The letter I received a few weeks ago from a follower of Ruminations was unexpected. She shared that she and her husband have experienced, over the span of forty years of marriage, many of the issues I've written about experiencing in my own life. She expressed her appreciation for my vulnerability which has helped them uncover years and years of troubling concerns in their physical, emotional, relational and spiritual areas of every day life. She added how the entries have often helped in unashamedly a continued excavation until shallow and deep secrets have been exposed; sometimes with joy, other times with tearful regret but always with a great healing between themselves, others and God.
At the beginning of the letter she mentioned that it has been over a decade that she began trying to deal with her nagging "demon inspired secrets." (her words - not mine.) Her first serious attempt came when she discovered a blog started by Frank Warren. I was completely unaware of who he is, so I goggled his name and discover his blog PostSecret.com began in 2004 as a temporary community art project. He has been inviting people, ever since, to mail in postcards that have one of their secrets written on it. The rules are that the secret needs to be anonymous, and something never shared with anyone else. Still going strong today, PostSecret generates thousands of postcards, many of them decorated by their senders. I can't tell how many members the blog has but I can well imagine from a little research; probable over 100,000. It looks like, to me even those with secrets feel the need to share them with someone. Whatever secrets people have hidden, this website phenomenon highlights the fundamental human desire to be known and seen at the deepest levels.
Yet, I wonder, if being truly known simultaneously, might not arouse fear in some folk like me. On the other hand, I can't help but to think that it is no wonder so many keep secrets from even their nearest and dearest. Even me. I am convinced through my own experience of journaling my naked thoughts; I have opened myself to exposure, and found that by doing so I risk rejection—for all of who I truly am is neither beautiful nor lovely. The contemporary songwriter Aimee Mann once lamented in a song entitled: It's Not, "People are tricky. You can't afford to show anything risky, anything they don't know. The moment you try, well kiss it goodbye." So rather than risk relationship, I think that bunches of folk, especially my age and a generation younger, hide from others what resides in the dark recesses of their souls. I confess, there have been times in my life I've hidden my private secrets and put on a public facade praying that what I really was would never be seen or come to light.
Given this fear of being known, the invocation to "come, see a man who told me all the things that I have done," could be heard more like an accusation at an inquisition than an invitation to be seen completely without shame. Yet, this invitation—given to an unnamed, Samaritan woman in the gospel of John—is an invitation to see and to be seen by One who tells her all that she had done. His knowledge doesn't reject or destroy relationship. His knowledge restores her dignity.
When I read this story, I only find a few details about this woman. She was a Samaritan, a long-despised ethnic group. She came to draw water during the hottest part of the day and not early in the morning or late in the evening as would have been typical for the women of her day. I read that she had had five husbands and was currently living with a man to whom she was not married. While it is not stated explicitly, I'm thinking this is probably the source of her shame. Women in the ancient world derived their social standing and economic viability from their husbands. Without a husband, and particularly without a male child, a woman was without recourse and completely dependent on a society that often abandoned her. And so, probable this woman comes to draw water when no other women were around as a way of hiding her shame. Is this her secret? A secret too painful to tell?
I discover that in her brief encounter with Jesus He reveals her secret. But most powerful to me, in this very moment: it's not for the sake of shaming her or exposing what she feared the most. Why didn't Jesus at any point in the conversation invite repentance, or for that matter, speak of sin at all? Could it have been because she very easily could have been widowed, abandoned, or divorced? Five times would be heartbreaking, but probably not impossible. Further, she could now be living with someone that she was dependent on, or be in what's called a Levirate marriage (where a childless woman is married to her deceased husband's brother in order to produce an heir yet is not always technically considered the brother's wife). I think her shame was probably tragic, rather than scandalous; her fear of being seen the result of deep pain. Immediately after Jesus describes her past, she says, "I see that you are a prophet" and asks Him where one should worship. "Seeing" in John, says David Lose, in the article: "Misogyny, Moralism, and the Woman at the Well," found in The Huffington Post, is all-important. "To see" is often connected with belief. When the woman says, "I see you are a prophet," she makes a confession of faith, Lose says.
In other words, she sees because Jesus has seen her. He has seen her plight. He has recognized her, spoken with her, offered her something of incomparable worth. He has seen her—and showered on her worth, value, and significance. All of this is treatment, I suspect, to which she is unaccustomed. When He speaks of her past both knowingly and compassionately, she realizes she is in the presence of a prophet. She leaves her waterpot, runs into her city, and issues an invitation to "come, see a man who told me all the things I have done."
I note that John's gospel places this encounter with the unnamed Samaritan woman immediately after Jesus speaks with Nicodemus, a Jewish religious leader. Nicodemus, however, has great difficulty comprehending who or what Jesus was. Yet, as scholar David Lose, again notes, Jesus's encounter with this woman yields an entirely different result. She "who was the polar opposite of Nicodemus in every way, she recognizes not just who Jesus is but what he offers—dignity. Jesus invites her to not be defined by her circumstances and offers her an identity that lifts her above her tragedy. And she accepts, playing a unique role in Jesus' ministry as she is the first character in John's gospel to seek out others to tell them about Jesus."
Father, God, thank you for grace in speaking to me through the words of affirmation and testimony of this dear lady and her husband. Thank You for the recording of John, "Come, see a man who told me all the things that I have done" which has become an invitation for me to be welcoming into knowing, and welcoming others to know. Thank You for Your Son, Jesus who is the one who demonstrates that knowledge of my most intimate life details need not make me afraid or feel ashamed. It's His knowledge that brings dignity and freedom to be known in all of my human complexity, whether in or out of the box. Thank You for showing me that Your nearness, Jesus won't kill me from exposure, but offers me a new identity forged from intimate knowledge. It is the start of a fresh invitation to know, just as I am fully known. Amen
