3rd Sunday after Pentecost (Lectionary 11/Proper 5)

17 June 2007

“Go in Peace”

Simon the Pharisee gave a dinner party, with Jesus as the guest of honor. Perhaps you’ve been in the same boat—an important dinner, with guests you want to impress. You want everything to be just right. That’s how it was with Simon.

It was probably not Jesus he wanted to impress, however. Jesus was just a rabbi, an itinerant preacher, passing through town; perhaps he had spoken that morning at the synagogue. But Simon was really concerned more about his friends, the other Pharisees, the other leaders of the community who gathered around his table that night. He wasn’t sure what he thought of Jesus, but getting him to his house was a big coup, socially speaking, and he wanted his friends to be impressed with his ability to entertain such a controversial and famous guest.

It was the custom in those days, you see, that when an important person like Jesus was in town, wherever he went became sort of a public place. People who wanted to meet him or talk to him or listen to him would simply go into whatever house he might be in. By inviting Jesus to dinner, Simon had made his house the hub activity in his town—and he was no doubt enjoying being the center of attention!

But he had been expecting the town’s most important and influential people to come in and see Jesus, and he was a bit taken aback when she entered. Luke doesn’t tell us the woman’s name, he just describes her as “a woman who was a sinner,” and that’s just a polite way of saying she was a prostitute, a woman whose bad reputation was very well established. Everyone knew who she was, everyone had seen her on the street selling her wares. And of course she was the kind of woman that no good Pharisee would ever speak to, even look at. Indeed, the strictest Pharisees felt it was unseemly to speak to their wives in public, let alone a woman like this!

But in she came, uninvited, unexpected, certainly unwelcome. She brought with her an alabaster flask, intending perhaps to offer it to Jesus as a gift. When she saw Jesus, she began to weep. We don’t know why she wept, exactly. She was a hardened woman, one who had borne criticism and cruelty and disapproval, and things didn’t bother her much, at least on the surface. Perhaps she was reacting to the overwhelming sense of being unwelcome, to Simon’s look of hatred and loathing and distress. Or perhaps it was the look in Jesus’ eyes that moved her tears—a look, not of hatred, not of disapproval, but of warmth and compassion and kindness. She wept so profusely that her tears began to fall on Jesus’ feet—remember, in the was that is common in the Mideast even today, Jesus was no doubt reclining on a couch or mat as he “sat at Simon’s table.”

Without thinking, the woman loosed her hair and began to wipe the tears that were falling on Jesus’ feet. That was a scandalous thing to do, for in Jewish custom of the time a woman never let down her hair in the presence of any man but her husband. But this woman forgot all about that; she let down her hair, and wiped and kissed Jesus’ feet.

Simon was becoming more and more embarrassed by the whole scene, and he began to wonder why Jesus was allowing it to happen. “If he were really a prophet,” Simon thought, “he would know who this woman is, and he would send her away.” But Jesus, you see, knew both who the woman was and who Simon was, and so he told a parable. “Two men owed a certain man money; one owed him ten dollars, the other a hundred. Neither could pay their debt, so the man forgave them both. Which of them will love him more?” Simon responded, “Oh, I suppose the one who owed him a hundred.” “That’s right,” said Jesus—and then he applied the parable. “When I came into your house, you didn’t do any of the ordinary courtesies for me. You didn’t give me water for my feet, or oil for my head, you didn’t greet me with a welcoming kiss of peace. But this woman has done all these things out of her great love for me. She has many sins, but they are forgiven, and so she loves me much. But those who don’t know their need for forgiveness love me only a little.” Then, smiling at the woman, he said, “Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace.”

There are three characters in this story, and from each we can learn. Let’s look first at Simon. He is the perfect Pharisee—concerned about appearances, unaccepting, judgmental, self-righteous. In his own eyes, he is a model citizen, a good, religious, devout man. His interest in Jesus is very polite, but that is all. Perhaps he knows, in some inner place in his heart, that he is not always as good and righteous as the image he projects, but he would never admit that. He looks down his nose at the woman, and with good reason: he after all, is so much better and more righteous than she.

And there’s something about Simon in each of us, something of the Pharisee. We, after all, are good, church-going people, people who like things done in good order. We are sometimes people who find it easy to look with criticism on others who are different. Like Simon, we are polite, and we’d never think of saying those things out loud. But we think them. “That guy is no good; he does things I don’t approve of; he lives in a way that I think is wrong; he’s clearly not a good Christian person like I am.” How easily we judge others! And like Simon, we find some good, moral reason for doing so: “Jesus ought to know what sort of woman this is,” he thinks, and we put people in categories as well, and base our feelings on “what sort of people” they are.

The problem, of course, is that we’re all “the same sort of people.” We’re all sinners. We’re all people who fall short of what God desires and intends for us. Maybe you’ve heard the story of the woman who was having her portrait painted, and she was unhappy with the result. “That picture just doesn’t do me justice,” she complained. “Madam,” replied the painter, “what you desire is not justice, but mercy!” That’s how it is with Simon, and with you, and with me. What we need is to realize that we are all sinners, all in the same boat. When we begin our liturgy each week with a prayer of confession, there is no one here who gets a pass; there’s no one here who doesn’t need to ask forgiveness. And of course there’s no one here who cannot receive forgiveness, no matter what they’ve done.

Let’s look secondly at Jesus. His reaction to the woman is quite the opposite of Simon’s. Where Simon finds her offensive, Jesus finds a child of God. Where Simon wishes she would go away, Jesus welcomes her. Where Simon categorizes her as “that sort of woman,” Jesus loves her. I suspect the meaning of the story here comes in the contrast between Simon and Jesus. Jesus accepts her as she is. There are no conditions; he doesn’t tell her to go out and change her life before he allows her to kiss his feet. He simply welcomes her accepts what she brings to him.

In doing that, you see, he sets an example for all of us. He forces to ask the question: how accepting are we? And acceptance isn’t just something that happens on the outside. Even Simon doesn’t try to remove the woman, though he bites his tongue and tries to be polite. But Jesus’ acceptance is full and genuine. He doesn’t just put up with the woman, but he treats her as a friend. Most of us a long way from his example.

Finally there is the woman herself. We know so little about her. We don’t know her name, we don’t know all the details of her sinful life. We don’t really need to know. All we must know is that she has been touched by Jesus. Perhaps she heard him in the synagogue that morning. Perhaps she was among the crowds who followed him. What we know is that she found forgiveness and acceptance, and she returned it with love. We know that her love was so great that she was not ashamed to express it, to show it. What she teaches us is that whatever we have done, whatever we have been, we can freely come to Jesus and he will accept us, love us, forgive us. And he will bid us “God in peace”—in other words, he will take from us the turmoil, the pain, the distress, and make our lives whole again.

In the sacrament of bread and wine, the story is replayed. We come, even as the woman came to Jesus—not because we are worthy or righteous, but because we love him. And he does not fail to receive us and welcome us. In the bread and wine, he speaks to us the same words he spoke to her: “Your sins are forgiven.” And then he sends us out with the same words he left with her: “Go in peace.”