The story from John's gospel of Jesus with a Samaritan woman at a well has long been a favorite of mine. Like the parable of the prodigal son, it's one of those gospel stories that amazes and inspires on first reading, then gets richer and even more incredible when you delve into its literary and historical-cultural context. We learn so much about God's heart and about ourselves in this story. But reading it recently, it didn't feel like a favorite anymore. It's not an encounter I found particularly inspiring this time, and I'll tell you why.
I don't like the Samaritan woman.
Apparently it's been over a year since I've read this story, because the Samaritan woman's situation took me by surprise. I was appreciating the story up through verse 16, but then Jesus startled me with her place in life. "You are right when you say you have no husband. The fact is, you have had five husbands, and the man you now have is not your husband. What you have just said is quite true."
Suddenly I found myself feeling like one of the other women in town, the women avoided by going to the well at the hottest time of day. This Samaritan woman deserved to be socially ostracized - she is dangerous. When you've been with at least six men, and you're currently living with one out of wedlock, the collateral damage of your broken relationships spreads to every nook and cranny of your small town (and in that day, they were all small towns). The women who wouldn't socialize with her were possibly all related to men she had been with - uncles, cousins, brothers, sons, or maybe even husbands. Whereas the Samaritan woman had always seemed like a victim of her social circumstances to me in previous readings, now I can't help but see her as the incarnation of the adulteress warned of multiple times in the book of Proverbs.
Slightly removed from the initial shock of this new view on the woman at the well, what can I say about this? Who indeed is the woman? And what does it mean that Jesus approached her with love and truth?
First, who was she? Was she a victim of lifelong abuse from a young age, who kept getting stuck in abusive relationships, who may have been widowed a couple times, who just needed some roof for protection in a patriarchal culture, who was unfairly cast aside by the other women in town? Or was she spoiled, a poisonous personality, a gold-digger, always seeking a new man to conquer sexually and financially, using and abusing the people around her, only looking out for her own good, leaving a trail of wreckage behind her wherever she went? . . . We don't know. The text doesn't tell us. The point is, she could be either one. We can't take comfort in the fact that Jesus would only reach out to people who fit our moral sensibilities.
The fact is, she was probably a bit of both of those caricatures. That's the thing - real people don't fit in the skin of their Disney prototypes. Every innocent victim has a narcissistic streak, and every rotten apple has been a victim along the way. Jesus sees it all in each of us: every bit of our junk that's not our fault, and every time we play the victim card when we're actually the perpetrators. The same goes for the people who have left us as the wreckage in their wake. He knows that they are even more despicable than we understand, and also that they're more deeply wounded than we can fathom. He moves toward people who society casts out, even when society has good reasons for that judgment.
The reason the Samaritan woman is a hero in the text is not because of her colorful past; it's because of her response. She opens herself to God's redeeming love. It doesn't matter if you're an eagle scout or a gangsta, Mother Theresa or Lady Gaga - you can humbly accept God's love and grace, or you can pridefully try to stand on your own two feet.
He moves toward you. You don't fit God's moral sensibilities. But he loves you. Respond to his love with humility, awe, and restful acceptance. Then extend his love to others; go love your "enemy" today, wherever you may encounter such a person. Find a slice of sympathy for that person, even as you acknowledge you're with a real jerk.
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