Empty

This was what emptiness felt like. This act of intimacy, devoid of anything. The presence of a man, so close yet so far away. The sound of the other women, chatting as they passed the house, but not to her. The emptiness of her life, empty of joy, empty of hope, empty of meaning.

She knew how she had got here, couldn’t imagine any other choices. All her paths led to the same place. Five husbands. Five. Each with reducing hope and now, a man, but not a husband. "At least I won’t be alone" she had lied, knowing that the day would soon come when even with his presence she would feel alone, perhaps, even more alone.

It was over. In the past, there was always the hope that maybe, this time, she would be pregnant, but the continued emptiness of her womb echoed the emptiness of her life. She got up to wash the memory of him away, with the last of the water. He could bathe in the river later, he at least could still be seen in public.

She dressed in silence and the drudgery of the morning began. The same thing every day, no end, no change, no hope. At some point, he had left the house, before it became light, maintaining the pretense. Unconsciously, she shook her head. What was the point of the pretense? Everyone knew, but still he refused to marry her until she became pregnant. His proud boasts that her former husbands hadn’t been man enough, had long since faded. She knew it had just been a defence against the humiliation of marrying, then divorcing her, when it turned out that he wasn't different to those who had gone before.

Eventually, as the sun rose to its highest, whilst everyone else stayed inside, she decided it was safe to go out. Safe from the stares, safe from the judgements, safe from the accusations. As she began the walk to the well she wondered how many times she had done this now. Gone were those pre-dawn water-collections with the other women. Those hope-filled conversations; first about who they might marry and then which of them would marry first. And later, after the excitement of the weddings, who would have the first baby, who would be second. Then finally, who, would be left childless.

And with the answer to that becoming clearer, the questions. From the other women, the increasingly self-satisfied, other women. Intrusive questions; were they having sex, were they doing it right? Then the implied judgement. Why was God withholding children from them? What had displeased Him, what sin was lurking, unconfessed that they couldn’t have the blessing that everyone else had already had?

And they had asked God the same questions. Time and again they had prayed, time and again they had offered sacrifices, time and again they had asked if there was any sin they needed to confess. But nothing made any difference. And the pain of that added to the pain of her deteriorating relationship with her husband. He couldn’t bear the possibility that he might be the problem and so the whispers had begun. The half-heard innuendo, the sidelong looks, but always, the implication that she was the problem. Anything from the hints of some shadowy past to blatant lies about her being unwilling or unable to satisfy her husband. Until, one day, returning home to find her husband gone, leaving only the tersely worded notice of divorce, lying, ironically, on their bed.

Devastated, she had been all too ready to fall for the lies of her next suitor. And nobody warned her of his suspected violence and nobody protected her when it began for real, seeing at as divine justice, punishing her for the unspecified sin that they were increasingly convinced of. When he had died, drunkenly falling down the stairs, nobody mourned, but the whispers got louder. Did he really fall?

In truth, she would have given up on husbands then, but perhaps the greater curse was not her barrenness, but her beauty. It had always been a cause of jealousy, as well as the source of some of the innuendo; surely someone with that kind of figure must have made use of it… But even so, she still hoped, still sought to keep a soft heart, still loved her God. 

And still loved the man who would become her third husband. Which made the eventual divorce all the harder to bear. Not unexpected – they had discussed it, she had insisted on it. She loved him too much to hold him childless when with another woman he could surely have the children he deserved and longed for. 

For a while that act of selflessness had changed attitudes, and she was determined to live alone. But alone proved too much. The aching depths of that loneliness, that longing for even the most fleeting affection. She hated the weakness that drove her down the same path, despised herself, despised the shame. So when a man promised to another had instead pursued her, she had given in again. And all the old prejudice returned, with interest.

And here she was, trudging the same physical path again. The burning heat echoing the burning hatred, the isolated walk reminding her, step by step of her deeper isolation. Oh yes, the well so perfectly represented her emptiness. Every day she came, knowing that tomorrow she would have to come back for more, reminding her of the unfulfilled ache in her soul.

She looked up in the haze, the glare of the sun shimmering against the sand. And her heart sank a little more. There was a figure sat near the well and for a moment she hesitated. Better to go back and wait than face someone. But yet she didn’t. Something kept her trudging forward and as she got closer she saw that it was a man. This was good news, he was alone and therefore not allowed to speak to her. He could think what he liked about why she was here at such a time, but he couldn’t say anything. She was safe from his judgement.

