The Prophet and the Red-haired Woman
a sermon based on Luke 7:36-8:3
By Rev. Dr. David Rogne

Their eyes met across the heads of the crowd.  As always, she was on the fringe of things, not really a part of them.  The young rabbi had just entered the town and the curious had gathered around him to hear what he had to say.  The young woman, noting the crowd, saw it as a place where she might find a trick or two.   When people are standing in a crowd, watching some activity, it is easy to go up and stand behind some man, as though you, too, are interested in what is going on, and whisper into his ear some offer he can't refuse, without his wife or anyone else really being aware of what has been said.
 

So she was standing at the back of the crowd, her black net stockings, emerald-green body suit and band-aid size mini-skirt hidden from the one who was doing the talking.   Her high-heeled platform shoes gave her a height advantage as she scanned the crowd, looking for a mark.  She wasn't really listening to what the rabbi had to say.   "He was a man, just a man, and she'd known so many men before, in so, so many ways; he was just one more."    But as her eyes moved from one person to another, the rabbi looked up, perhaps attracted momentarily to her red hair, and when their eyes met, he smiled.  It wasn't that, "Well, where have you been all my life?" smile that she knew from the singles' bar.   It wasn't the apologetic smile of a man standing too close to his wife.   It was a warm and friendly smile such as a person might offer to a friend he was glad to see.   She hadn't received many such smiles in her life.  Women certainly didn't smile at her that way, and men didn't tend to think of her as a friend.   She stopped scanning the crowd and began to listen to what the rabbi said.  This was about as close as she was ever likely to get to a religious service.  She hadn't been inside a synagogue for years.  Of course, in her business you didn't have to go to a worship service to hear a sermon.  There were plenty of sidewalk evangelists who set up their little portable pulpits under the same lamp posts where she waited.   They condemned her and frightened away the trade.  There was a time when she would holler right back at them - tell them to go to hell - but that didn't help business. Now she would just cross the street when one of them would come out to preach.

But this Rabbi was not like that.   He wasn't really preaching at all.   He was telling stories.   And he didn't hit you over the head with the application.   He began to tell a story about a young man who couldn't stand to stay at home in his small town anymore.  When he came of age he emptied his trust account and headed off for the big city.  The hard-as-nails young woman could identify with that.  She remembered the funeral of her mother, the several years she spent minding the household for her father, her father's re-marriage, the rising conflict with her step­mother, the anger she felt toward her father for siding with his new wife.   She remembered packing the cardboard suitcase, taking the household money from her step-mother's purse, and beating it down to the Greyhound bus stop before anyone knew she had left.

The rabbi told about a young man who arrived in the Big City, quickly used up his resources, and was then deserted by those who had befriended him.   As she listened, the woman saw in her mind a young girl, frightened, rebellious, determined not to go back, sitting in a bus station trying to figure out what to do. A friendly fellow offers her a place to stay.  In no time at all, she has learned how people make it in the city.   Now, she can't go home.  She'd have to tell them how she had survived.  The rabbi, himself a small-town boy from Nazareth, went on to tell how the young man took a chance, returned home, and found that his father received him with open arms, no questions asked.  The redhead is caught now. The hooker is hooked.  Is it possible to go home again? To be accepted someplace instead of this constant rejection?  Is it possible that somebody might still care?

She was lost in her own thoughts as the rabbi finished his story and the crowd began to disperse.   Standing in the shade of a bazaar for some protection from the Galilean sun, she observed that the rabbi and a few of his followers were about to pass by.   She pulled down on her too-short skirt trying to make it appear longer than it was.  Touching his sleeve, she said, "Rabbi, is that the way it is?   Is it possible to go home again, no matter what?"  The rabbi paused, touched her hand - actually touched her - acknowledged that we cannot always make things the way they used to be - but that, where there is love, we can experience reconciliation, not only with our family, but with that better self that exists inside of each one of us, and with God, whom we too quickly assume has rejected us.

She needed time to absorb all of this.  She had been caught off guard by the rabbi's story.  She could feel that her mascara was running and that one stick-on eyelash had come loose.   She retreated to her lodgings to repair the damage and to think.   For his part, the rabbi moved on in the direction of the synagogue, where he would speak that evening.

