February 26, 2006
An Interruption at Mealtime
Luke 7: 36-50

Everyone appreciates a dinner invitation from time to time. Jesus, from what I know of middle-eastern hospitality, was surely no different. And so, the invitation to spend a few hours as a guest at Simon’s table provided him, at least in theory, with an opportunity to catch his breath in the middle of his hectic ministerial schedule. Within moments of his arrival at Simon’s house, however, the script changes and the totally unexpected transpires. What began as a casual dinner conversation between Simon, Jesus and the other guests soon morphs into a theological drama about righteousness, mercy, and forgiveness.

As Luke retells the story, he drives home his major points by contrasting the leading characters. At one level, Luke juxtaposes Simon and Jesus, focusing on the differing ways that each responds to the woman who unexpectedly walks onto the stage. At another level, he contrasts Simon and the woman, highlighting in particular their attitudes toward Jesus. In weaving together these two tension-filled contrasts, Luke pushes us to think carefully, both about how we respond to Jesus as well as how we respond to certain people around us.

Consider first the contrast between Simon and the woman. Simon is the host of the party. He planned the schedule, made the arrangements, and developed the guest list. Simon is an influential representative of the dominant religious establishment, a man who plays by the rules and keeps his hands clean. Were Simon alive today, he would surely have graduate degrees in theology and ethics hanging on his office wall, carry an ordination card in his wallet, serve on various boards in the community, and walk with his chin up and shoulders high. Simon wears fancy clothing—sometimes dons a robe?in keeping with his position, and people seek his company, not only for religious instruction, but for a deepened sense of self-importance. Simon is a person to know—the kind of person everyone wants to be seen with.

Not so with the woman, who somehow makes her way uninvited into Simon’s party. She remains unnamed, just “a woman in the city.” One otherwise meaningless face among thousands and thousands of others. She is, in addition to remaining nameless, a sinner, a prostitute, no doubt. You can tell by looking at her. The clothing she wears. The way she conducts herself. This is a woman who earns her living selling sexual services to the highest bidder. Who at the party knows where in the world she spent the night and who she was with? Who even wants to know? After all, no decent person in society pays any attention to such a woman, much less wants be seen with her. The only energy exerted by others with her in mind is whatever is necessary to avoid her.

Simon, the upstanding Pharisee. An unnamed woman, the sinner. From which of these two would you most likely seek spiritual advice? To which one would you go in your heartfelt attempts to know Jesus better? Simon, Luke points out, invited Jesus to his table, more out of curiosity than faith (v. 39). And Simon, Jesus points out, failed to extend to him even the most basic of hospitable gestures—a kiss of greeting, water to wash his feet, and oil—cheap and plentiful olive oil—to refresh himself. Simon sought Jesus’ company solely to investigate and interrogate—to see if there was anything at all to the stories about Jesus that were floating around on the streets. Simon, after all, already had the answers, the books, and the pedigree.

How different the woman. She must have felt woefully out of place—unwanted—like a peace activist at a Pentagon luncheon. Yet nothing deterred her. Not guilt. Not shame. Not public ridicule. Nothing. Without delay, she moves directly to the feet of Jesus, who is reclining on his side at the table. Before anyone knows how to react, she opens a bottle of extremely expensive ointment—not the cheap stuff that Simon had withheld—and pours it on Jesus’ feet. She is weeping, wiping his feet with her hair, while Simon and his other “righteous” friends look on in disbelief. Curiosity has not brought the woman here. A desire for popularity has not brought the woman here. The urge to engage in theological chit chat has not brought the woman here. Look at her—a bag lady from Bethesda Mission in Harrisburg—or worse—fully aware of her pitiful past, making herself absolutely vulnerable and offering all that she has.

And which response does Jesus prefer? Simon’s unmistakable professionalism, theological curiosity and righteous self-assurance? Or the woman’s selfless act of total and even humiliating surrender? “Simon,” Jesus said, “…her sins, which were many, have been forgiven;…” And what, we might wonder, about Simon’s sins? Come to Jesus like a child, the Bible tells us elsewhere. Come to Jesus like this unnamed and sinful woman of the city, Luke tells us here. Come with brokenness, humility, honesty, and faith.

