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Jesus was invited to a party. No surprise there. Jesus was often invited to parties. (Could that be why many people don't understand him very well?)
Jesus was partial to dining with "sinners." Which is code for people who are inferior, less than, marginalized, dishonorable, shameful. . .people not of our caliber. While sinners may have been Jesus' preference or kinship, he was no respecter of invitations. For this particular party, his host was Simon, a Pharisee--a member of the religious elite--who was no doubt curious about this infamous Rabbi Jesus.
Dinner parties in the first century Middle East were fueled by hospitality (similar to a parties South Carolina, only without the mint julep). A basin would be provided so guests could wash the dust of the road from their feet. Often, scented olive oil would be made available to anoint a guest's hair. And beloved guests would be kissed as they were greeted. For whatever reason, it appears that Simon offered none of these.
Here's where the story gets interesting. A woman crashes the party. We do know that she wasn't invited. And you could tell by what she was wearing that she didn't do "church work," if you know what I mean. A prostitute? We don't know, save that she was most assuredly looked down upon. (The story tells us only that she "had lived a sinful life.") The fact that she was allowed to enter the house is not unusual. In that time, followers of Rabbis were often given an opportunity to be near their teacher, even though the event may be "private."
The woman is standing behind Jesus (who is reclined at the table) and begins to weep. We don't know why or for how long. We do know that the tears fall upon Jesus' feet, and that she has been crying long enough so that his feet are now wet. She unfastens her hair--more than likely long black hair, which had been tied up with a scarf--and lets it fall free. She kneels down to slowly and deliberately wipe his feet with her hair. She begins to kiss his feet--a behavior of passionate reverence--continuously and with affection. And then opening her vial--an alabastron of perfume-- (commonly worn by Jewish women around the neck), she pours oil on his feet, anointing them. While the woman may have been disregarded until now, the scent of perfume sates the air, and attention is turned to this unknown at the feet of Jesus, weeping, caressing, kissing and anointing. The shameless intimacy (and "incaution") of her care--especially given her reputation--would have been scandalous to any guest of propriety.
Indubitably, Simon got the drift. He says (at least to himself), "If this man (Jesus) were really a prophet, he'd know who this woman is." And he begins to rifle through the litany of labels--"she's a sinner, prostitute, single, divorced, from a dysfunctional family, not of the true faith, and no doubt, Methodist."
I can easily blame Simon. But if I'm honest, labeling others is natural. And at times, comforting to base our morality over and against anyone who is different. But we must remember this; whenever we label someone, we dismiss him or her.
This story affects me, because I try to put myself in the woman's place.
We know that she lives in a world where she is shunned, criticized and belittled.
A world where she is the brunt of jokes and held up as an example by mothers who wish to "warn" their daughters.
For much of her life she has felt wounded, broken and tattered.
And she is looking for hope.
She is looking for grace.
She is looking for rest.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down
Lay down the song you strum
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum
Bob Dylan
Jesus is aware of Simon's judgment. And he turns the tables. "Do you see this woman? I come into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but his woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she had poured perfume on my feet."
Notice this: Jesus didn't try to shame her or change her or convert her.
In a homily, Fr. Cyprian Consiglio OSB refers to an Indian chant,
The root of meditation is the image of the guru,
the root of worship is the feet of the guru;
the root of mantra is the world of the guru;
the root of salvation is the grace of the guru.
He talks about a comment he heard regarding this guru principle. "How do you know who is to be your guru (teacher)?"
The answer, "Because you fall is love."
Wait a minute. This goes against our grain. In our culture we believe. We assent. We recite creeds. We affirm. What is certain is that we discourage indiscriminate desire. And this woman finds herself--her equilibrium, her salvation, her healing and her wholeness--by falling in love. That place of absolute vulnerability, when all of our boundaries--of control or answers or solutions or theological and religious piety--melt away, and we see who we are and what we want and who we can be and who we have pretended to be all along.
We don't teach this one much do we?
Here is a woman, marginalized by her society, who seeks love by bestowing love through an act of extraordinary vulnerability. She didn't learn this from a book or a seminar or a sermon. She knew this to be true in her heart.
A woman who seeks out grace, fueled by gratitude.
A woman willing to lead with her heart, without knowing the outcome.
If I'm honest, I have to say that I'm not sure I have been able to live this way. . .
But here's the deal: Grace is abundant. . .
When I no longer fear judgment.
When I am able to pay no heed to public opinion.
When I let go of whatever confines or restricts my heart.
Jesus sends the woman on her way, and lets the whole household know, "She has been forgiven because she loved much."
I am writing this on an airplane, destination Guatemala. It was not easy to leave my garden this morning. Because spring gardens are outrageous--brimming, evocative, sensual and inviting. This morning I walked around my garden, giddiness tinged with sadness at the sight of elegant coast iris, profligate peony, and redolent bearded iris, knowing that because of my trip I will miss a flamboyant and exquisite cabaret.
(1) The party story is from the Gospel of Luke, chapter 7
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