That evening there wasn't much good on television, so when word passed through the town that the visiting rabbi would speak, more people than usual showed up for the services.   Simon, the Pharisee, one of the elders of the synagogue, was there.   And, of course, he was seated right up near the front so he would miss nothing, for he was vitally interested in religion.   Even before the service, he went up to the rabbi and invited him to come to dinner that evening following the service.  When the rabbi accepted, Simon was delighted.   It was always Jasher Ben Judah who got to the visiting dignitaries first and invited them to dinner.  This time, Simon was first, and he would have the privilege and prestige.   Who knows, he thought, the rabbi might turn out to be a real prophet. What a coup to have him as a guest!

The small synagogue was filled and the shutters were opened to allow fresh air to flow through.   Many people simply stood outside observing the proceedings through the open window.   Among them was the young redhead, no longer looking for customers, but intensely interested in getting a good spot from which to hear.  If she had gone inside, no one would have moved over to give her room.  Even standing outside, people moved away from her so that no one would think she was with them.

The young rabbi, who was introduced as Jesus of Nazareth, rose to speak, and after a few preliminaries about how nice it was to be there, he began to talk about his understanding of God's love and forgiveness.  A number of people nodded affirmation, including Simon, for God's love for Israel was a favorite theme for everyone.  Jesus took a different tack, however, and instead of focusing on the privilege of being a Jew, or on the importance of being religious, he suggested that forgiveness is available to the least worthy.  The rabbi closed his remarks by telling a story of two people who went into the temple to pray.   One was an upstanding Pharisee; the other a Roman collaborator.  The Pharisee thanked God that he was not like the others.  The collaborator humbly asked for mercy.   Simon liked that part of the story.   But when Jesus suggested that the collaborator was the one who was justified before God, some of the ne’er-do-wells who were listening began to poke each other in the ribs in apparent approval, while Simon began to wonder just who he had invited to dinner.

Following the service, Simon felt obliged to utter some approving remark to Jesus, hoping all the while that he had misunderstood the intent of Jesus' words. As they made their way along the dusty streets of the town, Simon made it clear to all he met that the visiting rabbi was coming to his house for dinner.  They, too, would be welcome to come over later if they chose to, in order to hear what the rabbi had to say.   Some, especially the poor folk, followed right along, creating an entourage as they walked together.  The red-haired woman followed at an even greater distance.  As they walked along, Simon engaged the rabbi further in conversation.  He was disappointed to discover that Jesus was not a graduate of a reputable school for rabbis, nor of any school for that matter.  Perhaps this was why Jasher Ben Judah hadn't invited the guest to his place.  Jesus just wasn't that significant a visitor to their community.   He was more of a homespun philosopher, but even at that, not very sophisticated.  Why, anybody could understand him.

Simon's house looked like a simple wall from the outside, but when one entered the door, he found himself in a large enclosed patio.  The courtyard was illuminated by torches.  There was a large low table in the middle and a series of couches on which the guests would recline, around the table.   Upon entering, certain amenities would have been appropriate, but by now Simon was convinced that Jesus was a country bumpkin who would not be sophisticated enough to notice whether those amenities were performed or not.  Simon clapped his hands, the food was brought in, the guests were seated, and it appeared to Simon that the rabbi from Nazareth was sufficiently impressed that he didn't even miss the courtesies.   In addition to the invited guests, there were townspeople moving in and out of the courtyard and even some poorer people standing in the shadows of the courtyard, hoping to share in the leftovers of the meal.

While Simon stepped into the kitchen to get more wine, the redheaded woman entered the courtyard, walking around the crowd in the shadows.  She came up to a place behind Jesus, where his feet reached into the shadows.   No words were spoken, but it was evident that she had been crying for some time, and was crying still.   Pictures of home and family flashed across her mind.   She saw herself at home once more, perhaps not the girl she had been, but not the person she was now either.   The possibility of being something different had become real to her for the first time in years, and she was grateful.  As she knelt at Jesus' feet, she observed that her own tears were making blotches on the dust of Jesus' feet. She was attempting to wipe the tears with her hair, when it occurred to her that the host had not provided for his guest the basic courtesy of providing for him to bathe his feet.   Looking around for something with which to accomplish the courtesy, she noted the little vial of perfume that hung from a chain around her neck.   At least it was liquid.   She poured it upon the rabbi's feet as lavishly as a more religious person would have poured a thank-offering on the temple altar. And for her it was a thank offering.   She was not much acquainted with religion or even on very good terms with God, but in the words and actions of this man, she was experiencing acceptance in place of rejection, inclusion instead of exclusion, understanding instead of judgment, and if such a person said she was forgiven by God, she believed that too.

