has more to do with self-definition. In order to truly say “yes” in life, we must also learn to say “no.”
Think of it. If you can’t say “no,” then you lose the power to say “yes.” If you are capable of doing anything, if there is nothing you would not do, then you have no character. Character is something we define by drawing lines, by closing off possibilities, by saying, “I am this because I am not that. I cannot be that because I want to be this.”
That is essentially the point of the negatives in the Ten Commandments. God is not trying to play the killjoy. God is, instead, dealing with us in grace. “Don’t have any other gods before me,” God says; “if you do, you’ll miss the real thing your life is all about. Don’t look for happiness in illicit sexual encounters; if you do, you’ll miss the one greatest joy of your sexuality that you could find in troth. Don’t speak an untruth, or you yourself will become a lie.”
G. K. Chesterton put it marvelously. He said that art and morality have this in common: they know where to draw the line. That is true definition. That is closing some things, and shutting other things out. Only when we draw lines can we develop some sense of character, some understanding of personality, some consciousness of identity.
Grace works within limits: “No” to this and “yes” to that. No pilgrim will ever crawl to the road toward the kingdom of God until she or he learns the power of the word “no,” a word that defines the beauty of God’s great “yes.” And when we have raised our own “nos”, it is only the ultimate affirmation of God’s grace that brings us home.
Alternative Application (John 4:5-42)
Some years ago, Sean Coxe came to an impasse in his life. A relationship had died. A business had soured. Religion left him cold.
Now he was angry with life. He was angry with the people who had let him down. He was angry with himself for being such a sucker. Most of all, he was angry with God.
Sean was at the end of his rope, helpless and alone. He could think of doing only one thing. So he took his last three hundred dollars and flew to Florida to see his aging father. Sean’s father had been the one solid rock in his life during his younger years. Now Sean needed to see his dad again and try to put his life back together.
That night they stood out on a dock watching a glorious sunset over the Gulf of Mexico. It was beautiful. But Sean was bitter. He said to his dad, “You know… if we could take every great moment like this that we’ve ever experienced in our entire lives, and put them all back-to-back, they probably wouldn’t last twenty minutes!”
He expected his dad to object to that. He expected his dad to tell him to grow up, to quit complaining, to pull himself together. But all his dad said was: “You’re probably right, son.”
Then his father looked at him, and continued: “But they’re precious minutes, aren’t they?”
It is true. In the middle of all our distress and anxiety, we need to choose to call to mind moments when we have sensed the power and the love and the compassion of God. Maybe they are few and far between. Maybe God’s footprints cannot always be seen. But remembering those moments convinces us that these momentary troubles cannot erase the eternal power of God’s providential care.
This is what brought the Samaritan woman out of her multiple layers of isolation into the beauty of Jesus’ glowing affirmations. And she, in turn, helped her whole village to overcome all objections to heaven’s dawning.
But not long enough, according to Morrieaux. Morrieaux is a French journalist whose family lived in one of those villages. Only he survived the hand of the Black Angel. After thirty years in prison, Engel is released from prison. Morrieaux says that’s too good for him. He begins his plotting.
Engel rejoined his wife. They bought a little cottage in the mountains near Alsace and tried to get away from it all for their few remaining years.
But they could not get away from Morrieaux. He searched for survivors of other families slaughtered by Engel’s army. He told them of Engel’s release and stirred within them the burning of revenge. He organized them into a lynch mob. They planned to await the cover of darkness before they shot and burn the horrid man who lived in the mountains.
But vengeance from a distance was not enough for Morrieaux. He needed to see the horror and pain in Engel’s eyes. He would go to the general early, under the guise of friendship. He would get the old fellow to talk about the war. He would seek to open up all the crimes of the past, planning to turn on Engel as his comrades joined him for the balancing of the scales of justice. Then, he hoped, they could dance around the Black Angel together as they sent him to hell.
When Engel invited Morrieaux in, however, Morrieaux was a bit shaken. This was no monster, no demon from the dark side. This was an old man, confused about the past, lonely and heartbroken by the years of prison, wanting only to spend a short while with his wife and then die in peace. Morrieaux’s revenge began to turn sour in his stomach. He came for the Black Angel of death, but met only a troubled man, a human much like himself.
Dusk caught them still deep in conversation. And then they heard the sounds of the mob, circling for the kill. Morrieaux hesitated. What should he do? Vengeance tastes bitter, so he opened himself up. He told Engel of his plan, of the lynching plot, of the death that waited outside the door.
“Let me help you!” he begged. “Let me get you away from here! Let me save your life!”
But now Engel hesitated. “Yes,” he said, “I will let you save me. But on one condition. Will you forgive me? Will you release me from the burden of guilt that weighs me down, that floods my soul, that overwhelms my sleepless nights? Will you forgive me?”
