There is a peculiar charm about the narratives in the gospels, arising from the fact that they present the Lord Jesus Himself, immediately to the heart. They do not give us so many abstract truths or dry doctrines, or occupy us with the establishment of certain principles. They unfold a Person, and that Person is none other than God manifest in the flesh. We see Him in intercourse with sinners of every grade in society, and every shade of character — high and low, rich and poor, religious and irreligious, scribes and Pharisees, publicans and harlots— all sorts. We behold Him in company with the vilest sinners, as at the well of Sychar, and we find Him dealing with such in perfect grace. We discern in Him a holiness which is above and beyond all sin, and yet grace which can reach down to the deepest depths of the sinner’s need. In a word, God has come down to earth, and we can see Him in the face of Jesus Christ.
Now, this is a stupendous fact. God has revealed Himself. He can be known — yes, known with all the certainty which His own revelation of Himself is capable of imparting. “The darkness is past and the true light now shineth.” There is no need, now, to pour forth Job’s pathetic accents, “Oh! that I knew where I might find him.” We can repair to the well of Sychar, and there behold the Creator of the universe, in the person of that dust-covered, weary, thirsty stranger who seeks to make Himself a debtor to a Samaritan adulteress for a drink of water. Amazing fact! Profound, unfathomable mystery! God over all, blessed forever, speaking through human lips, asks an adulteress for a drink!
Where, we may lawfully ask, amid the wide fields of creation, could we find aught like this? Nowhere. We may look there, and behold the marvelous exhibition of wisdom, power and goodness; but we do not and cannot see God, in the likeness of sinful flesh, in the form of a weary, worn, dust-covered, thirsty man, sitting by a well, and asking a poor sinful woman for a drink of water. We may turn to the opening pages of the Pentateuch, and behold God, as the Creator, coming forth from His eternal dwelling place, and calling worlds into existence, by the word of His mouth. But we see no weariness here, no thirst, no asking for a drink. We can trace the footsteps of the Creator, as He passes, in His majestic career, from field to field of His glorious work; but the glories that shine upon us “at Sychar’s lonely well” are brighter far than aught that meets our view in the opening pages of the book of Genesis. “Let there be light,” was glorious; but, “Give me to drink,” exceeds in glory. In the former, we discern a majesty that overawes, and a brightness that dazzles us; but in the latter, we see grace that wins our confidence, and tenderness that melts the heart.
Again, we may ask, where, throughout the entire Mosaic economy, can we trace anything like the scene at Sychar’s well? Could the Lawgiver have asked an adulteress for a drink of water? Impossible. Had the woman of Sychar stood before the fiery mount, her lot would have been cursing and stoning, without mercy, Such an one had little to expect from “ the ministration of death and condemnation.” And yet, strange to say, there are some who tell us that, “If you take away the law from the gospel you leave nothing behind worthy the name of a gospel!”
Say, reader, what do you think of such a statement as this? How does it look when viewed in the light that shines upon us at the well of Sychar? What a strange statement! Who would have thought that in this day wherein an open Bible is so freely and so widely circulated, such a statement should drop from the lips or the pen of a so-called Christian teacher? Take away “the ministration of death and condemnation” from “the ministration of life and righteousness,” (2 Corinthians 3.) and you leave nothing behind worthy the name of a gospel! Take away that which curses, and must curse, the sinner, from that which pardons, saves, and blesses him, and you leave nothing behind worthy the name of a gospel! Take away that which “worketh wrath” from that which unfolds the fullness of divine love in the Person and work of our Lord Jesus Christ, and you leave nothing behind worthy the name of a gospel!
But we shall not lose our time in dwelling upon the gross ignorance and absurdity of such a statement. We shall do far better to return and linger in the vicinity of the well of Sychar, and hearken to the marvelous conversation between God manifest in the flesh, and a poor degraded woman of Samaria.
