S
imon the Pharisee was among those standing in the crowd. He was enthralled by what he had just witnessed. To touch a dead corpse was something that had at first deeply offended him, but when the boy came back to life, it abrogated any criticism he might have had. He had to know more of this man. There were many standing about him listening to him speak and watching the emotional reunion between the boy and his mother. Finally, Simon got close enough to speak.
“Sir,” he began awkwardly, “the hour is late and you have not dined. I would be pleased if you and your friends would eat with me at my table this night.”
“I would be pleased as well, sir.” Jesus responded, “Come, lead the way.”
There was yet another in the crowd. A woman who also had a son. Her son however, was a child and while he had a father, none knew who that might be, least of all, the woman herself. She had slept with many men, indeed, that was how she supported herself and her child. She had no husband, and no family to help; she did the only thing she knew she knew how to do. She was quite good at it, too. First to be considered was her loveliness, her satin-olive face and china-blue eyes, dark hair that curled down well below her shoulders. She knew well how to dress to please men. Her bodice cut low in front, a delicate trace of perfume, not enough to overpower the senses, but enough to turn one’s head. A translucent phial of alabaster hung about her neck containing expensive aromatic oil. Nestled between her breasts, it more than all else advertised her for what she was. The oil served the purpose of anointing the body of her client, deliciously massaging sore muscles. The pleasure it accorded was worth her price in itself. The folds of her garments fell about her body so as to reveal short glimpses of thigh. She was beautiful, an enticing woman who expertly applied all the accouterments of her trade. Not surprisingly, one of her most frequent clients was none other than Simon the Pharisee. It was no secret. Everyone knew. It was understood and tolerated. Even the ‘righteous’ Pharisee had to take some comfort now and then.
She had stood that day in the crowd with Simon. Well, not exactly with him but some distance away, enough so that the connection would not be obvious except to those who already knew. Not many stood close to her. The women avoided her as much as possible. Men stared at her greedily and secretly wished they could afford her. She ignored all of this. She wanted to see this man about whom so many rumors had been spread. An honestly kind and sensitive man? The incredulity of such a thought amused her. A prophet? This only provoked her curiosity. A healer, teacher or sapient sage? She was there to see if Jesus approximated any of these things. When she saw a dead boy open his eyes and call for his mother, her breath caught in her lovely throat and tears surged into her eyes.
“Oh!” she cried and fell to her knees there in the crowd. Some glanced in her direction but most were also taken with the event. Women such as this were souls of consummate pragmatism. The salient focus of her life was survival for her and her son. She had to have an income. She had no marketable skills, but the Almighty had so shaped and formed her that she commanded enormous sensual power over men. She simply used that power to survive. She did what she felt she had to do. This is not to say that she did not find in her trade certain elements of pleasure. She was after all, a woman. But in her mind, had she an alternative, she would have leaped at it. She knew what she did was morally indefensible, yet society tacitly tolerated it as it had done for millennia. She had never been threatened with stoning. The shame inside her psyche was held in check by the prudent necessity of survival for her and her son. Despite her sensuality, she is a mother. She was a good mother. How can such a woman ever be understood as a ‘good mother?’ The very question itself reveals monumental ignorance of the coercive power of a mother’s love. She had lived her maternal life as a she-bear protecting her young from ravenous predators. She did anything she could to protect this son of hers, to give him a life, to give him a future. Now she had witnessed what Jesus had done for this dead boy, only a few years older than her son. She had seen what he had done for this mother.
“Oh my God! Could he, would he deliver me from this life? Is there some hope for purity of soul, for peace, for life for my son?” Tears rolled down her satin cheeks. Sobs heaved at her breasts. The alabaster phial rose and fell with each trembling gasp for breath. When she saw Jesus speaking with Simon and saw him take Simon’s arm and walk in the direction of his home, the back of her wrist went to her mouth in surprise. “No!” she exclaimed within herself, “They cannot be friends!” She followed to see.
Simon’s home was clearly the most elaborate in the economically depressed small town of Nain. It boasted an open courtyard leading up a step to a lovely veranda and into an entry way with assorted anterooms. There was a kitchen, servants, a small study and of course, the Teraglin, a substantial 15 foot square room. This was Simon’s festive reception and dining room. Even the ceiling was exactly 15 feet high. It was into this room that Jesus was ushered. A long low table surrounded with leaning-cushions accommodating up to twelve people, sat in the middle of the room. On it was set a sumptuous meal. Guests were about the table reclining with their heads toward the table and their feet stretching away from them. Often, when important guests were invited, other guests were welcome to stand about next to the walls thus giving the occasion the additional quality of celebration.
