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  Anything but that. Maybe she considered lying. “Oh, my husband? He’s busy.” Maybe she wanted to change the subject. Perhaps she wanted to leave—but she stayed. And she told the truth.

  “I have no husband.” (Kindness has a way of inviting honesty.)

  You probably know the rest of the story. I wish you didn’t. I wish you were hearing it for the first time. For if you were, you’d be wide eyed as you waited to see what Jesus would do next. Why? Because you’ve wanted to do the same thing.

  You’ve wanted to take off your mask. You’ve wanted to stop pretending. You’ve wondered what God would do if you opened your cobweb-covered door of secret sin.

  This woman wondered what Jesus would do. She must have wondered if the kindness would cease when the truth was revealed. He will be angry. He will leave. He will think I’m worthless.

  If you’ve had the same anxieties, then get out your pencil. You’ll want to underline Jesus’ answer.

  “You’re right. You have had five husbands and the man you are with now won’t even give you a name.”

  No criticism? No anger? No what-kind-of-mess-have-you-made-of-your-life lectures?

  No. It wasn’t perfection that Jesus was seeking, it was honesty.

  The woman was amazed.

  “I can see that you are a prophet.” Translation? “There is something different about you. Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  Then she asked the question that revealed the gaping hole in her soul.

  “Where is God? My people say he is on the mountain. Your people say he is in Jerusalem. I don’t know where he is.”

  I’d give a thousand sunsets to see the expression on Jesus’ face as he heard those words. Did his eyes water? Did he smile? Did he look up into the clouds and wink at his father? Of all the places to find a hungry heart—Samaria?

  Of all the Samaritans to be searching for God—a woman?

  Of all the women to have an insatiable appetite for God—a five-time divorcée?

  And of all the people to be chosen to personally receive the secret of the ages, an outcast among outcasts? The most “insignificant” person in the region?

  Remarkable. Jesus didn’t reveal the secret to King Herod. He didn’t request an audience of the Sanhedrin and tell them the news. It wasn’t within the colonnades of a Roman court that he announced his identity.

  No, it was in the shade of a well in a rejected land to an ostracized woman. His eyes must have danced as he whispered the secret.

  “I am the Messiah.”

  The most important phrase in the chapter is one easily overlooked. “Then, leaving her water jar, the woman went back to the town and said to the people, ‘Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could this be the Christ?’”2

  Don’t miss the drama of the moment. Look at her eyes, wide with amazement. Listen to her as she struggles for words. “Y-y-y-you a-a-a-are the M-m-m-messiah!” And watch as she scrambles to her feet, takes one last look at this grinning Nazarene, turns and runs right into the burly chest of Peter. She almost falls, regains her balance, and hotfoots it toward her hometown.

  Did you notice what she forgot? She forgot her water jar. She left behind the jug that had caused the sag in her shoulders. She left behind the burden she brought.

  Suddenly the shame of the tattered romances disappeared. Suddenly the insignificance of her life was swallowed by the significance of the moment. “God is here! God has come! God cares . . . for me!”

  That is why she forgot her water jar. That is why she ran to the city. That is why she grabbed the first person she saw and announced her discovery, “I just talked to a man who knows everything I ever did . . . and he loves me anyway!”

  The disciples offered Jesus some food. He refused it—he was too excited! He had just done what he does best. He had taken a life that was drifting and given it direction.

  He was exuberant!

  “Look!” he announced to the disciples, pointing at the woman who was running to the village. “Vast fields of human souls are ripening all around us, and are ready now for the reaping.”3

  Who could eat at a time like this?

  For some of you the story of these two women is touching but distant. You belong. You are needed and you know it. You’ve got more friends than you can visit and more tasks than you can accomplish.

  Insignificance will not be chiseled on your tombstone.

  Be thankful.

  But others of you are different. You paused at the epitaph because it was yours. You see the face of Grace Smith when you look into the mirror. You know why the Samaritan woman was avoiding people. You do the same thing.

  You know what it’s like to have no one sit by you at the cafeteria. You’ve wondered what it would be like to have one good friend. You’ve been in love and you wonder if it is worth the pain to do it again.

  And you, too, have wondered where in the world God is.

  I have a friend named Joy who teaches underprivileged children in an inner city church. Her class is a lively group of nine-year-olds who love life and aren’t afraid of God. There is one exception, however—a timid girl by the name of Barbara.

  Her difficult home life had left her afraid and insecure. For the weeks that my friend was teaching the class, Barbara never spoke. Never. While the other children talked, she sat. While the others sang, she was silent. While the others giggled, she was quiet.

  Always present. Always listening. Always speechless.

  Until the day Joy gave a class on heaven. Joy talked about seeing God. She talked about tearless eyes and deathless lives.

  Barbara was fascinated. She wouldn’t release Joy from her stare.

  She listened with hunger. Then she raised her hand. “Mrs. Joy?”

  Joy was stunned. Barbara had never asked a question. “Yes, Barbara?”

  “Is heaven for girls like me?”

  Again, I would give a thousand sunsets to have seen Jesus’ face as this tiny prayer reached his throne. For indeed that is what it was—a prayer.

