Standing in the Storm

One of my favorite books I read as a child (and not-so-secretly still love to read) is called The Tower of Geburah by John White. It's a slightly different twist on Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia, where three children travel into a medieval-esque world and have allegorical adventures. 

There is a scene that takes places in a drafty, damp castle dungeon; the scene has returned to me time and time again as I process the syncretism and inclusivity abundant in our present-day struggle to understand Jesus and His revelation. 

Young Lisa finds herself caught and imprisoned in this castle cell, fed once a day by her prison-keeper, who happens to be a cat, so she thinks. The food leaves much to be desired: a dry crust of bread, a sip of water. Lisa, in conversation with the cat, wishes for a feast rather than the yucky bread.

And suddenly, there it is, spread before her. A whole table full of the fixings, everything she could possibly want, even her favorite kind of candy. She reaches greedily for the food and eats and eats and eats.

The problem is, she doesn't get full. Even after she's eaten every bit of food over the whole table, she's still ravenous. And...

Her hands are sticky. She tries to wipe them off, but they don't wipe. In fact, nothing cleans those hands, not throughout her prison stay, not through her following adventures... until the point where she enters the Prince's castle and dips in His pool. That's where the stickiness finally washes away -- after she wrestles with her hunger and after she struggles to find the answers to her quest. Before the struggle, she cannot clean her hands.

If you haven't figured out the allegorical components, here are the Cliff's Notes: Food from the enemy, drink from the enemy, do not satisfy. They are only a vapor, a mist, and that's all. To add insult to injury, the struggle to fill ourselves with the false food of the enemy will leave its own residue on our lives. The only way to rid ourselves of this is to recognize that Jesus is the Provider of our eternal life; He is our salvation. He is the only One who offers food that fills and water that will never leave us thirsty again.

John 4:1-26 introduces its own metaphorical reference to eternal life with the concept of "living water." Jesus is traveling north with his disciples from Judea to Galilee, and they must pass through Samaria to reach their destination. To note, the Jews and the Samaritans don't get along. They've been waging a long-standing feud, and the fact that Jesus chose the direct route north is significant. Many Jews avoided Samaria, instead crossing the Jordan or rounding the Dead Sea to head north on the east side of the Jordan River. 

Jesus doesn't avoid this conflict; He heads right into it. North they go, and around noon, they take a pit-stop and pile out of their caravan. Jesus sits down at a well, and the disciples' stomachs grumble. There's a town nearby called Sychar, so the disciples head toward it, hoping for food.

Meanwhile, Jesus sits... waiting. Why yes, I do believe He is waiting for the woman He knows will be coming. I think our lives are full of God-given appointments, and this is one of them.

Here she comes now. A jug on her head, maybe one in her other hand. It's hot; most of the other women will have already come and gone in the cool of the morning to get their water for the day. This woman comes later. By herself. Why?

The sun beats down on the woman's head, and she blows a fly from her cheek. Divorced five times, and now living with a man she's not married to, she is the outcast, the black sheep of the community. She despises the sidelong glances tossed her way by the other women in the town, the whispers, the snide comments when she's lowering the pail for the well's water. This daily water ritual is an abhorrence. How she hates it, yet how necessary it is, for water is life, isn't it?

Jesus eyes her as she walks along the path toward the well. She's getting closer now, now she's within hearing. He opens His mouth and speaks the words He's been preparing since before He even saw her. "Will you give me some water?"

She stops, hesitates, her gaze sweeping over Him from his sweaty hair clear down to his dusty feet. A Jew. A Jew. And He's actually spoken to her. She glances around. No one else is nearby, and it's not like she's got a stellar reputation to maintain anyway. If she speaks to Him, no one will know.

"You are a Jew," she reminds Him, in case He's forgotten, "and I am a Samaritan woman. How can You ask me for a drink?"

Here is where Jesus introduces Living Water. Eternal Life. This is the very reason He hasn't crossed the Jordan and headed up to Galilee to bypass Samaria. He knows this woman, and He has a message for her. 

"If you knew the gift of God and Who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked Him and He would have given you living water."

What does He mean: If I knew Who it is who asks for a drink...? But... He's a Jew. He looks like any other Jew. She sets down her clay jars and studies Him more closely. He's got no special equipment, no water containers hidden in his robes. What does He mean when He says He can give me living water?

She makes a common mistake. Pointing her finger at the past, she nearly misses the far greater opportunity of the present moment. "Sir," she says, "You have nothing to draw with and the well is deep. Where can You get this living water? Are you greater than our father Jacob, who gave us the well and drank from it himself, as did also his sons and his flocks and herds?"

See, back in the day, there were great people who did great things. Are you suggesting that you can do something even greater? See, back in the day, we had Billy Graham. We had George Wakefield. We had Martin Luther. We had Charles Spurgeon. You're going to have to try really hard to one-up them.

Jesus offers the great dichotomy, the wide schism that puts Him far above all the great names of the past. "Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water, welling up to eternal life."

