THE HOME MISSIONARY
The woman left her water jar beside the well and went back
to the village and told everyone, "Come and meet a man who told me everything
I ever did! Can this be the Messiah?" So the people came streaming from the
village to see him. John 4:28-30
In the former chapter, we found that the disciples had
meanwhile joined their Lord at the Well, while He was still conversing with
the woman of Samaria. Until now, she had enjoyed undisturbed her interview
with the Divine Wayfarer; but other eyes being upon her, the conversation
abruptly terminates. So it is with all our most hallowed seasons of communion
with the Savior on earth. They are necessarily brief. He is to His people
still, in a spiritual sense, as He was to that daughter of Israel, "as a
stranger in the land, and as a wayfaring man that turns aside to tarry for a
night." Blessed will that time be, when no disturbing intrusive element can
interrupt the bliss of fellowship whose duration will not be a transient
noontide-hour of burden and weariness, but ETERNITY!
The silence of that speechless group seems to have been
first broken by the sudden departure of the woman. In the intensity of her
newborn emotions she is forgetful altogether of the purpose which brought her
to the well of the Patriarch; and, leaving her pitcher behind, she hastens to
her native city to proclaim to her fellow-townsmen the astounding intelligence
that she has found the Messiah. How altered her whole character and feelings
since she left her home a brief hour before! She had left from the gates of
Shechem a miserable sinner; she returns a rejoicing believer, with her
deep spiritual thirst quenched, once and forever, at a nobler fountain.
There is something true to human nature, and truer still to
the expansive, unselfish spirit of the Gospel, in seeing her thus hastening
to make others partakers of her own joy and peace. The impulse is natural
to communicate to others whatever may have imparted happiness to ourselves. A
son who gets advancement in the world delights to take the earliest
means of sending the tidings to the paternal roof. The soldier in the
forlorn hope hastens to give to those who are waiting with breathless
interest, the intelligence alike of his safety and of his feat of successful
daring. The shepherd in the parable is represented, on finding the lost
wanderer, as calling his friends and his neighbors together, saying, "Rejoice
with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost." The father of the
prodigal is not contented with his own happiness in giving welcome to the long
absent one, but his banqueting halls are thrown open, that others may have a
sympathizing participation in the gladsome return.
We may recall a moment of deeper, stranger, intenser joy
still—a joy which quickened the pulses of the world's life; when Mary
Magdalene had not only entered the deserted sepulcher, but had listened
from unmistakable lips to words of wonder and gladness—with fleet step, unable
to keep the ecstatic assurance to herself, she hurried to proclaim it to those
most intensely interested—"She departed quickly from the sepulcher, with fear
and great joy; and ran to bring His disciples word." The two travelers to
Emmaus, when their wondering eyes were opened, hastened forthwith to the
eleven with the glad news, "The Lord has risen indeed, and has appeared to
Simon."
So it was in the case of the woman of Samaria. She, too,
had seen her living Lord—the Messiah promised to her fathers. Her joy and
wonder cannot be unshared. It was with her as with the brethren of Joseph: no
sooner had the patriarch made himself known to them, saying, "I am Joseph,"
than they hastened to convey the startling intelligence to their aged father,
"Joseph is alive!"
The true Joseph had made Himself known to this alien
sister. She cannot keep to herself the joy of all joys. "The woman left her
water jar beside the well and went back to the village and told everyone,
"Come and meet a man who told me everything I ever did! Can this be the
Messiah?" So the people came streaming from the village to see him."
And this is ever the true result of saving conversion, the
necessary consequence of the reception of the truth into our own hearts—a
longing desire to make others sharers and participators in our joy and peace
in believing. If Christianity be real and living, it must be
expansive. The work of the Spirit of God in the heart is not a fiction,
not a form, but a life. To use the simile of this narrative, it is a fountain
not only 'springing up,' (bubbling up,) but overflowing its cistern, and the
superfluous supply going forth to gladden other waste places. Not the mass of
stagnant water without outlet, but the clear, sparkling lake, discharging its
rush of living streams which sing their joyous way along the contiguous
valleys, and make their course known by the thread of green, beautifying and
fertilizing as they flow.
