Memorable Encounters

For an expert in the Scriptures, as is Nicodemus, the mention of water and Spirit is a clear allusion to the principles of creation. The new birth signifies a new creation. Thus the action is not human, but divine.

Jesus explains, “In mankind there are two levels of existence, the physical and the spiritual. Each can transmit only the life it possesses. The flesh transmits the weak human condition. The spirit transmits the power of God.”

To explain further, human aspirations reach no higher than economic well-being, family satisfaction, or personal prestige. From this level humans can never hope to become all that God has planned for them to be, nor can they overcome their own innate weaknesses.

“Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit.” (John 3:6, NIV). Man can defeat his spiritual impotence only with God’s power.

The new birth Jesus suggests means entering into a new reality whose center is God and not the human. It means passing from a life of dependence, restricted and choked by human limitations, to a life free and open to all the possibilities of the Spirit. It means passing from the reality of condemnation and death to the vibrancy of new life.

Surprised at Jesus’ words, Nicodemus asks how this change is possible.

With irony Jesus forces him to look for life’s meaning outside the bounds of his religious upbringing. “You are Israel’s teacher . . . and you do not understand these things?” (John 3:10).

Nicodemus knows so much. Religion is his area of expertise. Living and moving in a world of theological argument and debate, he stands out as a learned scholar. But somehow he has missed the most elementary of lessons. He has not learned that the spiritual life depends not upon his own theological knowledge about God but upon his relationship with Him. He has not learned that it is possible for a person to obtain the high title of Doctor of the Sacred Scriptures without a personal relationship with the God revealed in Scripture.

“You should not be surprised,” Jesus says, “at my saying, ‘You must be born again.’ The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit” (John 3:7, 8).

The spiritual rebirth changes violent men into apostles of peace. Those formerly consumed by hatred can now forgive and love. The erstwhile mean, self-indulgent and egotistical person now volunteers his services in the most generous enterprises… One doesn’t need to understand the process of regeneration. The important thing is that it occurs, and for it to occur we must respond to the love of God in our hearts, constraining us to surrender to Him. The powerful energy of grace supplies the rest. No one knows how it occurs, but in a given moment it breaks into our lives and transforms us. The new birth cannot be explained. It can only be experienced. And not just once for all time, but each and every day (1 Cor. 15:31; 2 Cor. 4:16).

Suddenly, Nicodemus realizes the shallowness of his knowledge of God. He has tried to understand from his own point of reference, but divine creativity cannot be enclosed within the framework of theology. The fault does not lie in his sources but in his interpretation. The Old Testament is a continual lesson on the incredible initiative of divine love. But just as it is difficult for the materialist to imagine a reality apart from things, the legalist cannot imagine a relationship with God other than in terms of obedience to law.

Revealing his confusion, Nicodemus asks, “How can this be?”

These are his last recorded words of that night encounter. From here on Nicodemus silently listens to this unusual Friend. Jesus tells him, “We speak of what we know, and we testify to what we have seen” (John 3:9-11).

Nicodemus came looking for a messiah to rule over Israel. But God has decided to rule over all people. His Envoy will be king over all who wish to be born into a life without end in a kingdom of love without frontiers. “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16).

If God loves without barriers and wishes us happiness without limits, His objective—when He sent the Messiah—could not have been judgment, as Nicodemus and his colleagues believed. The judgment is the ultimate consequence of human choice. The mission of the Son was to bring life, now and forever. His aim was not to destroy some and save others, but to bring hope to all.

Jesus prefers volunteers to pawns who are forced into compliance. His kingdom cannot be established by force, but by loving persuasion.

Jesus reads Nicodemus’ mind as he wonders, “What must one do to have this life? How can one be born again?”

Humanity, suffering from a deathblow deep within, needs only to grasp the new life as one with a serious wound pins his hope on any available cure.

And Jesus had the answer. “Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him” (John 3:14, 15, NIV).

The human race condemned itself to death by separating from God, the only Source of life. Our only chance of survival is to connect our mortality with eternity. Our destiny depends upon our final choice: to give in to the Light of life or to separate ourselves to pursue the clouds of nothingness. There are no other choices. In some dangerous births the only solution is surgical intervention. So we, too, can see the light only through the intervention of the Surgeon “from above.” It’s a radical solution, but in just such a solution is our salvation.

“Whoever lives by the truth comes into the light” (John 3:21, NIV). With these words of hope echoing in his ears, Nicodemus leaves. This restless intellectual has found more than a teacher. However, though he exits marked forever by this disconcerting message, it will take time before he will act on what he has learned. His will be not a rapid “birth,” but a prolonged “gestation.”

