2 Samuel 11:26-12:10, 13-15
Galatians 2:15-21
Luke 7:36-8:3
All three
of today’s scripture lessons present us with a rather complex knot in which are
wound together the dynamics of forgiveness, gratitude, and morality. In both the story from II Samuel in which the
Prophet Nathan confronts David and the gospel story in which the woman anoints
the feet of Jesus the themes of sex and love are at least a prominent part of
the background. The paragraph from
Galatians that we heard in between these stories is the sharp attempt of Paul
to place the center of our relationship with God in Christ, not in the morality
of law-keeping.
Get ready
for some surprises here. These three
things taken together are likely to shatter what you imagine the purpose of
Christian religion is—indeed perhaps the purpose of any religion—and quite
possibly your self-understanding as well.
Let’s begin
with the compelling masterpiece that is today’s Good News from Luke. To start off, it is a distinctly different
story from a couple you might have heard not long ago in Lent and Holy Week. There are at least three different stories
and four separate accounts of a woman anointing Jesus. Those in Matthew, Mark, and John take place
not in Galilee, as today’s story does, but in Bethany, a little village not far
from Jerusalem. Matthew and Mark place
the anointing by an anonymous woman in the house of Simon who is not a Pharisee
but a leper. In both their versions the
woman anoints Jesus’ head, not his feet.
In both stories, the onlookers—disciples in one case—fuss at the woman
because she has wasted expensive ointment, which could more appropriately have
been converted into cash for the poor.
In both stories, Jesus takes the side of the woman saying that she has
anointed his body beforehand for burial.
John identifies the woman as Mary of Bethany, the sister of Martha and
Lazarus. Mary anoints the feet of Jesus
and wipes them with her hair. All of
this takes place the week before the Passover during which time Jesus was
crucified. The voice that objects to the
profligate love of Mary is that of Judas Iscariot who was to betray Jesus. And Jesus’ response is an order to let Mary
alone, to let her “keep it [the perfume] for the day of my burial.”
Luke’s
story, as you can see, is very different from any of the others. Simon, a Pharisee, has invited Rabbi Jesus to
his house for dinner. It is a
particularly festive meal, because contrary to everyday custom, dinner guests
are reclining at table on couches. In
what seems to us a bizarre occurrence but which in those days was apparently
common, a woman, probably one of many people hanging around the outside of the
house peering in at the guests, comes into the house and starts what is clearly
an extravagant show of affection for Jesus.
The woman is a harlot. Everybody
apparently knows this. Simon, somewhat
surprisingly, does not upbraid the woman but is in fact scandalized that Jesus,
reputed to be a prophet, apparently does not know who and what the woman
is. He also reasons silently that if
Jesus did know, he would certainly put a stop to it. Thus, Simon figures, this man is no
prophet. Jesus in fact knows Simon’s
thoughts. Perhaps they are not that hard
to discern. At any rate, in the fashion
of the day he poses a little riddle about the two debtors with greatly
different debts, both forgiven. Who will
love the more? When Simon says he
supposes the one who was forgiven more, Jesus says that he has answered
rightly.
Ah! The trap is laid. “Do you see
this woman?” That is the real
question. Simon not only does not see
her as anything beyond a street harlot, nor does he see himself. And because he does not see his need for
forgiveness, he has no earthly idea why one would carry on so in gratitude for
forgiveness. How could he? Jesus contrasts the woman’s profligate
outpouring of love with Simon’s rather reserved—to say the least—display of
hospitality. Underneath is the issue of
the way Jesus himself is treated. And
that in turn reflects the way he is or is not understood to have anything to do
with forgiveness. Luke does not tell us
directly but suggests that something has transpired before between Jesus and
the woman. Now the interesting thing,
frequently ignored by readers and commentators, is that the woman is still a
harlot. Nothing in the story or the text
suggests otherwise. Surprise Number
One. Most people would argue, along with
Simon the Pharisee, that Jesus would in no way knowingly put up with an active
prostitute cavorting with him in public in a scene that has obvious sexual
overtones (think: feet and the letting
down of one’s hair, an obvious sign of intimacy).
The
question is whether Jesus has already forgiven the sins of the woman (which the
story implies), or whether he forgives her sins after this display of
love. It might seem of little
importance, but the way we answer this question perhaps tells us something
valuable about what forgiveness is. From
the point of view of morality, the woman is clearly a sinner and thus an
outsider. Yet Jesus has reached out to
her, apparently not for the purpose of bringing her to the rank and status of
insider, but simply to affirm her. His
pronouncement at the end of the story that her faith has saved her most likely
means that her faith has not been nullified by her work as a prostitute. And “saved” means to be made whole, to be
made right, to be justified, not “saved from damnation” the way it later became
distorted to mean.