I'd like to point to the regenerative quality of the water Jesus offers. It's not a one-time gift. It's not a quaff of water that settles the thirst for a bit. It's constant, a spring of its own, welling up with an invisible source, but a tangible flow.

This woman grasps at the tangible flow and ignores the invisible source. "Oooh! Sir, give me this water so that I won't get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water." She pushes right by the spiritual and grasps the physical. No more dealing with the other women in town. No more hot trips to the well at midday. No more whispered conversations as she passes through the streets on her way to the well by herself.

Jesus shakes His head. Maybe sighs. She's missing the point. Time to switch tactics. "Go, call your husband," He says, knowing very well what she's going to say.

Her hands, busy with the water pail, pause. She hesitates. At last, she forms the words. "I have no husband."

Jesus nods. "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."

He knows. He knows. She has given no hint of this, but He knows anyway! Her mind searches for a label: A Jew, yes. She's got that much. A Jew who has just told her something that is impossible for Him to know. A prophet! Yes, that's it! Perhaps He has answers to questions that have long gone unanswered between the Jews and the Samaritans. "Sir," she says, "I can see that you are a prophet. Our fathers worshiped on this mountain (Mt. Gerizim), but you Jews claim that the place where we must worship is in Jerusalem."

Jesus presses a little harder. She still hasn't reached the place He wants her to reach yet. "Believe me, woman, a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem."

See, I have come to split the veil of the temple, and make the way for all to come to Me. No longer will worshipers be separated from the Father; I am making a way, the Way.

"You Samaritans worship what you do not know; we worship what we do know, for salvation is from the Jews."

You Samaritans have only accepted the Pentateuch as your Scriptures; you've ignored the prophesies throughout the following Scriptures that have spoken of the Messiah, who will be a Jew. The Jews know this; you have yet to learn it.

"Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and in truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. God is spirit, and His worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth."

I'll repeat that twice for you, so you get it. Spirit and truth. Those are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. Worshiping only in the spirit -- without truth -- is mysticism and witchcraft. Worshiping only in truth -- without the spirit -- is legalism of the worst kind, whitewashed tombs, full of dead bones.

Worship the Lord in spirit and in truth, both/and, never either/or. This book-ending of worship is the only way you will understand the revelation that God gives you.

Still puzzled, the woman pokes the bear. There's something big here, a huge concept, and she can feel it, but the picture is blurred. If she could just see a little more clearly... She heaves a frustrated sigh. "I know the Messiah (called Christ) is coming. When He comes, He will explain everything to us."

Here's where I really, truly identify with her. How often I am confused with all the big questions ever flying over my head, and I just don't. get. it. I'll ask Him when I get to heaven. Why is there pain and suffering in the world? I'll ask Him when I get to heaven. Why didn't You stop what so easily You could have prevented? I'll ask Him when I get to heaven.

I'll deal with it later. I don't want to wrestle with it now. It's too difficult. 

Here, Jesus blows right by her procrastination, her attempt to put off the revelation. Here He establishes His dominion in her life and the blurred picture she's been struggling to see snaps into crystal-clear focus in the space of a single sentence.

"I Who speak to you am He." 

I Who speak to you am He. I am the Christ. I am the Messiah. I declare it. I am He. It's Me. 

Boom. *Mic drop. 

See, Jesus could have opened up that entire conversation with that line, but it would not have had the profound effect that it has on her without the wrestling for understanding that takes place in these snippets of preceding conversation.

Unwrestled faith is as weak and fragile as a plant seedling. Roots push through dirt, through resistance. If the dirt were not there to push through, the roots would have no place to settle, solidify, strengthen. 

Jesus satisfies every last wrestling thought before He drops the mic, before He reveals Himself.

His living water is such a contrast with the tangible water, so much deeper, so much more satisfying, and yet, He uses water as a tangible example so that she can understand. He could have explained eternal life to her in ethereal, flowery language... and lost her from the start. 

Jesus -- a Teacher, a Man, a Jew -- gets right down on her level, introduces the concept of living water to -- an outcast, a woman, a Samaritan -- who, in the heat of the day, needs water. Doesn't He do that for us? Doesn't He identify exactly where we are and lead us to the answers? Doesn't He -- the faultless King of heaven -- step right into the wrestling through the mud with us and help figure it out? 

He reveals, but sometimes, He lets us struggle until the big reveal. Sometimes, He lets the sticky residue stay on our hands until we arrive at His palace and dip in His water. All for the purpose of learning. All for the purpose of revelation. All for the greater good.

This woman knows, the instant He declares Himself, that He truly is the Christ, the Messiah. She knows because of the struggle He's allowed her to experience. He has never stopped being the Christ; He has always been, He always will be... but she knows this as a result of her struggle.

Casting Crowns' I Will Praise You in This Storm comes to mind: 

"I'll praise You in this storm,
And I will lift my hands,
For You are Who You are,
No matter where I am.
And every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hand;
You never left my side,
And though my heart is torn,
I will praise You in this storm."