  An earnest prayer that a good God in heaven would remember a forgotten soul on earth. A prayer that God’s grace would seep into the cracks and cover one the church let slip through. A prayer to take a life that no one else could use and use it as no one else could.

  Not a prayer from a pulpit, but one from a bed in a convalescent home. Not a prayer prayed confidently by a black-robed seminarian, but one whispered fearfully by a recovering alcoholic.

  A prayer to do what God does best: take the common and make it spectacular. To once again take the rod and divide the sea. To take a pebble and kill a Goliath. To take water and make sparkling wine. To take a peasant boy’s lunch and feed a multitude. To take mud and restore sight. To take three spikes and a wooden beam and make them the hope of humanity. To take a rejected woman and make her a missionary.

  There are two graves in this chapter. The first is the lonely one in the Locke Hill Cemetery. The grave of Grace Llewellen Smith. She knew not love. She knew not gratification. She knew only the pain of the chisel as it carved this epitaph into her life.

  Sleeps, but rests not.

  Loved, but was loved not.

  Tried to please, but pleased not.

  Died as she lived—alone.

  That, however, is not the only grave in this story. The second is near a water well. The tombstone? A water jug. A forgotten water jug. It has no words, but has great significance—for it is the burial place of insignificance.

  CHAPTER 4

  LIVING PROOF

  Jenna, wake up. It’s time to go to school.” She will hear those words a thousand times in her life. But she heard them for the first time this morning.

  I sat on the edge of her bed for a while before I said them to her. To tell the truth, I didn’t want to say them. I didn’t want to wake her. A queer hesitancy hung over me as I sat in the early morning blackness. As I sat in the silence, I realized that my words would awaken her to a new world.

  For four li
ghtning-fast years she’d been ours, and ours alone. And now that was all going to change.

  We put her to bed last night as “our girl”—exclusive property of Mommy and Daddy. Mommy and Daddy read to her, taught her, listened to her. But beginning today, someone else would too.

  Until today, it was Mommy and Daddy who wiped away the tears and put on the Band-Aids. But beginning today, someone else would too.

  I didn’t want to wake her.

  Until today, her life was essentially us—Mom, Dad, and baby sister, Andrea. Today that life would grow—new friends, a teacher. Her world was this house—her room, her toys, her swing set. Today her world would expand. She would enter the winding halls of education—painting, reading, calculating . . . becoming.

  I didn’t want to wake her. Not because of the school. It’s a fine one. Not because I don’t want her to learn. Heaven knows I want her to grow, to read, to mature. Not because she doesn’t want to go. School has been all she could talk about for the last week!

  No, I didn’t want to wake her up because I didn’t want to give her up.

  But I woke her anyway. I interrupted her childhood with the inevitable proclamation, “Jenna, wake up. . . . It’s time to go to school.”

  It took me forever to get dressed. Denalyn saw me moping around and heard me humming “Sunrise, Sunset” and said, “You’ll never make it through her wedding.” She’s right.

  We drove to school in two cars so I could go directly to work. I asked Jenna to ride with me. I thought I should give her a bit of fatherly assurance. As it turned out, I was the one needing assurance.

  For one dedicated to the craft of words, I found very few to share with her. I told her to enjoy herself. I told her to obey her teacher. I told her, “If you get lonely or afraid, tell your teacher to call me, and I’ll come and get you.” “Okay,” she smiled. Then she asked if she could listen to a tape with kids’ music. “Okay,” I said.

  So while she sang songs, I swallowed lumps. I watched her as she sang. She looked big. Her little neck stretched as high as it could to look over the dash. Her eyes were hungry and bright. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her feet, wearing brand new turquoise and pink tennis shoes, barely extended over the seat.

  “Denalyn was right,” I mumbled to myself. “I’ll never make it through the wedding.”

  What is she thinking? I wondered. Does she know how tall this ladder of education is that she will begin climbing this morning?

  No, she didn’t. But I did. How many chalkboards will those eyes see? How many books will those hands hold? How many teachers will those feet follow and—gulp—imitate?

  Were it within my power, I would have, at that very instant, assembled all the hundreds of teachers, instructors, coaches, and tutors she would have over the next eighteen years and announced, “This is no normal student. This is my child. Be careful with her!”

  As I parked and turned off the engine, my big girl became small again. And it was a voice of a very little girl that broke the silence. “Daddy, I don’t want to get out.”

  I looked at her. The eyes that had been bright were now fearful. The lips that had been singing were now trembling.

  I fought a Herculean urge to grant her request. Everything within me wanted to say, “Okay, let’s forget it all and get out of here.” For a brief, eternal moment I considered kidnapping my own daughters, grabbing my wife, and escaping these horrid paws of progress to live forever in the Himalayas.

  But I knew better. I knew it was time. I knew it was right. And I knew she would be fine. But I never knew it would be so hard to say, “Honey, you’ll be all right. Come on, I’ll carry you.”

  And she was all right. One step into the classroom and the cat of curiosity pounced on her. And I walked away. I gave her up. Not much. And not as much as I will have to in the future. But I gave her up as much as I could today.

