After two weeks of pondering wonderfully uplifting images of the Holy Spirit and the mystery of the Trinity, this morning’s lectionary readings seemingly present us with heavy-duty, nitty-gritty questions about human frailty.
We can feel the shift in theme with our lectionary readings, hinted at by this and last week’s. All the way from Easter, through Easter-tide, to the twin feasts of Pentecost and Trinity, a period of nine weeks, we’ve walked with the risen Christ, seen the risen Christ in the midst of the disciples, heard again and again about the commandment to love and, in general, glimpsed, albeit very imperfectly, God’s glory.
Now we are in the season after Pentecost, that time of year the Romans call ‘ordinary time’—or, as Nora Gallagher writes, the time during which, “The road to the sacred is paved with the ordinary. In Ordinary Time we are in our own lives, living out the gift of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost, ‘living out the reverberation from that beat of a butterfly wing… on its way to the ends of the universe.’” (1)
The readings over the next couple of weeks make us deal with the nitty-gritty, nuts-and-bolts aspects of living our lives as followers of Jesus. They are not easy readings, some of them; they confront us and don’t leave us room to back away. So it is with this morning’s gospel (and first lesson, though I won’t consider it).
There is something unique and powerful about this story from Luke. It is a story where all the roles are reversed and where a moment of grace flashes in and startles all who witness what happens.
Jesus has been invited to a Pharisee’s house for dinner. This is already unusual, given the continual animosity that played itself out between the Pharisees and Jesus. For some reason, one Pharisee invites Jesus to eat with him. Picture the scene: they are at table, which in those days meant that they were reclining, on their sides, their legs stretched out to one side. The door was open — meals were often public events, the door to the house open so that others might come and listen to the conversation or teaching of a special guest. The diners were most likely inside a courtyard of a house, somewhat removed from the street.
It is, therefore, very surprising that a woman should enter that inner sanctum and interrupt the men. Having heard Jesus earlier on in the day, and grasped his message of forgiveness, she comes to the Pharisee’s home. With her she brings an alabaster jar of ointment, possibly myrrh, the same oil that will later be used to anoint Jesus’ body for burial. Her gift is extravagant, to say the least.
The gospel states that she is a sinner. Even since the beginning of biblical interpretation, it has automatically been assumed that her sin is that of prostitution. Yet there is absolutely nothing in the text to suggest that. The gospel simply states she is a sinner — like you and me, for that matter. She is a sinner, yes, but also more aware of the power of God’s gracious gift of forgiveness than most.
As she ministers to Jesus by anointing his feet, she covers them with her tears. Her tears are tears of immense gratitude — she has heard God’s message of forgiveness that Jesus preaches and has accepted that in her heart. Her tears are holy tears — tears that speak when verbal capacities are short-circuited by the immensity of the realisation of what has been offered: mercy and pardon.
The Pharisee, hung up on his rules, thinks to himself that Jesus is no prophet because he allows this woman to touch him. He does not understand what gift the woman is giving to Jesus — the gift of ministering, the gift of taking care of Jesus, the gift of gratitude. Instead, he focuses on the woman’s sinfulness, while neglecting to consider his own.
Jesus catches him at thought and sets the Pharisee straight. Doesn’t the Pharisee see how he, too, is a sinner? Doesn’t the Pharisee see what this woman has done for Jesus that the Pharisee failed to do? In Mediterranean countries of that time, it was expected hospitality that the host wash the guests’ feet — undoubtedly they would be dirty from travelling on dusty roads. The Pharisee failed to do that; the woman has given of herself through her tears, her oil, and her washing Jesus’ feet.
Then Jesus turns to the woman and tells her that her sins are forgiven. Not ‘have been’ (though initially the text reports him as saying that), but ‘they are forgiven.’ In Greek, the use of this particular verb tense signifies an act that has happened in the past with an on-going effect. The act of forgiveness has already happened. Its effect continues into the present. It is clear to Jesus that the woman has understood with her mind and heart what God’s forgiveness is all about — it is a forgiveness that has been given even before it has been asked for; it is a forgiveness that never stops. With that understanding of forgiveness, the woman is then able to give freely in a way that the Pharisee, hide-bound by his rules and regulations, is unable.
Martin Smith formerly of SSJE writes, “Aramaic has no exact equivalent to our words ‘gratitude’ or ‘thanks’ and uses the general word ‘love’ to cover these things. We might bring out the force of Jesus’ words with a paraphrase such as this — ‘Her many sins are forgiven, that is why her gratitude is so great. The one who is forgiven little, shows little gratitude.’ The woman’s outpouring of thanks and affection shows her realisation that she was personally included in the forgiveness that Jesus proclaimed. By declaring, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ Jesus confirms the reality of her experience of reconciliation. There was no presumption on her part. Her trust in the outpouring of God’s mercy had brought her complete restoration. She could go in peace with her relationship to God intact and living.” (2)
This story of Jesus and the weeping woman is a lovely story at the same time it is powerful. It is a story that serves as an example of what can happen when we finally come to realise God’s boundless goodness.
When we allow ourselves to be forgiven and when we forgive, we can be freed from the shackles that bind us. George McDonald, founder of the Iona Community in Scotland wrote, ‘Forgiveness is the giving, and so receiving, of life.
For what do you need to be forgiven today?
What is hardening your heart day by day for not being admitted or acknowledged or healed?
Whom do you need to forgive?
Where do you need transformation?
Transformation ultimately is what forgiveness brings about. Transformation, letting go, and receiving new life. Getting there is hard work but we don’t do it alone — God is there, wooing us to forgiveness so that we might again be whole, just as the woman with the oil found herself. When we are whole, then we are able to give without counting the cost.
We don’t walk the path of forgiveness without help — help found in the sacrament of new life, the eucharist. In the eucharist, God welcomes us home, forgives us, and gives us new life. So, in this ordinary time of year, we find extraordinary good news. Thanks be to God.
END NOTES
(1) Nora Gallagher,
Things Seen and Unseen: A Year Lived in Faith (New York: Knopf, 1998), 203-204.
(2) Martin L. Smith,
Reconciliation: Preparing for Confession in the Episcopal Church (Cambridge. MA: Cowley, 1985) 5-6.