Or, if we may employ another figure, let it be that whose
appropriateness redeems it from commonplace—the stone thrown into the same
still lake. The ripples formed are deepest in the center. Christianity is
deepest in the heart in which its truths have sunk; but its influence expands
in ever-widening concentric circles until the wavelets touch the shore.
Religion, intensest in a man's own soul and life, should embrace family,
household, kindred, neighborhood, country, until it knows no circumference but
the world!
Oh, how unlike is the true spirit of the gospel to that of
the world's selfishness; that selfishness which would retain all with
tenacious, avaricious grasp, with no thought or care for the happiness or well
being of others. Christianity breaks down these walls of narrow isolation, and
proclaims the true brotherhood of the race. Selfishness closes the heart,
shuts out from it the rains and dews and summer sunshine; but Christianity, or
rather the great Sun of light, shines—the closed petals gradually unfold in
the genial beams—and they keep not their fragrance to themselves, but waft it
all around. Every such flower, the smallest that blushes unseen to the
world—becomes a little censer swinging its incense-perfume in the silent air,
or sending it far and wide by the passing breeze.
The woman of Samaria became, as every Christian who has
tasted and seen that the Lord is gracious ought to become, a home
evangelist and missionary. Origen calls her "the apostle of the
Samaritans." The entire words in the song of an elder sister in Israel, which
we have more than once partially quoted, are beautifully true in her case with
reference to the inhabitants of her city: "Those who are delivered from the
noise of archers in the places of drawing water, there shall they rehearse the
righteous acts of the Lord, even the righteous acts towards the inhabitants of
his villages in Israel: then shall the people of the Lord go down to the
gates."
And her case and character are, in this respect, only in
beautiful keeping and harmony with manifold examples in sacred
Scripture—"going down to the gates," and proclaiming to others, "This gate of
the Lord into which the righteous shall enter." Job was such a
missionary. Not content himself with knowing and rejoicing in the revelation
of a 'living Redeemer,' that evangelist of the Arabian desert, in words
appropriate to his barren home, expresses his ardent desire that others might
participate in the glorious discovery, "Oh that my words were now written! oh
that they were printed in a book! that they were engraved with an iron pen and
lead in the rock forever!"
David was such a missionary. The tokens of God's
forgiving grace and mercy vouchsafed to himself, acted as a stimulus and
incentive to convey these to others, "Then will I teach transgressors Your
ways, and sinners shall be converted unto You"—"Come, all you who fear God, I
will declare what He has done for my soul."
Andrew was such a missionary. For, having himself
beheld and welcomed the Lamb of God, we read, "The first thing Andrew did was
to find his brother Simon and tell him, "We have found the Messiah" (that is,
the Christ). And he brought him to Jesus."
Philip was such a missionary. Himself the recipient of
the glad news, he "finds Nathaniel, and said unto him, We have found Him of
whom Moses in the law, and the prophets wrote, Jesus of Nazareth" at the same
time extracting from the simple-hearted Jew, the noble avowal, "Rabbi, You are
the Son of God; You are the King of Israel."
The converted maniac of Gadara became such a
missionary. He was not permitted to continue his posture, "sitting at the feet
of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind," a passive subject of the wondrous
transformation—"Jesus sent him away, saying, Return to your own house and show
how great things God has done to you. And he went his way, and published
throughout the whole city how great things Jesus had done unto him."
And so it was also with the greatest of all converted men.