Save a life? That Morrieaux could do. That he wanted to do. That he had to do. But release a soul? Let go of the bitterness, the burning hatred, the consuming passion for vengeance? Forgive Engel? Never!
Morrieaux left. Engel died. And everyone loses.
Life without forgiveness is hell. Hell is the place where justice is never tempered by mercy, where relationships are never mended, where grudges grow, and grace has taken a holiday. Hell is eternity apart from God’s forgiving love. And hell is the prison of unforgiveness into which we lock our enemies with no parole.
Each of our lectionary readings for today documents a moment in time where antagonism could have sidelined grace. Yet in each situation, God’s goodness became the champion, and deadly objections were overcome. This is important to keep in mind as we journey deeper into Lent.
Exodus 17:1-7
We don’t like complainers. “Nagging isn’t horse sense!” says one proverb. “When you feel dog-tired at night,” accuses another, “it may be because you growled all day!”
Still, complaining seems to be an essential element of the human condition, as our reading from Exodus reminds us. One of Bishop Berkeley’s “Principles of Human Knowledge” is this: “We have first raised a dust and then complain we cannot see.” Sound familiar?
In 1770 Edmund Burke published a little treatise called Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents. I’m not sure what was bugging the world of his day, but his perception sounds quite contemporary: “To complain of the age we live in, to murmur at the present possessors of power, to lament the past, to conceive extravagant hopes of the future, are the common dispositions of the greatest part of mankind.”
I’ve always enjoyed the lines of another English writer who recorded the state of affairs in his community and called it The Parish Register. Here is one observation: Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain, like other farmers, flourish and complain. The man credited for that observation, ironically, was George Crabbe. Maybe it reflected his own attitudes and feelings.
Some complaining, though, seems justified. I can imagine that the abruptly changed circumstances for the Israelites in the wilderness, and the seemingly endless and uncertain walk ahead of them, rightly challenged the people, even when they recognized the great deliverance of a few short days before. I think of the situation of a weary traveler at a New York City hotel. World-famous violinist Jascha Heifetz was in town for a Carnegie Hall recital. Heifetz’s musical perfection owed much to constant practice. At midnight on the eve of his concert, he was still sawing away in his hotel room.
The telephone rang. It was another guest, whose musical appreciation stopped much earlier in the evening. She demanded a little quiet.
“But I am Jascha Heifetz,” said the violinist.
“I don’t care if you’re Lawrence Welk,” came the sharp reply. “I want to get some sleep!”
We have probably all made that phone call at one time or another. Or wished we had.
But sometimes our complaints seem excessive. British poet Matthew Arnold was neither kind nor gracious. He was known for his overly critical eye. One time he stayed at the home of an American family while on a speaking tour. His hostess offered him pancakes for breakfast. Arnold took one, tasted it, and then passed the plate to his wife. “Do try one, my dear,” he said. “They’re not as nasty as they look!”
When he died, one of his neighbors said of him, “Poor Matthew; he won’t like God.”
Perhaps we are tempted to say that about the Israelites and Moses when reading today’s passage: they don’t seem to like God either. After all, the people yell at Moses and the god he gathers his travel directions from. Even Moses himself opens his prayer by telling God he’s got a complaint. Is it right to complain to God? Isn’t that a bit sacrilegious?
Probably much of our mean-spirited whining doesn’t hold the water of sanctity. But consider this: our excessive complaining is also actually a reflection of the excessive evil that surrounds us and even spills out from our own hearts. Perhaps if we ever stop complaining about that, we won’t have a prayer left.
Romans 5:1-11
Because Paul had not yet made a visit to Rome, this letter was less personal and more rationally organized than was often otherwise true. Paul intended this missive to be a working document; the congregation, already established in the capital city of the empire, would be able to read and discuss it together, in anticipation of Paul’s arrival, which was planned for some months ahead (Romans 1:6-15).
Paul summarized his working theme and emphasis up front: a new expression of the “righteousness of God” had been recently revealed, with great power, through the coming of Jesus Christ (Romans 1:17). Paul moves directly from his brief declaration about the righteousness of God into an extended discourse on the wrath of God as revealed against wickedness (Romans 1:18). Because of this, many have interpreted Paul’s understanding of God’s righteousness as an unattainable standard, against which the whole human race is measured and fails miserably. Only then, in the context of this desperate human situation, would the grand salvation of Christ be appreciated and enjoyed.
