(Pictures by Simon Stewart)

LENT 3
THE WOMAN AT THE WELL: Chance encounter of the healing kind
John, 4:5-42

" Men", she thought, "they're all the same". "As long as they have someone who will go to bed with them and fetch water from the well for them, they're happy." She should know, her present "live-in" was number six. Why her life had fumed out like this she couldn't say, but it had. And now here she was, a middle-aged woman, doing her daily trek to the well, the water-bucket a more intimate part of her life than any of the men she had known.

Hello, someone at the well before her! Unusual at this time of day and would you believe it, a man? Jewish, judging by his dress. There won't be any talk from him. Snooty lot, they have no time for us Samaritans. See if I care, I'll ignore him, just get my water and go.

"Give me a drink". The man is plainly tired, and the words are softly spoken, yet they come as a shock. His accent is Galilean, they're not quite as high and mighty as the Judean sort, but still she shows her surprise. "You a Jew speak to me, a Samaritan." And so it begins! There in the baking heat, in this place of her daily drudgery, she meets and is met by a man who is different, a man who will turn her world around.

Over the waters of the well she bandies words and wisdom with him, giving, she thinks, as good as she gets. He makes no attempt to outpace her arguments, but his calm un-accusing directness, undoes all her attempts to be clever. She has been down this road before but it's never been like this. Suddenly, she it is who feels like a stranger, out of her depth at her own well.

Goodness! How many times has she come here and rested, before lowering the bucket? How often has she gazed into the cool depths of the water, searching the mirror image it offered her? The well must have dragged her many a weary mile over the years, but it has had its moments too. At least here, at this time of day, while others rested, she could be alone. She could count her wrinkles on the waters skin, throw out her hair and smile to think that men still found her desirable. Sometimes she would lapse into a little daydream, action-replaying the happy moments of her disordered life. But no harm done, she could leave her fantasies behind her as easily as she walked away from the well. Once in a while she would even allow herself the luxury of dreaming how things could yet turn out. Chance might indeed be a fine thing.

And was this merely "Chance", this man at her well? This was different. Oh, never mind the talk of worship and Holy Mountains. That had merely been her way of trying to distract him. He had let her come to know herself in a way that gazing into the well would never have done. This was something she would not want to leave behind her in the silent depths of the pool. There was no need to daydream, or long for an escape; for all its chaos her past could be a new beginning. Suddenly she was aware that he was giving her a drink, quenching a thirst she had been trying to ignore.

Back in the town and out of breath, she found the courage to call out; "Come and see a man who has told me everything I ever did". Previously she would not have dared. They knew too much about her already for her to risk further ridicule. But now it just didn't seem to matter anymore. And the change in her was so obvious that it wasn't simply a taste for gossip that sent them out to meet the stranger at the well.

She knew what they would be like when they came back, excited just as she was. They wouldn't give her the credit, men are not like that, and in any case she had a feeling that it was not she who had found the stranger by the well: he had found her.

LENT 4
THE MAN BORN BLIND. In the light: darkness, in the darkness: light
John 9: 1- 41

The city was shutting down around him. Sabbath had begun. He did not expect this Sabbath to be any different from the others he had known, the demands of the law would be everywhere, but he was not without hope. People were often more kindly disposed towards his sort on God's Day. Next morning he was early to the streets.

The smells and sounds of the city were just as they should be, as he had come to know them over the years. Yesterdays market was quiet now, but the Sabbath brought it's own bustle. Today there would be voices he did not hear on the other days. These were the ones he called his people, his Sabbath people. They lived outside of the city, their work rarely bringing them to the crowded streets where he spent his week. At the very least he might hope to be a novelty to them.

Truth to tell, in some ways the day made no difference to him. The blind are always compelled to make the best of things and over the years he had grown accustomed to it. What his eyes denied him, his ears and his very body sense gave him in abundance. He would not have dared to call it a skill; that would have been seen as having ideas above his station, and he had long since come to know his place, but it did give him confidence, the feeling that he knew his way about, he could manage.

He had become so accustomed to the life that the fingers wiping something on his eyelids only made him curious. Always among the pushes and shoves of those who wanted him out of their way, there had been the gentle touch of people who wished only to help. No, it was not the hands or the paste upon his eyes; it was the voice behind the hands that caught his attention. It was saying; "Go wash in the pool of Siloam." Why there? Why, anywhere? But somehow he knew he should go, and he went.