No sooner was Paul struck to the ground by the heavenly light, and
heard the voice of that Jesus whom so long he had persecuted, than he
"immediately preached Christ in the synagogues of Damascus, that He is the Son
of God." "You," says Christ, to all and of all His people—"you
are the light of the world." As little can the sun retain his heat to himself,
or the moon her borrowed luster, as the believer cease to be a radiating
center of holy influence. "If these should hold their peace, the stones would
immediately cry out." And if this influence, in the case of not a few, fail of
being of an active nature, let all remember that there is one of another kind
equally acceptable to God, and equally potent for good. The Christian,
confined for weary years to a sickbed, is rendered physically incapable of the
outer activities of the spiritual life; but there is a speechless eloquence
and power in a holy, Christlike character. Such may prove silent
evangelists, commending the gospel to others by their meek, patient, enduring,
unmurmuring resignation—like the alabaster box of old, broken unnoticed and
unobserved; but the whole house, (the little sphere of their influence), is
filled with the odor of the ointment!
To return to the narrative. The mission of this female
evangelist was signally successful. For it is added, "So the people
came streaming from the village to see Him." Now there is something in this
statement which is remarkable, and well worthy of our attention. She has made
a startling assertion in the midst of those who were only too cognizant of her
character. Yet they credit her testimony; they obey, apparently with alacrity,
her summons, and crowd with her to see the Judean Pilgrim. With some of these,
doubtless, there may have been no higher motive or inducement than curiosity;
but from the sequel, we seem warranted to infer that this was not the
predominant reason. They had given a ready and hearty credence to the wondrous
story of this strangest of attesting witnesses, and at her bidding, and under
her guidance, they hasten without hesitation to the old traditional Well.
What could it have been which rendered her testimony so
strong, so self-evidencing and self-authenticating? We may note one or two
particulars which must have specially tended to conquer their prejudices, and
prepare them for a recognition of these same Messiah-claims.
(1.) Her honesty and outspoken candor must have
gained her a favorable hearing: "Come," she said, "see a man that told me all
things that ever I did." It was the last thing we could have expected her to
utter—the last message they would have expected her to deliver—to ask them to
come to see one whose penetrating glance had read and revealed her blackened
history. She would in ordinary circumstances have shrunk from such a
revelation of herself. Indeed, when we see her leaving the well and
disappearing among the old olive trees on the road to the city, the natural
suggestion which occurs to us is, that she is glad to rush away from the
withering glance and exposure of that Heart-searcher, saying, in the spirit of
the oldest world-transgressor, "I heard your voice, and I was afraid, because
I was naked; and I hid myself."
We expect that if she makes any reference at all to the
mysterious stranger, it would be by doing what she could to keep others from
going to listen, possibly to fresh disclosures of her character and vicious
life; that if she said anything to her fellow-citizens about that Jewish
traveler, it would rather be to depreciate His authority and turn into
ridicule His words and similitudes. But this, on the contrary, is the very
point on which she emphatically dwells. This is to her the credential of His
Messiahship, that He has told her all her nefarious past history—that He is
fully acquainted with her life of sin.
Could this honest avowal fail to carry its own moral weight
to the minds of these simple, straightforward villagers or townsmen of
Sychar—that despite of these disclosures, instead of evading Him—belittling
Him—mocking Him—throwing discredit on His claims, or keeping the strange
interview of that morning a profound secret locked up in her heart of hearts,
she invites them to come and see Him, and hear for themselves His omniscient
and searching words?
(2.) Another thing which must have won for her the
attention of her fellow-citizens, was her earnestness. "Come!" she
said, with inviting urgency. Her strange assertions might at first be met by
obstinacy and scorn. She might probably at first be regarded as a raving
enthusiast and fanatic—the victim of some sudden bewildering phantasm,
possessed with one of the demons of their false spirit worship; or perhaps as
subserving some hypocritical ends—a deceiver, and being deceived. But probably
her tears and heartfelt genuine penitence, coupled with the transparent
veracity of her statement, satisfied them that there was in her case no
pretense, no delusion.
