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A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus (tired from his journey) said to her, ‘Give me a drink’. … The Samaritan woman said to him, ‘How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?’ … Jesus answered her, ‘If you only 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.’ (John 4:7, 9-10)
‘If you only knew,’ how
does Jesus say this? How does he sound?
Is it a weary sigh of resignation, Jesus, moist with
sweat, collapsing at the village well after a hard walk in the mid-day sun? Hearing
the woman, is his voice but a mumble, ‘if only,’ trailing off, all
the while knowing she doesn’t know and likely will never know? ‘If
only’ … hanging heavy with the regret of graces unknown, beauty untasted
and love lost.
Or shall we hear him a different way?
If you only knew, perhaps
Jesus’ words tug the corners of his mouth into the faintest grin, a small tired
smile, a sideways glance, knowing what is his to give, knowing she soon
will know, soon will wake and feel something she has never known, the love who
sees the jagged ruins of her life, of marriages and lovers found and lost, the condemnations
of self and community, knowing she may yet know herself in the circle of a loving
light that makes everything but itself … irrelevant.
If you only knew, a low
chuckle plays at his throat, the gladness of giving, finding joy in the woman’s
surprise soon to come as she finds herself found, finally, by a love who wakes
a spring of joy, wetting her long-parched heart, flowing from a depth of soul
she’d long since forgotten, having lost who she truly is.
It’s a mystery to me how this happens, how living water
first trickles among the cracked earth of sadness, cynicism and despondency,
how it moistens the soil of our discontent, rising to crack the hard shell around
our hearts and wash away the bondage of dark moods and desolating
disappointments with ourselves and others.
It doesn’t happen quickly enough, as far as I’m concerned,
not when the heart is dry, dark moods prevail and I can’t find my way to
sunlight. I understand the woman at the well all too well. ‘Give me this water,
so I will never be thirsty again,’ she asks.
But how? And where? Ignatius Loyola counsels that in
times of desolation we should avoid being alone with our darkness, tell someone
else and go to places of consolation. He sang Basque folk songs, gazed into the
wonder of the night sky, felt the warm sun on his back and prayed his sadness, remembering
and savoring moments of Jesus’ loving nearness, when grace and love awakened
tears of gratitude for the gift of being alive.
Just so, I listen as the music swells from the stereo, Tchaikovsky,
today, then turn my sideways glance toward Jesus’ face, weary at the well. ‘If
you only knew,’ he says, gladness tugging at the corners of his
mouth, a knowing smile, knowing, as he does, that the time of my knowing will
come with joy and tears as living water finds and flows into the parched places
of my heart.
Somehow, seeing his ‘if only’ smile is enough. It cuts
through the sadness. I feel his humor, his playfulness, the gladness of his
giving … and know that I am known. Drinking in his smile, there is no ‘if only,’
for I am with him.
David L. Miller
