This post is dedicated to Tom A. Tom, please read the whole thing this time, I took a good 45 minutes to write this for you. I write with hope that the Duke socratics will be able to enact a properly christological dialogue that, I think, has rather fallen by the wayside of late--much to the chagrin of our beloved spiritual founder, no doubt (not Tom, but Clive Staples)--not at all a surprising development, given the fact that christologically shaped things usually end up getting crucified (Mk. 8.34). I had earlier suggested this defition of dialogue:
"A provisional definition: what we do when we (a) do not know what is
true (b) do not have the courage to tell the truth."
That was based on the exegetical examination of the clear meaning of John 18-19. Yes, my friends: I fear that we have followed rather in the footsteps of that coward, Pilate, of late. But that is not true dialogue. Now we shall examine Jn. 4. We find there the christological defition of dialogue that shall prove to us invaluable (of course we might have learned it already from Jesus' example in Jn. 18-19--but perhaps that strikes us as too overbold). That is this:
"Dialogue is what we do when we know what is true, and we love people who are trapped in falsehood. Knowing that these people (for whom Christ had died) will not listen to the direct statement of the truth, we seek, gently, through conversation, to lead them to the truth by roundabout--but never false--means."
My my: that sounds rather Socratic. Well, to the exegesis.
Jn. 4.1-6: Note that Jesus intentionally strays into foreign territory. Good shepherds seek to save the one that is lost actively; we might say that they go looking for a fight--but that is, rightly, denounced as overly belligerent language.
4.7: "Give me a drink." The Word of God asks the woman for a drink. Clearly he doesn't need the water. He is the well of life from whom streams of living water flow. He says this, not to quench his thrist, but to begin to show the woman that she is thirsty. She doesn't know it. She thinks she knows what is true. She has drank from wells that are not exegetical--i.e., she drinks from wells other than the Word of God who is the well of life. Drinking from these poisoned waters--no doubt appropriating the latest sociological and pyschological theory--she is in fact dying of thirst. But she does not know it. Jesus must ask her a question that will, so to speak, through water over her sleepy head.
4.9: "How is it that you, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?" The woman assumes that Jesus must be a samaraphobe. Surely he must be. Samaraphobes are afraid to even speak to Samaritans, let alone share water from a well. Clearly she is dumbfounded.
4.10: "If you knew the gift of God." She does not know the gift of God, and Jesus isn't going to beat around the bush about that. She is dying of thirst, and if she doesn't come to know the gift, she will surely die. He who eternally is the way, truth and life doesn't have the time for anything but the truth. "If you knew the gift of God... you would have asked [me], and [I] would have given you living water." Unabashed proclamation of the Gift.
4.11-12: "Sir, you have nothing to draw water with, and the well is deep." The woman is still trapped by her critical theory. Jesus claims that he has living water--but this simply cannot be, because her canon of reason cannot allow it. The well is so DEEP! "Are you greater than our father Abraham?" There are so many important scholars, so many books to read, even a man name Eugene who has written something about Barth and Thomas and many fine sounding people--how could I leave off all of that to just drink from this water you offer me? You, a Jew, with nothing to draw water with. Are you greater than all of these?
4.13: "Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again." She feeds her desire with critical theory, but her desire is too great to be satiated by the merely faddish. She is created for eternity and she knows this in her inner-being--although she doesn't seem to know this, and rebels against it with great force. But note how Jesus dialogues with her. He recognizes that she thirsts, that she has desires--he recognizes these are real and legitimate because they are created by God. They are natural. But in the woman they are disordered. She pursues the good, and good is the pursuit: but she goes by a wide path that leads only to destruction and, woe of woes, in the end shall find only the pain of unrequited love. Jesus knows all of this. And so he tells her: you will thirst again, if you keep on drinking from these poisoned waters.
4.14: "But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty forever." Jesus does not hide the truth from her, not for the sake of an easy conversion, not even for the sake of a too-easy friendship--which of course would only be a false friendship. He tells her the truth. Why? Because he loves her. He loves her too much to let her keep on drawing water from poisoned wells. He offers instead the water that gives life eternal. "Come to me, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters, and he who has no money, come, buy and eat!" (Is. 55.1).
4.15: "Sir give me this water, so that I will not be thirsty or have to come here to draw water." The woman sees the truth partially. She realizes that this water is far better than her critical theory and pyschology; but she still thinks that it will satisfy her in the way that those earthly things were attempting to do. She still has her mind set on temporal things, and not eternal (2 Cor. 4.18). Her mind is set on things below, not on things above (Col. 3.1-4). But she has progressed, and Jesus does not sneer at the progression. She is coming to the truth.
4.16: "Go, call your husband." I need not complete the conversation. Jesus goes directly to the problem at hand, the issue that is keeping the woman from a total conversion. Note carefully that the issue is not intellectual. It is moral, it is spiritual. That is the way it always is. Those with whom we dialogue, those for whom Christ has died, are, in the end, rebels. We know that this is true because we are rebels ourselves, conquered in part by God's love--but conquered imperfectly, as yet. But note Jesus courage here in telling the truth. In this case the problem is sexuality. The woman is, as they say, 'living in sin.' It need not have been sexuality, it could have been any number of things, worst of all--worst--that which afflicts my sorry flesh, the sin of pride. But in this case, as in many cases, it is fallen sexuality. Jesus does not mince words. He speaks the truth that surely is painful, but he speaks it as one who is offering to this woman streams of living water. He is offering her life, love, friendship with God. He loves her. And so he speaks truth to her. And so he loves her. They are one and the same--for God is simple, and God is truth, and God is love. We are called to speak in the same way.
Well, we have to look at two more points.
First point. 4.27: "His disciples marveled that he was talking with a woman." When we are engaging in christological dialogue, not the world, but the CHURCH, will marvel at us. Why? Because the sight of a man who loves and so speaks truth and so loves, and loves so perfectly that he loves all without reserve and without partiality--that sight shocks us, offends, convicts (and that is the real problem, isn't it?). There is no room for samaraphobia in the church, but much there remains nevertheless. It will only be cast out by love. Why? Because perfect love casts out fear (1 Jn.). Now remember: perfect love is truth is God. There is no need to "balance" speaking truth and speaking love, because love and truth are, in the divine simplicity, one.
Second point. The woman becomes a great evangelist. "Many believed in him because of the woman's testimony" (4.39). The end, the telos, of truly christological dialogue, is the creation of a new person. And the new person is always an evangelist. How can they not be? One who was dead, and is alive again: one brought from death into life: this one cannot help but preach the good news.
Perhaps then we are still dead?