There was about her tale and her manner an indubitable
reality, which conquered and annihilated the strength even of Samaritan
prejudices. She may have appeared at first, like Lot to his sons-in-law, "as
one that mocks." But in abrupt, importunate earnestness, the smitten penitent
implores them to go and see—to go and judge for themselves. These pleadings
are irresistible. They went out of the city, she herself probably accompanying
them, "and came unto Him." What is to compare with earnestness? There
is a true ring about it which cannot be simulated or counterfeited. What
Christian ministry, what Christian life, so powerful as an earnest one? It
is not the charm of intellect, not the subtlety of reasoning,
not the magic of eloquence, that will commend the gospel to others. It
is the living words welling up from the believing soul, the lips uttering and
proclaiming what has been experimentally felt and tested. "I believed,
therefore have I spoken."
Unsanctified intellect has often preached an unknown
Savior. Strange as it may seem, unsanctified intellect has even at times not
delivered its message in vain, just as the trumpet which stirs the hearts of
the brave in battle may be sounded by coward or unworthy lips. But the
ministry and the mission most signally owned and blessed by the great Master,
is not the wisdom of human words, or the grandeur of flowery orations, but
where there is the irresistible cogency of living fervor. Men of the
world are quick-sighted enough to penetrate the flimsy veil of unreality and
pretension, to discover those who are the mere imposters in the great army of
the brave and the true.
On the other hand, where there is unction and reality,
other deficiencies will be overlooked and palliated. Even intellectual
superiority willingly stoops to hear the heartfelt tale, though it may
be delivered with unlettered and stammering tongue. Hence, in the Gospels, the
two most honored of preachers, with the exception of the Baptist, just because
their tongues were touched with burning earnestness, were that converted
demoniac of Gadara, and this converted woman of Samaria. Oh for an
earnest Church and an earnest ministry! the baptism "with the Holy Spirit and
with fire!"
(3.) We may add one other impression which must have been
made upon the people of Shechem—the effect which that mysterious interview at
the Well had upon the woman herself. It had made her happy. He had told
her all things that ever she did. That, we might have thought, and so would
they, should have had the effect of making her wretched. We know the awful
feeling which another's cognizance of some crimson sin inspires. It makes the
transgressor miserable. Hush-money is the well-known human quietus of a
troubled conscience—the ready bribe to muffle the anguish of discovered
wrong-doing—the key which locks up the terrible secret. But this woman's
guilty secrets were out and disclosed—One Infinite yet human heart at least
knew them all. He knew the worst of her. He was within a mile of where she now
was—yet she was happy!
Among these half heathen Shechemites were there no
spiritual burdens as heavy to be borne as her own? Do we think, amid these
rough hewers of wood and drawers of water, there were none of the world's
aching hearts to be found? Would they not willingly too pass through the same
ordeal as she, if only the oppressive load could be removed? Would they not
willingly brave the scrutiny of this omniscient One, and allow Him to unlock
their deepest secrets, if only the storm, as in her case, could be changed
into a calm by His omnipotent, "Peace, be still?"
Such, then, being the credentials of this female messenger,
let us glance at the subject of her MESSAGE. This, too, is remarkable and
worthy of note; for in it she tells her fellow-citizens the very fact which we
might have expected she would have withheld, and she omits what we would have
expected her rather to proclaim. We expect, as she enters Sychar, and gathers
the wondering crowd around her, to hear her speak of what we deem alike the
most beautiful and the most memorable part of her story—that, too, which would
be most impressive to the Oriental mind—about the Well, the thirst, the living
water, the gift of God, everlasting life. Or if not this, the mystic sayings
about Gerizim and Zion, the world-wide worship, the revelation of the Great
Father.
Not a word is said of any of these; no, not even does she
speak of the stranger's own closing avowal of his Messiahship. The one
declaration—that which has stirred her heart to its depths (she seems to have
room for no other) is this, "He told me all things that ever I did." As in the
case of Felix, when a greater than Paul now spoke of 'temperance,
righteousness, and the judgment to come,' conscience spoke, and her
immortal spirit trembled! And as in speaking of the Christian ministry we have
adverted to one element at least of persuasive power in the character of the
messenger, so have we here the most effective and influential characteristic
of his message. It is not figurative expositions, not controversial disputes,
not subtle metaphysical distinctions about the nature and character of God,
but the direct commending of the truth to the conscience; awakening a deep
sense of sin—rousing the soul to a consciousness of the virulence of its
disease, and thus preparing it for a revelation of the one glorious remedy.
