The Question

The woman breathlessly came running down the street. She stopped at the front porches of all her neighbors, exclaiming “I’ve met a man!”

Some sighed. Some shook their heads. Some smiled and some looked on sympathetically, but they all thought the same thing. 

“Oh, but he’s different. You don’t understand,” the woman continued. They may have not come out and said it, but it was reflected in each of their eyes, We’ve heard this before.

Nevertheless, the town was small and the excitement was almost nonexistent, so they settled in to listen to what she had to stay. Hopefully, it would at least be entertaining. They nonchalantly gathered around her, boredom plain on many of their faces, but that did not last long.

As she continued the story, they stood up a little straighter, leaned forward a little bit. Maybe one woman set aside her knitting. Another scolded her children for being to loud. A man set aside the work he had brought with him. And they listened.

She told them how she had gone to the well that day, at the same time she always did, expecting no one to be there. That day, however, was different. A man whom she had never seen before sat at the well. She kept her head down and eyes averted, for he was a Jew. She could just tell and she had been humiliated enough in her life to know better than to speak to him.

But then something beautiful and completely out of the ordinary happened. He spoke to her. 

Here she paused, trying to comprehend the reality that he had wanted to speak to her. She just couldn’t believe it. And he didn’t just talk to her, he connected with her. He looked her in the eye and gave her respect. He listened and then he answered.

She shook her head and wonder and continued. She told how he had spoke to her of a living water that would satisfy and bring everlasting life. How he had told her everything that she had done. He knew about the past men in her life. He knew she’d been through many, but he was offering to be the last one. He was offering to be the man she needed.

She told how he spoke of the day when they would be able to worship God freely.

And then, she told them the best part. She smiled and the townspeople all leaned forward. You could have heard a pin drop as she spoke with wonder,

“Is not this the Christ?”

She had been right. He was different than the others. None before and none after have ever been like this Man.

This Man was gentle and kind. Just and fair. Loving and patient. Holy and pure.

This Man was found, waiting at the well for a broken woman who had no more hope. He was found near the tombs at Gadarene, waiting for man bound by forces he could not hope to escape. He was found in the temple, waiting for a woman who had given herself away for what she thought was love. He was found in Jericho, waiting on a blind man to cry out to Him.

He was found in drug rehabs, waiting for men and women who could not break their chains. He was found in prison, waiting on those who had long since turned away from them. He was found in homes, waiting on people broken and bruised by events they could not control. He was found in moments of despair, waiting on those needing strength.

He was found at the cross, waiting for a thief, a common criminal, in his last moments.

And He was found in the garden on the third day, waiting for a grief-stricken woman whom He had long ago set free to remind her that He was in control, that He was faithful and true to His word and that He had triumphed.

And He is found today, waiting on whosoever will come.

And I ask you, “Is this not the Christ?”