There where he was known so well as one of a regular stream of hopefuls, he pushed his way to the waters edge and began to wash. Confusion ran through him as the water ran from his face. They couldn't believe it either. Was it really the same man. "It only looks like him". It wasn't just that he could see; he was different. While he was blind they saw him as the very presence of darkness in their world of light. He could often overhear their debate," Was

it this man or his parents who have sinned? Someone must have done, for when the blind one came into their world, there, in the light, stood the darkness. Now it was all changed. He was not only looking at them, seeing them with his own eyes; he was himself, brighter. He had joined their world, the world of light. There came other voices, however, not so easily convinced, people who needed to know what had happened, and how; needed to see for themselves. They brought him to the Pharisees. Was this the same man? Had he really been born blind? How had he been healed? By whom? Healed on the Sabbath? It cannot be from God! He is old enough: let him speak for himself. All of these voices the man knew well. Previously they had come to him out of the darkness surrounding him, now they came with faces attached. The voices of his parents came with frightened faces. Those of his fellow beggars brought faces that told him how he himself must once have looked. The voices of the authorities he had come to know through the severity of their tones. Nothing had changed. Their faces were full of threat and accusation. They were angry, demanding an explanation. To him it all seemed so simple: once he was blind, now he could see. The more they questioned him the clearer it seemed to be; it had to be from God. "Are you trying to teach us, and you a sinner through and through?" They drove him away from the one place where he had always wanted to belong. Was there to be no end to the darkness for him?

Then another voice, one he had heard only once before. It had come to him with the rubbing of mud on his eyelids. "I am who am speaking to you" this voice said, "I am he". Suddenly it had turned out to be no ordinary Sabbath. Not only had he been given his sight, he had also come to know what blindness really meant. He knew now where all their questions had taken him. He knew too that he had no wish to join their world. He had indeed been led to see the truth for there before him, in their world of darkness, stood the light, and he worshipped Him.

LENT 5
THE RAISING OF LAZARUS: What is this thing called life?
John, 11: 1-45

What was it they said Lazarus, when they laid you to rest? What was it they said as they rolled that great stone into place and left you there in the dark privacy of the tomb? Rest in peace, was that it Lazarus? Rest in peace, is that what they said? Or was it that they did not greatly know what to say as they came away leaving you where you had left so many others yourself? Rest in peace anyway, Lazarus. Rest.

But who is this who comes now calling out your name? Who is this who comes disturbing your rest? Who is this who comes with tears on his cheeks, your sisters by his side? "I am going to wake him", he tells his friends as they set out for your place. "For your sake I am glad I was not there because now you will believe," he tells them. Who is he who speaks like this, Lazarus? Who is he who comes asking where you have been laid? Does he not now about death? If not, then he has much to learn, and must learn soon. Or do those tears upon his cheeks mean that he has begun to learn? Has your going from this life begun at last to teach him the sad lesson we must all learn; that there is an end to everything and everyone? But if he has indeed begun to learn the hard lessons of life, why does he come so purposefully, asking about your grave, wanting to go there? Who is it that comes to you, Lazarus?

Who is this who comes, Martha, but comes too late? Had he come earlier, you tell him, Lazarus would not have died. Why do you say that Martha? Who is this that makes you say such things? And even now you trust. You call him the Christ the Son of God, why Martha? Do you know the meaning of the word you use? Your neighbours are none too sure. They too have heard, they too have seen, but they are none to sure all the same. You will not catch them making such an act of faith in him. "He opened the eyes of the blind man, could he not have prevented this man's death?" Don't you agree Martha? Wasn't that why you and your sister sent that message " Lord, the man you love is ill". You did not even bother to add the request that he should come to help. Love would be enough, isn't that what you what you thought? But he delayed, he waited and now he is late. Why then this faith in Him, Martha?

Mary, will you tell? Who is this who comes, whose presence calls you from your quiet house, speeding to his side? "Lord", you call him and throw yourself at his feet. Why "Lord?" Why such devotion? Love, is that it? Is it love that makes you repeat your sisters' words, as if the very presence of him who comes so late would have been enough to sustain your brother in life?

Who are YOU who say such things: "This illness will not end in death, but in God's glory, and through it the Son of God will be glorified"? Can you not hear what they say to you; "he is already four days dead, he will smell"? Don't you know anything about death? We hear what you say, that if we believe we will see the glory of God, but the grave has no glory. You must know that, for you are a man: like all men. You know that all must die. Often you have spoken of your own death? Who are you to have the stone rolled back? Who are you to call out his name? Who are you to un-rest the dead? You say you have been sent. Then who are you? Who are you who dare to come among those who would have your life just as surely as the grave now has that of Lazarus? Do you not fear? Do you not know that there will be a grave for you as there must be for all? Who are you to make the dead walk free? "I am the resurrection and the life. If anyone believes in me, even though he dies he will live, and who ever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?" Ah! Yet another question and this time one we must answer.

© Valentine Farrell & Inkermann Press 1996