But responding to Jesus is, as I’ve said, only one of the crucial issues on Luke’s mind as he retells this story. It seems clear enough that he is likewise concerned about how we who follow Jesus look at certain people in the world around us. And once again, Simon, the religious leader, gets it all wrong. To him, the woman is little more than an unwelcome interruption in the middle of his day and an intrusion in his plans. She is, to quote Ralph Ellison, an “invisible” person, not because she cannot be seen, but because no one wishes to see her. Simon never speaks to her, let alone offers any assurances that she is welcome in his home. In fact, the woman is to Simon nothing more than permission to ultimately shift his initial curiosity concerning Jesus to unmitigated disbelief—“If Jesus were a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of a woman this is….”

Jesus’ response to the woman is so different. He welcomes her, and in violation of the religious norms so sacred to Simon, warmly receives her touch—her dirty, smelly touch. Jesus, in spite of other more desirable guests clamoring for his attention, speaks both to and about the woman. In speaking about her, Jesus surprisingly elevates her over Simon himself as a model to be followed. And in speaking to her, Jesus looks at her eye to eye. What does it matter what the others think? Of greater importance to Jesus than the respect of the other guests is that this woman—this unnamed sinner of the city—senses his concern and compassion. When Simon sees a social outcast to be avoided, Jesus sees a desperate person longing to be embraced. When Simon sees a filthy interruption into his neatly organized life, Jesus sees an opportunity to offer love and grace. And when Simon sees in the woman a guilty person too far gone to be concerned about, Jesus sees in her a person for whom he will soon give his life.

Which of these responses—Simon’s or Jesus’—would you rather have extended to you? Which response, the story demands of us, do we extend to others? People on the fringes. People with shady reputations. People avoided by others. People who interrupt our lives and complicate our plans. When such people barge into our lives, do we respond like Simon? Or Jesus?

One final thought lingers in my mind as I think about Simon, Jesus and this unnamed, sinful woman. Luke, without question, encourages us to respond to Jesus, not like Simon did, but like the woman did. Luke, furthermore, hopes that we respond to the woman, not like Simon did, but like Jesus did. But of no less importance than these matters is the manner in which Jesus responds to Simon. Jesus, after all, did accept Simon’s invitation to come to his party in the first place. It would have been easier to avoid it—a stuffy gathering with religious leaders who think too highly of themselves and far too little of others. It is not hard to imagine, at least for me, that Jesus would dislike the company of Simon and his buddies in much the same way that Simon disliked the company of the woman. You know what I mean—substituting one prejudice for another. In the process of ministering to the poor, we end up hating the rich. In serving among the oppressed, we totally demonize the oppressors. In reaching out to the victims, we shun or ignore the culprits. Jesus, somehow, avoided that pitfall. He loved the woman, and cared tenderly for her. But he refused at the same time to relegate Simon to the city dump. Simon, in spite of his self-righteous attitudes and disregard for the needy of the world, still mattered to God.

So what memories linger now that Simon’s dinner party is over and the dishes have been washed and put away? Now that the commotion has died down and both Jesus and the woman have left? What might Simon and his friends be talking about? Getting back to business as usual? Living upstanding, religious lives and avoiding worldly contamination? It is easy, isn’t it, to respond that way when God shatters our categories and calls us to get our hands dirty for his sake? “Wait a moment” we remind ourselves, “and the discomfort will pass.” But maybe, just maybe, someone near the table was so moved by these exchanges between Simon, Jesus and the woman that they finally came to realize what God has been trying to tell us all along. You don’t come to Jesus through religious performance and self-righteousness—like Simon?but through a broken and contrite heart—like the woman. Although the world typically avoids and even rejects broken, sinful, odd-ball people, Jesus welcomes them—welcomes us??with open arms when they come to him. And perhaps more troubling to us religious types, he expects us to do the same.