But more scholars believe that Paul’s assertions about the righteousness of God have a positive and missional thrust. In their understanding of what Paul says, it is precisely because of the obvious corruption and sinfulness in our world, which are demeaning and destroying humanity, that God needed again, as God did through Israel, to assert the divine will. In so doing, the focus of God’s righteousness is not to heap judgment upon humankind; instead God’s brilliant display of grace and power in Jesus ought to draw people back to the creational goodness God had originally intended for them. In other words, the Creator has never changed purpose or plan. The divine mission through Israel was to display the righteousness of God so that all nations might return to the goodness of Yahweh. Now again, in Jesus, the righteousness of God is revealed as a beacon of hope in a world ravaged by evil bullies. The power of God is our only sure bodyguard against the killing effects of sin and society and self.
This more positive perspective on the righteousness of God fits well with the flow of Paul’s message. In chapters 1:18--3:20, Paul describes the crippling effect of sin. We are all alienated from God (1:18-25). But we are also alienated from each other (1:26-32), so that we begin to treat one another with contempt and painful arrogance, and destroy those around us in the malice that blinds us. We are even, says Paul, alienated from our own selves (2:1-11), not realizing how tarnished our sense and perspectives have become.
We make excuses about our condition (2:12--3:20), claiming that we are actually pretty good people (2:12-16), or accusing society and religion of raising moral standards to levels that are simply unrealistic (2:17--3:4), or even blaming God for all the nastiness around us and within us (3:5-20). Yet the result is merely self-deception, and continued rottenness in a world that seems to have no outs.
Once the stage has been set for Paul’s readers to realize again the pervasive grip of evil in this world, Paul marches Abraham out onto the stage as a model of divine religious reconstruction. God does not wish to be distant from the world, judgmental and vengeful. Rather, Jesus comes, the fullness of God’s healing righteousness revealed.
The story of God’s righteousness as grace and goodness begins with Abraham. God has always desired an ever-renewing relationship with the people of this world, creatures made in God’s own image. Paul describes God’s heart of love in 3:21-31, using illustrations from the courtroom (we are “justified” — 3:24), the marketplace (we receive “redemption” — 3:24), and the Temple (“a sacrifice of atonement” — 3:25). Moreover, while this ongoing expression of God’s gracious goodness finds its initial point of contact through the Jews (Abraham and “the law” and Jesus), it is clearly intended for all of humankind (3:27-31).
This is nothing new, according to Paul. In fact, if we return to the story of Abraham, we find some very interesting notes that we may have glossed over. “Blessedness” was “credited” to Abraham before he had a chance to be “justified by works” (4:1-11). In other words, whenever the “righteousness of God” shows up, it is a good thing, a healing hope, an enriching experience that no one is able to buy or manipulate. God alone initiates a relationship of favor and grace with us (4:1-23). In fact, according to Paul, this purpose of God is no less spectacular than the divine quest to re-create the world, undoing the effects that the cancer of sin has blighted upon us (Romans 5). It feels like being reborn (5:1-11). It plays out like the world itself is being remade (5:12-21). This is the great righteousness of God at work!
John 4:5-42
John tells us that Jesus had to go through Samaria has he made his way between Galilee and Jerusalem. This was not true from either geographical or a cultural standpoint. Although Samaria lies between Galilee and Judea on maps, the topography of Palestine makes north-to-south travel extremely difficult. Most of Jesus’ northern ministry happened near the Sea of Galilee, which is around 640 feet below sea level. The Jordan River valley provides a natural travel route south, without having to climb up into and through the central mountainous area that comprises Samaria, with its 2000-foot altitude plains and 4000-foot-high mountains. Unless a Palestinian traveler had a specific destination calling in Samaria, she or he would either take to the Mediterranean seacoast (the ancient Via Maris), or move from village to village along the Jordon River until tackling the Judean hills and mountains at Jericho.
Culturally, Jewish avoidance of Samaritan territory was legendary. From the first interactions between the people of Judah and the foreign displacers of Israel during the waning days of the Assyrian Empire (2 Kings 17), through the post-exilic challenging encounters between the two peoples (Ezra 1-6), culminating in recent (at the time of Jesus) terrorist attacks that had put both Jews and Samaritans on edge about one another, each community kept a wary distance from the other.
So the only reason for Jesus to “have to” go through Samaria was because he wanted to meet this woman and transform her life. Between the mountains of Gerizim and Ebal, where Moses commanded the Canaan-invading Israelites to renew their covenant with Yahweh (Deuteronomy 11:29-30) and Joshua followed through (Joshua 8:31-35), Shechem stood as witness to Israel’s place in this land. That is why the late-comers, who wished to be instructed in some form of the Israelite religion (2 Kings 17), and who were thwarted from participating in Jewish worship at Jerusalem (Ezra 3-6), decided to build a rival temple of the same architectural footprint on top of Mount Gerizim, locus of the shouts of covenant blessing (Joshua 8:31-35).