Jesus however, was not accorded the seat of honor in this arrangement. While he was clearly the reason for the ‘event,’ Simon himself took the prestigious seat. It was a slight that the Pharisee intended and one that did not go unnoticed by the other guests. What did go unnoticed was the presence of this lovely woman who slipped in among the others, shawl thrown about her head. She was not noticed because everyone knew that this was not the first time she had been present in this room. Indeed, on occasion she had entertained there. This time however, she had no intentions of entertaining.
Quietly, while all were occupied with eating and banter going on about the table, she moved smoothly and easily until she came to stand at the feet of Jesus. A few moments passed after which had you been there to see, she began to take several deep breaths and had you looked you could have seen tears streaming down her cheeks. Her head bowed, her tears left the smoothness of her skin and fell, splashing quietly on his feet. Where the teardrops fell, the form clean splash marks in the dust, for Jesus had not been afforded the usual courtesy of having his feet washed by the servants of his host. As he felt the first drop, he turned his head to see. The woman embarrassed, fell to her knees and began to wipe the tears from his feet with her hair.
Jesus observed her in silence. He did nothing to encourage her. He did nothing to stop her and that was perhaps, encouragement enough. At the moment she fell to her knees, she moaned followed by a soft wail and sobbing. She began to kiss his feet and then extracted the phial from her breasts and emptied the entire contents on his skin. She massaged his feet with her hands, kissing them and weeping in an all-consuming paroxysm of emotion. She was now the focus of every guest. Conversation had ceased. Silence in the room except for the sounds of her deep pain. She kissed his feet again. And then again, followed by what may have seemed to the casual observer to be compulsive kissing — almost as if to stop would be to violate the sacred and waste an opportunity of worship.
This was not lost on Simon. How dare this woman come in here at this moment! How dare she make a spectacle of herself! His anger fueled his skepticism about Jesus as well. If this man were really a prophet, he would know what kind of woman she is! These, his unspoken thoughts. In Simon’s mind, in allowing this woman (for all of the pleasure he himself had taken of her) to fawn over him like this, Jesus had compromised any credibility he might have engendered previously. However, his doubts about this Prophet were about to be challenged.
Jesus turned from observing the woman and fixed the Pharisee with his gaze. “What troubles you Simon?” he asked. “I can see that you are more than a little agitated.” He waited for a response. None came. “Let me ask you something,” he continued.
Simon cleared this throat, “Yes, teacher?”
“I heard a story once. It seemed two men owed money to a certain lender. One owed him five hundred denary, and the other fifty. Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he canceled the debts of both.” He paused for a moment. “Tell me Simon, which of these two men will love him more?”
Uncomfortable Simon. He should never have invited this . . . this peasant beneath his roof. What impertinence! What adolescent arrogance! He was not happy. He did not want to answer. He was chagrined. He wanted to exit. He wanted this whole embarrassing affair over with.
“I suppose the one who had the bigger debt canceled.” He had to say this. What else could he say? Everyone he knew was listening.
Jesus smiled, “Brilliant!”
Then he turned back toward the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house, Simon. Your house. Invited by you yourself as your guest. You did not give me a drop of water for my feet. Look at her, Simon. Look at her!” It was a command and the Pharisee did not, could not resist. “She has wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You give me no kiss of greeting, no kiss of welcome, but this woman has not ceased to kiss my feet.” Simon glanced away in embarrassed disgust. “Look at her, Simon!” He looked. “You did not put oil on my head. Not a single drop, but she has massaged my feet with perfume. Her sins are many, Simon. You know that better than almost anyone.” The Pharisee’s face flushed. “She has loved many men. Therefore, she is forgiven every indiscretion. But as you have noted, he who has been forgiven little loves little.”
Then Jesus at length, spoke to her, “My dear, look at me.” She stopped rubbing his feet and lifted her eyes to his. “You are forgiven. You are as clean as driven snow. Go now, I bless you from my heart!”
Someone whispered, “Who is this who forgives sins? Who does he think he is?”
Jesus ignored them and reached forth his hand to stroke her face. He wiped away the tears. “Your faith has cleansed you,” he said softly, “Go in peace.”