  As I was walking back to my truck, a verse pounced on me. It was a passage I’d studied before. Today’s events took it from black-and-white theology to Technicolor reality.

  “What, then, shall we say in response to this? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things?”1

  Is that how you felt, God? Is what I felt this morning anything like what you felt when you gave up your Son?

  If so, it explains so much. It explains the proclamation of the angels to the shepherds outside Bethlehem. (A proud Father was announcing the birth of a Son.)

  It explains the voice at Jesus’ baptism, “This is my Son. . . .” (You did what I wanted to do, but couldn’t.)

  It explains the transfiguration of Moses and Elijah on the mountaintop. (You sent them to encourage him.)

  And it explains how your heart must have ached as you heard the cracking voice of your Son, “Father, take this cup away.”

  I was releasing Jenna into a safe environment with a compassionate teacher who stood ready to wipe away any tears. You released Jesus into a hostile arena with a cruel soldier who turned the back of your Son into raw meat.

  I said good-bye to Jenna, knowing she would make friends, laugh, and draw pictures. You said good-bye to Jesus, knowing he would be spat upon, laughed at, and killed.

  I gave up my child fully aware that were she to need me, I would be at her side in a heartbeat. You said good-bye to your Son fully aware that when he would need you the most, when his cry of despair would roar through the heavens, you would sit in silence. The angels, though positioned, would hear no command from you. Your Son, though in anguish, would feel no comfort from your hands.

  “He gave his best,” Paul reasoned. “Why should we doubt his love?”

  Before the day was over, I sat in silence a second time. This time not beside my daughter but before my Father. This time not sad over what I had to give but grateful for what I’d already received—living proof that God does care.

  CHAPTER 5

  FLAMING TORCHES AND LIVING PROMISES

  Doubt. He’s a nosy neighbor. He’s an unwanted visitor. He’s an obnoxious guest. Just when you were all prepared for a weekend of relaxation . . . just when you pulled off your work clothes and climbed into your Bermuda shorts . . . just when you unfolded the lawn chair and sat down with a magazine and a glass of iced tea . . . his voice interrupted your thoughts.

  “Hey, Bob. Got a few minutes? I’ve got a few questions. I don’t mean to be obnoxious, Bob, but how can you believe that a big God could ever give a hoot about you? Don’t you think you are being presumptuous in thinking God wants you in heaven?

  “You may assume you are on pretty good terms with the man upstairs, but haven’t you forgotten that business trip in Atlanta? You think he won’t call your cards on that one?

  “How do you know God gives a flip about you anyway?”

  Got a neighbor like this?

  He’ll pester you. He’ll irritate you. He’ll criticize your judgment. He’ll kick the stool out from under you and refuse to help you up. He’ll tell you not to believe in the invisible yet offer no answer for the inadequacy of the visible.

  He’s a mealy-mouthed, two-faced liar who deals from the bottom of the deck. His aim is not to convince you but to confuse you. He doesn’t offer solutions, he only raises questions.

  Don’t let him fool you. Though he may speak the current jargon, he is no newcomer. His first seeds of doubt were sown in the Garden of Eden in the heart of Eve.

  There she sat, enjoying the trees, sipping on a mint julep and catching a few rays when she noticed a pair of beady eyes peering over the shrubs.

  After a little small talk, he positioned himself between Eve and the sun and cast his first shadow of a doubt. “Did God really say, ‘You must not eat from any tree in the garden’?”1

  No anger. No picket signs. No “God is dead” demonstrations. Just questions.

  Had any visits from this fellow lately? If you find yourself going to church in order to be
saved and not because you are saved, then you’ve been listening to him. If you find yourself doubting God could forgive you again for that, you’ve been sold some snake oil. If you are more cynical about Christians than sincere about Christ, then guess who came to dinner?

  I suggest you put a lock on your gate. I suggest you post a “Do Not Enter” sign on your door. I also suggest you take a look at an encounter between a fitful doubter and a faithful God.

  Abraham, or Abram as he was known at the time, was finding God’s promises about as easy to swallow as a chicken bone. The promise? That his descendants would be as numerous as the stars. The problem? No son. “No problem,” came God’s response.

  Abram looked over at his wife, Sarah, as she shuffled by in her gown and slippers with the aid of a walker. The chicken bone stuck for a few minutes but eventually slid down his throat.

  Just as he was turning away to invite Sarah to a candlelight dinner, he heard promise number two.

  “Abram.”

  “Yes, Lord?”

  “All this land will be yours.”

  Imagine God telling you that your children will someday own Fifth Avenue, and you will understand Abram’s hesitation.

  “On that one, Father, I need a little help.”

  And a little help was given.

  It’s a curious scene.

  Twilight. The sky is a soft blue ceiling with starry diamonds. The air is cool. The animals in the pasture are quiet. The trees are silhouettes. Abram dozes under a tree. His sleep is fitful.

  It’s as if God is allowing Abram’s doubt to run its course. In his dreams Abram is forced to face the lunacy of it all. The voices of doubt speak convincingly.

  How do I know God is with me?

  What if this is all a hoax?

  How do you know that is God who is speaking?

  The thick and dreadful darkness of doubt.