Our blessed Lord, “knowing that the Pharisees had heard that Jesus made and baptized more disciples than John, (though Jesus himself baptized not, but his disciples) he left Judea, and departed again into Galilee. And he must needs go through Samaria. Then cometh he to a city of Samaria, which is called Sychar, near to the parcel of ground that Jacob gave to his son Joseph. Now Jacob’s well was there. Jesus therefore, bring weary with his journey, sat thus on the well: and it was about the sixth hour. There cometh a woman of Samaria to draw water. Jesus saith unto her, Give me to drink.”
Here, then we have this marvelous scene before our eyes — a scene which neither Creation, nor the Law, nor Providence, could ever present to us. The Lord of glory came down into this world, to taste, as Man, weakness, weariness, and thirst — to know what it was to be in need of a draft of spring water. “Jesus being wearied with his journey, sat thus on the well.” This world was a dry and thirsty land to Jesus. The only refreshment He found was in ministering of His grace to poor, needy sinners, such as that one who stood before Him at the well.
And let us carefully note the contrast in His style with the woman of Sychar, and the master in Israel. He does not say to her, “You must be born again,” though surely it was true in her case, as in his. Why is this? We have already glanced at the reason. The Jewish ruler stood at the very summit, as it were, of the hill of legal righteousness, moral excellence, and traditionary religion. The poor Samaritan was away down in the deep pit of guilt and moral pollution. Hence, inasmuch as the blessed Lord had come down to meet man at the very lowest point in his condition — as He had come to give life to the dead — as He had come to deal with man as he was — all this being so, He must bring Nicodemus down to this point by telling him he must be born again— He must remove from beneath his feet the entire platform on which he stood — He must show him that, notwithstanding all he possessed in the way of religiousness and fleshly standing, he must give all up and enter the kingdom as a new born babe — that he had nothing which could, by any possibility, be placed to his credit in that new position of which the Lord was speaking. If new birth is essential, then the Jewish ruler was not one whit better off than the Samaritan sinner. So far as she was concerned, it was plain that she wanted something, she could not bring her sins into the kingdom, and hence the Lord begins, at once, with her to unfold His grace. Nicodemus might imagine that he had something. It was plain and palpable that the Samaritan woman had nothing. To him, therefore, the word is “You must be born again.” To her, the word is “Give me to drink.” In the former, we discern the “truth” in the latter, the “grace” which came by Jesus Christ — “truth,” to level all the pretensions of a Pharisee, “grace” to meet the deepest need of a Samaritan adulteress.
But, it is not a little interesting to observe that there are points of similarity as well as of contrast between Nicodemus and the Samaritan. Both meet Christ with a “How?” When “truth” fell upon the ear of the master π Israel, he said, “How can these things be?” When “grace” shone upon the woman of Sychar, she said, “How is it that thou, being a Jew, askest drink of me, which am a woman of Samaria? “We are all full of “Hows?” The truth of God, in all its majesty and authority, is put before us; we meet it with a how.” The grace of God, in all its sweetness and tenderness, is unfolded in our view, we reply with a how? It may be a theological how, or a rationalistic how, it matters not, the poor heart will reason, instead of believing the truth, and receiving the grace of God. The will is active, and hence, although the conscience may be ill at ease, and the heart dissatisfied with itself and all around, still the unbelieving “how?” breaks forth in one form or another. Nicodemus says, “How can a man be born when he is old?” The Samaritan says, “How canst thou ask drink of me?”
Thus it is ever. When the word of God declares to us the utter worthlessness of nature, the heart, instead of bowing to the holy record, sends up its unholy reasonings. When the same word sets forth the boundless grace of God, and the free salvation which is in Christ Jesus, the heart, instead of receiving the grace, and rejoicing in the salvation, begins to reason as to how it can be. The human heart is closed against God — against the truth of His word, and against the love of His heart. The devil may speak, and the heart will give its ready credence. Man may speak, and the heart will greedily swallow what he says. Lies from the devil, and nonsense from man will all meet a ready reception from the poor human heart; but the moment God speaks, whether it be in the authoritative language of truth, or in the winning accents of grace, all the return the heart can make is an unbelieving, skeptical, rationalistic, infidel, “How?” Anything and everything for the natural heart save the truth and grace of God.