These things play into the dynamics of Jesus’ dialogue with the Samaritan woman. Her arrival at the Sychar (the current name of Shechem in Jesus’ day) well alone at mid-day appears to be symptomatic of her multiple alienations. Women of the village families usually drew water as part of a community experience in the cooler hours of morning or late afternoon, helping one another with the lifting and pouring processes. Water-drawing was essential for every household, but became also a time of community communications (including gossip), and event planning. A woman who arrived at the well at mid-day was likely seeking to avoid contact with others, braving the worst part of daytime heat in an effort not to have to face the scorn of others. As Jesus uncovers her domestic secrets, the reason for her isolation from other village women becomes apparent.
Furthermore, neither Jews and Samaritans nor women and men would actively seek an encounter like this. Jews and Samaritans were deeply antagonistic toward one another, especially due to recent attacks by each community against the other. Women and men, at the same time, were not supposed to be alone with one another outside of marriage, and the peculiarity of this private dialogue in a setting visible from the village would certainly cause tongues to wag.
Although these many factors discouraged their interaction, John makes this conversation one of the strongest and most well-documented in his gospel. After attempts to push apart from Jesus, the woman throws out theological distractions. Yet Jesus manages to bring all things to their appropriate focus, overcoming her objections. The outcome is a new disciple who quickly evangelizes her whole village, providing Jesus an opportunity to teach the Twelve about the purpose of his coming and kingdom.
Application
Every parent of young children can identify with this: A little boy was asked his name, and he replied, “John Don’t.”
Sometimes it seems that parents have only “no’s” for their little ones. “No, Sarah!” “You mustn’t do that, Matthew.” “John, don’t!” It may sound harsh, but when we say “no” to our children it is often a matter of safety, a means of survival. We say it to keep them from falling out of a window or stepping out into a busy street or drinking poison.
Adults need “no’s” in their lives too. But for adults it is not always a matter of safety or survival. Usually it has more to do with self-definition. In order to truly say “yes” in life, we must also learn to say “no.”
Think of it. If you can’t say “no,” then you lose the power to say “yes.” If you are capable of doing anything, if there is nothing you would not do, then you have no character. Character is something we define by drawing lines, by closing off possibilities, by saying, “I am this because I am not that. I cannot be that because I want to be this.”
That is essentially the point of the negatives in the Ten Commandments. God is not trying to play the killjoy. God is, instead, dealing with us in grace. “Don’t have any other gods before me,” God says; “if you do, you’ll miss the real thing your life is all about. Don’t look for happiness in illicit sexual encounters; if you do, you’ll miss the one greatest joy of your sexuality that you could find in troth. Don’t speak an untruth, or you yourself will become a lie.”
G. K. Chesterton put it marvelously. He said that art and morality have this in common: they know where to draw the line. That is true definition. That is closing some things, and shutting other things out. Only when we draw lines can we develop some sense of character, some understanding of personality, some consciousness of identity.
Grace works within limits: “No” to this and “yes” to that. No pilgrim will ever crawl to the road toward the kingdom of God until she or he learns the power of the word “no,” a word that defines the beauty of God’s great “yes.” And when we have raised our own “nos”, it is only the ultimate affirmation of God’s grace that brings us home.
Alternative Application (John 4:5-42)
Some years ago, Sean Coxe came to an impasse in his life. A relationship had died. A business had soured. Religion left him cold.
Now he was angry with life. He was angry with the people who had let him down. He was angry with himself for being such a sucker. Most of all, he was angry with God.
Sean was at the end of his rope, helpless and alone. He could think of doing only one thing. So he took his last three hundred dollars and flew to Florida to see his aging father. Sean’s father had been the one solid rock in his life during his younger years. Now Sean needed to see his dad again and try to put his life back together.
That night they stood out on a dock watching a glorious sunset over the Gulf of Mexico. It was beautiful. But Sean was bitter. He said to his dad, “You know… if we could take every great moment like this that we’ve ever experienced in our entire lives, and put them all back-to-back, they probably wouldn’t last twenty minutes!”
He expected his dad to object to that. He expected his dad to tell him to grow up, to quit complaining, to pull himself together. But all his dad said was: “You’re probably right, son.”
Then his father looked at him, and continued: “But they’re precious minutes, aren’t they?”
It is true. In the middle of all our distress and anxiety, we need to choose to call to mind moments when we have sensed the power and the love and the compassion of God. Maybe they are few and far between. Maybe God’s footprints cannot always be seen. But remembering those moments convinces us that these momentary troubles cannot erase the eternal power of God’s providential care.
This is what brought the Samaritan woman out of her multiple layers of isolation into the beauty of Jesus’ glowing affirmations. And she, in turn, helped her whole village to overcome all objections to heaven’s dawning.