He could have become a new man right that night, entering into the service of the gospel. Instead he continued to work as a lawyer at the service of the law.

Nicodemus waited three years before making his decision. Only when the Sanhedrin decided to arrest and finish once and for all with this revolutionary Preacher did Nicodemus finally risk himself in the Teacher’s defense. He waited, not for lack of conviction, but lack of courage. Too afraid of what others would think and of

how a decision for Jesus would affect his career, he admired Him from a distance. Nicodemus ran the risk of never leaving the lukewarm group which God will eventually spit from His mouth. He waited to declare himself until he saw Jesus hanging on the cross that terrible Friday.

Finally, remembering Jesus’ allusion to the serpent lifted up in the wilderness, he dared to stand and align himself with the crucified Jesus. When Pilate gave permission for Joseph of Arimathea to take the body of Jesus from the cross and give it an honored burial, Nicodemus contributed about 75 pounds of myrrh and aloes. Then, following Jewish custom, he and Joseph bound the body of Jesus with linen and spices. It was a final tribute to the One that Nicodemus had followed from afar, covering with perfume the wounds that his own cowardice had helped to inflict.

After his first meeting with Jesus, Nicodemus returned to his own world. But beyond the shadows, in the distant horizon of his life, an inescapable sunrise had begun to dawn.

By the Well

Unquenchable thirst

The fierce sun blazes in the midday sky, stifling and suffocating in the still air. Heat rises from the stones surrounding a well, and a dusty traveler tries in vain to protect Himself from the sweltering rays. He sits alone by the wellhead, for at this hour everyone has retreated to the relatively cool darkness of their home.

Why has He chosen such a solitary time to wait by the well? Either morning or evening was the logical time. A chill envelops the plaza at dawn, bravely challenging the rising sun. And in the evening, almost imperceptibly at first, the coolness steals back as shadows lengthen and the heat slowly subsides.

These are the hours when all along the path brown pitchers are seen bobbing above dark heads and white veils. Women’s laughter fills the air. Boys, wishing to be men, cluster bashfully upon the stepping-stones of the plaza, awaiting the maidens who come to draw water. Men sit in the shadows discussing politics and business. The well is the center of town life at these times. But not now. Not at midday. So why has Jesus stopped here?

He has trekked through Samaria to Sychar to confront the pain and prejudice of human hearts. Jesus knows that Jews and Samaritans share only the rivalry of separate religious ruins. They share only the common ground of hatred, pride, arrogance, and grudges. Scarred by years of mistrust and insult, the people of these neighboring countries will not even speak to one another. Today, Jesus chooses to reach beyond the hatred and the hurt to the hated and the hurting.

He has come at noon because He knows the Samaritan woman will be there. And so He sits waiting.

She trudges up the hot, dusty path accompanied only by her shadow. Her lonely arrogance is as visible as her bracelets glinting in the sun. No one knows what she hides behind her aggressive look, but her midday trips to the well have long been a topic of conversation among the townspeople.

She ignores the Stranger, but He is there to meet her, and addresses her in a way she is sure to understand. He looks up. “Give me a drink,” He says.

The woman pauses. Why has this Jew spoken to her? What can He want from a Samaritan woman? Jews considered Samaritans less than dogs. His request is nothing more than an overworked line. Asking for water beside a well! She knows the Old Testament. Almost all the love stories in Sychar begin this way. When Abraham decided to find a bride for his son, he sent his servant to a well. Way back then his strategy was the same.

“May it be that when I say to a girl,” Abraham’s servant prayed,

“ ‘Please let down your jar that I may have a drink,’ and she says, ‘Drink, and I’ll water your camels too’—let her be the one you have chosen for your servant Isaac” (see Gen. 24).

That was how Isaac and Rebekah came to be married. And today this strange Jew sits at the well that had been dug by Jacob, the son of that famous couple, and asks her for a drink.

The Samaritan woman knows the line by heart. She has participated in the scenario alongside the well with five or six men, each time hoping that her dreams would finally come true. But that had been when she could still dream. Is this Man any different? Can He offer her hope for the future? Will she encounter her destiny here today? Can she dream just once more?

She eyes Jesus cautiously, still unconvinced. Unwilling to trust again yet just as unwilling to end the conversation, she teasingly plays with her words. She speaks of water as one would speak of the rain when it is torrential or the sun when there is good weather. She speaks merely to fill the silence until she can decide what this Stranger has to offer.