Now the
faith that justifies intersects with Paul’s point to the Galatians. Like Simon, Paul had been a Pharisee. And
Pharisees were deeply committed to keeping the Torah, the Law, as meticulously
as possible. But Paul’s transformation
into a follower of Christ had brought him to understand that it is not keeping
the Law that makes us right with God, saves us, makes us whole. Rather, it is faith in Christ—putting our
whole trust in Christ’s grace and love—that justifies us, makes us “just” or
“right” with God. He even goes so far as
to say that he has been crucified with Christ.
He is obviously talking about a mystical experience, but it has very
practical outcomes. It is no longer
“Paul” who lives, but Christ who lives in him.
What if the
woman that came into Simon’s house were to have said that? What would it have meant for her? It might have meant that she had almost
literally been melted by the love of Jesus to the point that her whole life
took on a different meaning. Did she
cease working as a prostitute, if that is what she was? Maybe.
But it possibly would have meant that what mattered to her was not what
she did or who she was but rather that her whole life might now be overflowing
with the kind of love that Christ showed her, the sort of acceptance that she
experienced from him. Might it have been
that in all of her relationships she now was as extravagantly loving to everyone,
pimp and client and competitor and alienated family member, as she was towards
the Christ who loved her and would give himself for her? Do you suppose that the fundamental change in
her was that rather than selling love she now broke herself open as if she were
a very alabaster jar, pouring herself out without reservation to accept others
as she herself had been accepted and affirmed?
Be
honest. What bothers us about all this
is that, as good as it sounds, it veers perilously towards what Paul himself
saw, namely the likelihood that Christ is an agent of sin! On some level we fear that if God and his
Christ are not moral police officers either pulling us from immorality or
punishing us for willfully staying in it, somehow the whole system is going to
capsize and we will find ourselves awash in corruption and savagery. Well, that is something to ponder all
right. Where does morality fit in with
all this? Is there any such thing as a
moral imperative?
Listen to
Nathan the prophet, whose story about a little pet lamb nailed David much as
Jesus’ riddle grabbed Simon the Pharisee.
“You are the man!” says Nathan.
David’s sexual desire for Bathsheba had led him not only to commit
adultery with her, in effect stealing her from her husband Uriah. And when Uriah foiled the plan, David had him
killed. Yes you are the man, David. And there are consequences. Sickness, death, sorrow, and ultimately the
division of your own family will result from what you have done. “I have sinned,” David admits. Before David’s story ends, we see unfolding
layer by layer the very human, flawed character that was indeed Israel’s hero
and model king. Through it all, however,
he was a man “after God’s own heart.” He
was not the darling of God because he was morally upright, or because he was
talented, or because he was successful, or any of those things. He simply was David. We don’t need to justify David. He needs no justification. And this is the wonderful and mysterious
thing that Paul finally sees: it is not
by keeping the Law even perfectly that makes us right with God. We are forgiven and free simply because God
loves us lavishly.
The
theologian Paul Tillich wrote in The
Shaking of the Foundations, “…Sometimes a wave of light breaks into our
darkness, and it is as though a voice were saying: ‘You are accepted. You are
accepted, accepted by that which is greater than you, and the name of which
you do not know. Do not ask for the name
now; perhaps you will find it later. Do
not try to do anything now; perhaps later you will do much. Do not seek for anything; do not perform
anything; do not intend anything. Simply
accept the fact that you are accepted!”*
That is Good News to beat the band.
Sure, there is accountability, suffering, even despair at various points
along the way. And there is plenty of
room and reason for confession. But the
overwhelming Word of God is not a word of condemnation, but a word of
consolation. And it is, “You are
accepted. I love you.” Can you imagine a response to that Good News
that does not begin with profound gratitude?
Can you think of anything you want to do other than kick up your heels
and dance as you have never danced before, belt out a song or a cheer, hug
someone, or maybe even take a prized bottle of something precious and break it
open and pour it out like all the tears of joy your soul could squeeze out of
you, and hug and kiss the one who loves you so?
The
community of Jesus has no better model than the harlot in Simon’s house as to
how to respond to God’s grace. Because
she does exactly what Jesus himself does:
she pours herself out without counting the cost. It is, in the end, a far better way to live
than the pinched and narrow morality of Simon the Pharisee. And only those who have been forgiven much
will ever understand why.
© Frank Gasque Dunn, 2013
