She didn’t remember when she heard the news. But what she heard, she would never forget.
“No! It can’t be true!” she cried, nearly dropping her empty
water pot when her friend breathlessly told her about the death. His death.
“My husband told me himself,” Photini’s friend told her
through tear-filled moans. “He’s dead. Crucified at the hands of the Romans.
What’s worse, the Pharisees and Sadducees both conspired to bring Him in.
Arrested just after Pesach. Joseph went there for the week to do business in
Jerusalem.”
Photini dragged every last sordid detail out from her young
friend. They became more than mere friends since those three marvelous days
when the Master, the Messiah, had come to her village, to Jacob’s well on that
blistering hot but blessedly holy day.
Yeshua had told her everything she had ever done. Well, not
really, not everything. He told her enough though to convince her that He, this
prophet from Nazareth, was in fact the Promised Messiah. Greater than
everything she had done, He told her of what He, the Messiah, the Christ, would
do: to restore worship of the Father in spirit and truth.
As the friends talked and wept, then wept and talked,
Photini looked down at her empty jar. She was reminded how empty she had been
before that blessed day that now seemed long ago. How lonely she had been ... despite her five husbands she had had ... despite the man she had who was not her husband. But since that
day, her life was changed, her relationships changed, she had lost her man, but
gained sisters and brothers, like Sarah and Joseph.
“Joseph was there at the cross. He said he was certain that
Yeshua had died. He said that even before He died, He looked like death warmed over, as He hung
on the cross. Oh, Photini, He had been beaten so badly. Joseph said if He had
not spoken, he would have thought He was already dead.”
“He spoke? From the cross? What did He say?” Photini
demanded. Before Sarah could answer, she shouted, “What could He have possibly
said from the cross?”
Sarah told of His first refusal of the sour wine, the only
comfort from an otherwise merciless death. Photini had seen crucifixions too
many times, ghastly and cruel punishments. They were to warn all the
inhabitants of the land that they, the Samaritans and the Jews alike, were
under the oppressive rule of the Romans.
“And just before He died, Photini, He cried, ‘I thirst!’”
“No!” Photini buried her head in Sarah’s arms. Sarah was
young enough to have been her daughter, if she would have had a daughter. She
was more of a sister than her own sisters had been. More of a friend than any
of her husbands had been.
This Messiah, this Man from God who had truly given her
spiritual drink, died asking for something to quench His own parched mouth.
Photini said it again, “No! He said, ‘I thirst?’”
“I know, I know, that’s why I had to hurry to tell you,”
Sarah spoke tenderly but into the ears of her grieving friend, not sure if
Photini could even hear through her guttural sobs. “He took the bitter vinegar
the second time, but just enough so He could cry out in a loud voice one last
time.”
Photini could only imagine what Joseph had seen. Then a
peaceful word came from Sarah.
“But Joseph said He did not die as he had seen other men
die. Yeshua died as though He was in calm control of all the cruelty around
Him. He was caring for His mother at His feet. Speaking to the only disciple at
the cross. Oh Photini, young John was there too. He even spoke kindly to the
others who were being crucified with Him. He asked the Father to forgive those who drove the nails into His hands.”
Photini was shocked that Yeshua had died, but she knew it
had to be true when she heard how He died. He died as He had lived, with
resolute purpose. In charge. In control. At peace.
She remembered His first words to her at Jacob’s well. “Give
Me a drink,” He had said, commandingly, but not harshly. Firmly, but as though
with a voice of someone she had always known. A familiar tone that made her
wonder not only why a Jew would speak to her as a woman, a Samaritan woman, a Samaritan woman with a horrible reputation.
She never forgot her conversation with Him about her thirst
and how He saw her own spiritual thirst. Her quenching would not be found in
relationships with men, not in her people’s religion. She later travelled to
Galilee Lake to hear Him say that He was the Bread of Life, and that those who
came to Him would never hunger nor thirst again. From that day forward, His
words had indeed quenched the thirsting of her soul. She heard about rivers of Living Water flowing out of the hearts of those who believed. Though her tears were flowing, she was afraid of the drought that might return to her soul.
Photini stood up. She dabbed her eyes. She strained in her mind, her memories, straining to hear all that He had told her and her village.
“So He’s gone. It’s finished.” Bitterness almost filled her
heart at the hated Romans. At the wicked Jews.
But there was no bitterness. There was no hatred.
Even death, at the hands of her enemies no less, could not
stop the love He had placed in her heart. His words, His love, were still alive
if only in her heart. Her fountain was not dry.
She picked up her empty water pot and looked towards Jacob’s well.
“Thank you, Sarah, for telling me. Go in peace.”
She walked away, head spinning, heart aching, thoughts
racing, but her eyes now strangely dry. Her back was not bent down. Her head
was high.
As her friend walked away, courage suddenly flooded Sarah’s
heart. Before she knew it, she called out, “Photini, wait. There is something I
haven’t told you,” Sarah’s voice was trembling more than ever. “Something I
scarcely believe myself. I was afraid to tell you, because you may not believe
it.”
The older woman turned.
She listened.
She ... She ... BELIEVED!