When Simon came back with the wine, he began serving his guests.  When he came to Jesus, he observed the woman who was kneeling at Jesus' feet. "Well, that clinches it," he thought.   "Not only is this fellow not a prophet, he hasn't even got the perception of a Pharisee.   It would be obvious to anybody what kind of a woman she is."   Simon said nothing.   He only raised his eyebrow and gave a fish-eye in the direction of Jesus and the woman.   He would have asked her to leave except for the greater attention he would draw to her presence. Simon could not see a loving act.   He could see only an untouchable person, and he was indignant.

Sensing Simon's attitude, the rabbi signaled for Simon's attention.   "I have something to say to you," he said.   By now Simon was not much interested in what this guest might have to say.   It certainly would not be profound.  Tossing a grape in his mouth and crushing it, he responded in an indifferent manner, "What is it, Teacher?

Jesus then told another of his homely stories.   "A certain creditor had two debtors; one owed him fifty dollars, and the other five hundred.  When neither could pay, he forgave them both:   Now which one will love him more?"  Simon rolled his eyes at his guests to let them know how simple he felt the story was. "Well, I suppose, the one to whom he forgave more."   It was evident from the way he answered that Simon didn't see any relevance to this story.   "Right on," said Jesus.  Then, turning toward the woman, he said, "Do you see this woman?" Did he see her?  What a question!   Her presence was about all he could see! What an embarrassment she was to him!   "Well," Jesus continued," when I came to your home, you gave me no water for my feet, you gave me no kiss of welcome, you did not put the customary sweet-smelling oil on my head."   Simon was humiliated.   He thought Jesus wouldn't have noticed the omissions.   Now his guests knew that he had not been a courteous host.   Simon, who always tried to be above reproach, was seen to have flaws.   But even so, what had this to do with

creditors and debtors?   "This woman," Jesus continued, "has not ceased to wet my feet with her tears, dry them with her hair, kiss my feet and anoint them with perfume."  Simon was chagrinned.  Not only were his shortcomings receiving public notice, but his actions were being compared to the actions of a prostitute, and he was coming off second best!  Then Jesus drew his conclusion:   "She has done these things as an expression of love.  And she loves much, because she is aware of being forgiven much.  The one who is not aware of being forgiven much, does not love much."  Then looking at the woman, Jesus said, "Your sins are forgiven."

Simon was speechless.   He was a good man.   He was active in the synagogue.   He tried to observe the requirements of his religion.   And yet, this country rabbi was suggesting that, in some ways, this prostitute had a better understanding of God than he did.   Simon's guests were offended too, for if these things could be said of Simon, they could be said of them.   "Who does this fellow think he is anyway, that he goes around forgiving sin?"  The party was beginning to break up now, with guests leaving in angry conversation with each other.

Jesus seized the opportunity to send the young woman on her way.   "Go in peace," he said, "and remember, it is your faith that has saved you."   Not her tears, not her actions, but her trust that there is forgiveness in the world, that forgiveness is freely offered, and that when we reach out to accept it, it makes a difference in our lives.

By the time morning rolled around, the young woman was already on the Greyhound taking her back to home and family.  The emerald green body suit, the net hose, the band-aid sized skirt had been left behind.   She believed that God accepted her.  She had experienced that acceptance in Jesus.   She hoped that her family could do the same.

Simon had spent the night reliving the previous evening in every painful detail. He finally came to the conclusion that Jesus had not condemned him or his good deeds or his religious devotion.  Jesus had simply observed that when we become too satisfied with how good we are, we don't seek forgiveness and, therefore, have little sense of indebtedness to God, and little sympathy for the hard life of others.   In short, we don't demonstrate much love for God or for others.   Simon would always be a Pharisee, a person whose whole concern is to please God, but his encounter with Jesus of Nazareth would always remind him that the best of us need forgiveness.

And for his part, Jesus went on through the cities and villages, preaching the good news that God accepts us as we are, forgives our failings, and by his gracious love invites us to accept ourselves and to love one another.