However, in the case of the woman of Sychar, our blessed Lord was not to be put off with her “how?” He had answered the “how?” of the man of the Pharisees, and He would now answer the “how?” of the woman of Sychar. He had replied to Nicodemus by pointing him to the brazen serpent, and telling him of the love of God in sending His Son; and He replies to the Samaritan by telling her, likewise, of “the gift of God.” “Jesus answered and said unto her, If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink; thou wouldest have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water.”
Now, the little word “gift” opens a vast range of most precious truth to the soul. The Lord does not say, “If thou knowest the law, thou wouldst have asked.” Indeed, had she known it, she must have seen herself as lost under it, instead of being encouraged to ask for anything. No one ever got “living water” by the law. “This do and thou shalt live,” was the language of the law. The law gave nothing save to the man that could keep it. And where was he? Assuredly the woman of Sychar had not kept it. This was plain. She had offended in one point and was guilty of all. (James.)
“But why,” it may be asked, “be continually placing the law and the gospel in contrast? Are they not both parts of one grand system whereby God is educating man and fitting him for heaven?” We reply, our reason for placing them in contrast is that the Holy Ghost so places them, again and again. Let the reader ponder Acts 15, Gal. 3, and 4., and 2 Cor. 3, and say what he has found therein. Is it not the most vivid and striking contrast that could possibly be presented? Can anyone read those magnificent passages of inspiration and say that the law is a necessary, an integral part of the gospel; and that if you take away the law you leave nothing behind worthy the name of a gospel? That the law was a school-master to the Jew from the time it was given, until Christ came, the apostle tells us in his epistle to the Galatians. That the law is good, if a man use it lawfully, the same apostle tells us in his epistle to Timothy, where he also tells us that the law is not made for a righteous man at all. (See 1 Tim. 1:7-97Desiring to be teachers of the law; understanding neither what they say, nor whereof they affirm. 8But we know that the law is good, if a man use it lawfully; 9Knowing this, that the law is not made for a righteous man, but for the lawless and disobedient, for the ungodly and for sinners, for unholy and profane, for murderers of fathers and murderers of mothers, for manslayers, (1 Timothy 1:7‑9).) That the law slew him, he tells us in the seventh of Romans. That the law, so far from being an integral part of the gospel, came in by the way between the promise made to Abraham and the accomplishment thereof, in a dead and risen Christ, he tells us, in the third chapter of Galatians. But to assert that the law is a necessary part of the gospel, is not less preposterous than to assert that cursing is a necessary part of blessing, wrath a necessary part of favor, death a necessary part of life, condemnation a necessary part of righteousness. May the good Lord deliver souls from the baneful influence of law-teaching!
How well it was for “Jacob’s erring daughter” that the Lord had something for her besides the thunders of the law! He could talk to her of, “gift,” and surely requirement formed no integral or necessary part of gift. “The gift of God is eternal life,” not through the law, but “through Jesus Christ our Lord.” The law never even proposed such a thing as eternal life in heaven. It spoke of “long life in the land.” But the gospel gives us eternal life here, and eternal glory hereafter in heaven. Two widely different things, and not two parts of the same thing. “If thou knowest the gift of God,” that is Christ Himself, “thou wouldest have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water” — that is the Holy Ghost. Thus, as under the law, it was nothing but prohibition, requirement, and curse, under the gospel it is all gift, grace, and blessing.
How was this? The Law-giver had come down from the lofty summit of your fiery mount. He had laid aside His thunders and clothed Himself in humanity. Thus come down, thus clothed, He sat beside the well of Sychar in weariness and thirst, and though He could lay His hand upon all the treasures of the universe, He nevertheless asks a poor outcast adulteress for a drink. Ah! my reader, could you say, while gazing on the matchless scene which meets your view “at Sychar’s lonely well,” “If you take away the law from the gospel, you leave nothing behind worthy the name of a gospel? “What should we think of the man who could stand up and say, “If you take away the seventh commandment from the fourth chapter of John, you leave nothing behind worthy the name of a gospel?” Do the thunders of Mount Sinai form an integral part of the moral glories which shine upon us at Jacob’s well? Alas! for the man that can think so.
(To be continued, if the Lord will)