She arrived at the well and began to tie the bucket to the rope. She had glanced at the man, surreptitiously and realised that there was another safeguard; he was a Jew. Goodness knew what he was doing here in Samaria, but even if friends had been present, he still wouldn’t speak to her, or anyone else of her people. So she continued to work, barely realising that he had spoken. Astonished she looked at him as he repeated his request. 

“Please can you get me some water, I have nothing to draw with.”

Men had demanded things from her in the past, ordered her, instructed her, forced her. She had often had something that men wanted and they had taken it until she had nothing left, demeaning her and exalting themselves in the process. But this was new. A man who humbled himself, who acknowledged that he had a need that he could not fulfil. A man who placed himself in her hands. She had no idea how to respond to such a man.

“How is that you, a man ask in this way? And how does a Jew even think about talking to me, a Samaritan woman?” The words came tumbling out, she barely knew what she was saying, but his response came like an arrow to her heart.

“If you knew who I really am, you’d be asking me for living water” 

If she knew! If she had known what men were like, if she had known what was behind their protestations of love, if she had known how used, how abused she would be, how emptied of dignity, of everything... How often she had made herself vulnerable, how often she had longed to be known, to be loved for who she was rather than what she could give. How often men had offered her their version of life only for her to discover that it tasted of death.

“You haven't got anything to draw ordinary water, yet you offer me this special water? Ah, of course, you’re different from other men, better even than my ancestor Jacob who dug this well. Sure, you're different, you’ve got something to give me that no-one else had. Trust me, I’ve heard it all before” 

But he ignored her stinging reply and spoke softly: “if you drink from this well, you get thirsty again, you just have to keep coming back. But the water that I give satisfies the deepest longings, it becomes a spring inside your life.” 

His words broke through her brittleness, melted her heart and stirred once more the yearning that had been pressed down for so long. With desperation, the words poured out before she could stop them: 

“Then give me this living water, that I might not have to keep coming to this endless well.”

He seemed to understand just how much more she meant than the physical well in front of them. He nodded and for a moment, even though she had no idea how, she hoped that he would give her the desires of her heart. But when he spoke again, her world unraveled.

“Go bring your husband” he said. Her husband. Perhaps this was some cruel trick dreamed up by those who hated her, some final humiliation. Tears of shame and rage welled up, but if it was a trap, she would not let them win like that. “I have no husband” she said, with a brutal honesty designed to puncture the intended humiliation.

But when he spoke, it wasn’t with accusation or judgement, but with compassion and acceptance. “I know. You’ve had five husbands and the man you are now with isn’t your husband. It’s like this well, you keep coming back, but far from satisfying it’s killing you.”

She looked at him, astonished and hope began to wash away the jadedness as she began to see him differently. He really was greater than Jacob, he was clearly a prophet and if a prophet, perhaps he could answer her deepest question. Why had God made her barren? 

“Sir, I can see that you are a prophet. I long to worship God, but how? Is it my sinful life? Is it because I am a Samaritan? Is it because I worship here instead of in the Temple? Am I being punished, is that the cause of my pain?”

He saw her tears, her years of pain and honoured them, counted them as precious and received them as true worship. He bent forward and caught one of her tears, holding it up as if it were an offering. "There’s a time coming, in fact, it’s starting right here, when people will realise that it's never been about mountains or temples, but about their spirits, about truth. It’s about people like you, vulnerable, outcast, rejected, judged… yet looking to God for their vindication." Then he looked again at the tears in his hands, showing them to her. "This is real worship”

She felt her heart was about to explode with something she hadn’t felt for many years. Love, affirmation, value, joy. “I do look to God, I’m waiting for the Messiah who will do all the things you have spoken about” He smiled and leaned close. “Then you have found him, I who am talking to you, am he.”

She looked up and saw that around the well other men had gathered – this man’s friends she supposed. What did they think, what had they seen, what had they heard, how would they react? For a second, her old fears returned. But they didn’t stay. They were swept away on the wave of their cheers, their laughter, not at her, but joyfully with her. And suddenly, they were applauding her, honouring her. She stood up and found that laughter was cascading from her own heart as well. Tossing the bucket to the Messiah, she turned and ran into the heart of the village, shouting as loud as she could 

“I’ve found him, I’ve finally found him”

And she had.