"But Jesus . . . knew all people and needed no one to bear witness about man, for he himself knew what was in man.”
The man came at night.
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
He was an achiever in all that he did. A scholar, he was a religious leader who understood the law and kept it faithfully. He was also a politician, “a ruler of the Jews,” a member of Israel’s highest legislative body, the Sanhedrin. With age had come success, accompanied by much-deserved respect. Nicodemus needed nothing. But, still, he came at night. And it felt odd—calling a younger, uneducated man “rabbi,” asking questions rather than being asked, taking the place of a student. But he wanted to know about the miracles, so he came at night.
“But whoever does what is true comes to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that his works have been carried out in God."
The young rabbi made no sense. He spoke about being born again like a baby, about the Spirit behaving like the wind that blows where it wishes, about the ancient story of the snake-bitten people being saved as they looked at a bronze serpent lifted up on a pole. This one who did miracles from God spoke in metaphors of weakness. But the one who came at night was strong, capable, accomplished. And he left in the dark.
“He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him.”
She came at noon. The sun beat down on the baked earth, and it was hot. But more unpleasant than the heat of the sun at noon were the glares and whispers of the other women. And so she came at noon to fetch her water, an essential, but dreaded, chore.
“For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed.”
And there he was, at noon, by the well, with the sun hot and bright, beating down on the baked earth. This Jewish man was asking an uneducated, immoral, unnamed Samaritan woman for a drink. The young Jewish rabbi made no sense. What was he thinking—asking a Samaritan woman for a drink and then telling her that if she asked, he would give her living water, and she would never be thirsty again? If he really had water like that, why would he ask her for a drink?
“The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life."
It sounded good—never having to come out again in the heat of the day, carrying the now heavy jar filled with water back to the house. And so she asked him to give it to her. But then he asked her to bring her husband. And this was what she was trying to avoid. This was why she had come at noon instead of when all the others were there. She worried that the deal would be off . . . and so she told the truth, kind of. “I don’t have a husband.” “That’s right,” he said. “You have had five husbands, and now you are living with a man who is not her husband.”
“He told me all that I ever did.”
She realized that this was no longer a conversation about water. She was speaking with a prophet from God. Could this somehow all be related to the coming of the Messiah? And then he told her: “I who speak to you am he.”
Poor, shunned, uneducated, immoral—he knew all about her and revealed himself as the Messiah to her anyway. In the light of the sun, she left her water jar behind and went to tell the people of the town about the one who had found her.
It's no coincidence that these two incidents occur back to back in John's gospel. Through a study of contrasts, John shows us that the gospel is for everyone—men, women, rich, poor, educated, uneducated, moral, and immoral—for whoever believes in him.
"For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life."