An abyss, seemingly impassable, spreads between Jesus and this woman. It separates their worlds, yet Jesus reaches out to her. Samaritan and Jew; sinner and sinless. Her world is one of unstable relationships in the night. This Man presents her with an encounter at high noon.

He chooses His words carefully, each one calculated to spark hope where there is none. Apart from His genuine thirst, He knows that to ask for water is to say, “I’ve come to talk about your future.” How else could He interest a woman like her?

“If you knew the gift of God and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked Him and He would have given you living water, which would never run dry. He would give you water that overflows all boundaries and that cannot be channeled by any system of irrigation. He would give you a fountain of life, a spring of hope. My water brings life to the spirit and to the body. It cleanses inside and out.”

It is not strange that when Jesus offers the Samaritan better water, she thinks in concrete terms. Can this Man offer her a house with a water storage tank? Can He offer her a tap, a sink, or perhaps even a bathroom of marble? No. He does not seem able to offer her any of these. And so the woman sidesteps involvement and continues to draw water.

Time is precious for Jesus. In the distance He already sees His returning disciples. And so He dispenses with the small talk of new acquaintances and offers her, from the depths of His compassion, water much more valuable and refreshing. He speaks of living water. Jesus believes the Samaritan is capable of following the spiritual lesson.

By talking with her of spiritual things, Jesus shows her the respect not often shown to women of that time, and thus places her above social barriers, religious taboos, sexist exclusion, and racial borders. He frees theology from its last straitjacket and puts it to work on behalf of this woman. Will He be understood?

In order to clear up any misunderstanding, Jesus turns toward her once more. “Go, call your husband,” He suggests, “then come back.” He is really saying, “Show Me your true identity, your social status. Introduce Me to the one who gives you a name and legal standing.”

She ducks her head. “I have no husband.”

“You are right when you say you have no husband,” Jesus kindly confronts her. “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.”

Jesus does not condemn her. He speaks neither of adultery nor of divorce. Neither is His simple statement meant to humor her. He simply reads her heart.

Five husbands, five unclosed wounds. How many disappointments? How many times can a heart break?

“It is not strange that in order to avoid more suffering you commit yourself less and less. You have buried five dreams. Five times you planted gardens where there was only desert. You cannot take more failure, but the ground is still parched. If you have given up on human love, could it be because you are actually looking for eternal acceptance?”

The woman begins to understand. “Sir,” she says, suddenly seeing Him for the first time, “I can see that You are a prophet.”

For a brief moment she drops her mask of frivolity, allowing Him to glimpse her broken heart. But she recovers quickly.

“I am not a practicing believer, although I have always wanted to believe. But what should I believe in?” she asks. “You Jews say that you possess the truth. And your God can be worshipped only in your Temple. But the Samaritans say that one can find God only in Mount Gerizim.”

This quick-witted, intelligent woman knows that religions tend to envelop themselves in the cocoon of their own beliefs. She knows that the religious too often argue among themselves out of fervor, fanaticism, and pride. She also knows that religious leaders are men. As a Samaritan, the woman understands men only too well. So she asks a question meant to draw Jesus from her own personal case to much less dangerous issues.

But Jesus sees through her strategy. And since His bias is toward neither the Jews nor the Samaritans, He avoids both options. “God is higher than our ecclesiastical systems and larger than our theological debates. In order to find Him, you need not make a pilgrimage to a temple or climb a mountain. You need only to search the depths of your own heart.

“Religion without love as its core is nothing more than an empty cistern. To try to worship God without the indwelling spirit of truth is neither realistic nor, indeed, possible. For this reason, we find only emptiness in so many sanctuaries. They are no more than ancient dwellings on the verge of collapse. Only when we hunger and thirst after righteousness will we be satisfied, our thirst quenched. Only when we drink of living water can we truly find eternal life.”

The Samaritan woman sighs. “I know that Messiah [called Christ]

is coming. When he comes, he will explain everything to us” (John 4:25, NIV).

“The time has come,” Jesus tells her. “I who speak to you am He.”

The great revelation is made. Not to a dyed-in-the-wool Jew, but to a foreigner. Not to a devout, pious woman, but to a lost soul. Jesus reveals Himself to the outcast. He offers the covenant to the scorned and thirsty one.

The Samaritan woman no longer dips for water in the same old well. By its edge she leaves her empty pitcher and runs home to tell her neighbors about Jesus.

Today healing water has begun to flow. There is enough to cleanse all the wounds that the human heart has borne. Its abundance not only satisfies all Sychar and Samaria, but runs free for all, healing wounds and quenching thirst wherever it goes.

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