One of the Pharisees asked [Jesus] to eat with him, and he went into the Pharisee’s house and took his place at the table. And behold, a woman of the city, who was a sinner, when she learned that he was reclining at table in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster flask of ointment . . . Luke 7:36-37
This is the Jesus both believers and unbelievers like: friend to sorrowful, put-upon women, ready to forgive a “sinner” who, truth be told, was probably more sinned against. We think of her as young, pretty, ashamed, overcome. But maybe she wasn’t.
Suppose she is past her prime, a bit worse for wear, brash, coarse, and unrepentant? The kind of pushy, chip-on-her-shoulder sinner who likes to say, “You think you’re better than me? I’ve seen the way you turn up your nose and gossip among yourselves. Silly cows. I could dish some dirt on your husband, sister—and yours, old lady.” “Sinner” probably means prostitute; if she were a man it could have meant extortionist or crooked merchant or innkeeper, but women were as limited in their sins back then as they were in their choices. The point is, her reputation precedes her into the Pharisee’s house, and no amount of fragrant oil will make it smell good.
She obviously knows Jesus by reputation. Perhaps, passing by on ordinary business, she caught one of his impromptu sermons or was witness to a healing. An intriguing man, no question. Perhaps she arranges to go that way again. And again. This time she lingers, staying well back.
What draws her? She’s seen the worst in people, and “sinners” tend to become cynical. At first glance, or first hearing, this teacher may have seemed like another charlatan, or an innocent who hasn’t wised up yet—the world would get to him sooner or later. But a second and third glance forces a revision: this man has something on the world. He knows. But knowledge hasn’t made him “knowing” in that cheap, battered way she recognizes so well. Perhaps, as he was speaking his eyes met hers and she realized—with a shock—that his knowledge was not general but quite specific.
It’s bold, to go to Simon the Pharisee’s house. But she’s known for boldness, as well as other things. She’ll go veiled, like a servant of one of the guests, and with luck no one will recognize her. As for the alabaster jar—that was a gift, one of her treasures, given when she was younger and somewhat dewier. Something moves her to take it, perhaps offer it to him as some sort of appreciation gift. She has noticed women traveling along with him, with no damage to their reputations—imagine that! The rumor is that some of them are well-to-do and have provided traveling funds. If he accepts money from them, he shouldn’t be too proud to accept a gift from her. A gift for . . . what? Hard to say, exactly. She could tell him it was for helping so many sick people in her town, or for the strong, winged words she doesn’t quite understand. Perhaps just for the moment when his eyes met hers.
Anyway, here she is among the other observers of the feast, veiled and silent, awaiting her moment and hoping she’ll recognize it. Perhaps she’s practiced what she will say and plans to make her little presentation when the guests get ready to take their leave.
Here she is, right behind him as he reclines at the table, his feet stretched toward her. How lucky is this? She will wait and listen to the table talk, and her moment will come and . . .
Here she is.
Here she is. And . . . he knows.
He doesn’t just know she’s there—he knows her. All about her. Realizing what he knows is like beating herself with a lash. He knows about that time she . . . And that other time she cheated . . . And the time she went to her rival’s house and . . .
The calculation drops, as well as the maneuvering and advantaging: here she is, and she is a sinner, just as they all say. The empty space between them fills up with her, with her sins and rationalizations, finally seen as they really are by someone who can no longer deceive herself. Her head bows and a single tear falls on his feet. Than another and another.
She is revealed; the veil is cast aside.
She is undone; her hair tumbles down.
She is broken, the alabaster jar cracks.
This women, who confronted the world with a knowing smirk, is a blubbering mess. These aren’t just decorous tears; it’s also snot and spit. Having no towel, she mops it up with her unbound hair. She’s making a scene, and in faintly aware of voices directed her way as other men’s feet jerk aside. But not his. He is perfectly still, as though her hysterical offering were proper and decent. She hears his voice, speaking about her. Then she hears it speaking to her.
The gift, as it turns out, is not really hers to give. It’s all his, and it’s something she had not believed she could have:
Forgiveness.
And peace.
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