It was asserted by divine lips to be the first part of the
Holy Spirit's work in conversion, "He will convince the world of sin." The
evidences of the schools are not without their peculiar value—but the
stateliest array of these will never of themselves bring home conviction to
one heart. They are not what prove most effectual in gathering in wanderers to
the fold—they are not the pitchers which fetch up from the well of life its
reviving draughts.
That rather which wins and arrests and conquers, is the
knowledge which the Bible has of myself, in telling me "all things that
ever I did"—the adaptation of the Great Physician to the wounds and
heart-sores of aching humanity—the adaptation of the living water to the
thirsty soul. This is the history of every drawer of that water—"God who
commanded the light to shine out of darkness, has shone in our hearts, to give
the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ."
The Great Teacher, 'the teller of all things,' the true
"Word of God," is a "discerner of the thoughts and the intents of the heart."
The gracious words to ancient Israel collectively, seem to have a special
beauty and significance in their application to this individual case of the
Samaritan woman—a comment on the later saying, "Where sin abounded grace did
much more abound."—"She decked herself with her earrings and her jewels, and
she went after her lovers, and forgot me, says the Lord. Therefore, behold, I
will allure her and bring her into the wilderness, and will speak
comfortably unto her." (lit. speak to her heart.)
A gospel faith is the response of the human spirit within,
to the Revelation without. The unlettered Christian can confront bold
skepticism, and fight it with this "proved sword," this unanswerable argument,
"Come, see a man who told me all things that ever I did!" "One thing I know,
that whereas I was blind, now I see."
Let us close with one practical remark, the power of
feeble influences. If it has been a matter of interest to us to watch the
dealing of Christ with an individual sinner at the well of Jacob, more
interesting still is the sequel we have been now considering—the crowd,
appearing among the trees, of anxious seeking souls, coming to test for
themselves the truth of the wondrous tidings, and to prefer the prayer—"Lord,
give us this water that we thirst not!" But it is of further interest and
significance to note, that this flocking of the people of Shechem to listen to
the Divine Stranger was the result of the pleadings and urgency of one
feeble woman. She herself had become, to use the beautiful figure of the
Psalmist, as a dove whose wings are covered with silver, and her feathers with
yellow gold. In the freshness of her heavenly plumage, this dove of Samaria
flies immediately with the olive branch in her mouth to her own Shechem
valley, not to seek with folded pinion some quiet perch on Gerizim, but rather
to hasten her flight back again to the true Noah, the Giver of "Rest,"
bringing along with her a flock with weary wing and wailing cry. "Who are
these that fly as a cloud, and as the doves to their windows?"
Never let us undervalue feeble instrumentality! It was
the blast of rams' horns, accompanied with the shout of the army of Israel,
which brought to the ground the walls of Jericho. It was the crash of three
hundred pitchers and the gleam of torches by the well of Jezreel, accompanied
by the battle-cry, "The sword of the Lord and of Gideon," which routed the
mighty host of the Midianites. It was a few pebbles from the running brook,
and a sling in the hands of a shepherd boy, which laid low the giant of
Philistia.
Let none make the feebleness of their efforts in the
Church of Christ the reason for neglecting or abandoning them. Let none make
the smallness of their talent a reason for burying it in the earth; but
rather put it out to interest, that when their Lord comes He may receive His
own with interest. It is by small and often insignificant means He still
effects the mightiest of His purposes in His Church on earth. He would
make this still the motive to all exertion—the secret of all success—the
watchword to every Faint-heart and Ready-to-halt in the day of battle—"Not by
might nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the Lord of hosts."