The Sinful Woman
The One who Loved More
By the way, what could be the story of this woman? Why would she interrupt the meal of these religious leaders and act the way she did toward Jesus?
When one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, he went to the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table. A woman in that town who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, so she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume. As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.
When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is — that she is a sinner.”
Jesus answered him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.”
“Tell me, teacher,” he said.
“Two people owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he forgave the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?”
Simon replied, “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt forgiven.”
“You have judged correctly,” Jesus said.
Then he turned toward the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came 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 this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”
Then Jesus said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.”
The other guests began to say among themselves, “Who is this who even forgives sins?”
Jesus said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
Luke 7:36-50
My father is one of the wealthy merchants of the town; he is an influential figure, known and respected by all; he sits in one of the places of honor at the synagogue. My family is one of the most prestigious in the area and... and I’m not going to tell you more.
Anyway, even if you went to talk to them, they would tell you that they don’t know me. They have disowned me for over 15 years now.
I am their shame, their disgrace; I am the black sheep they would like to get rid of.
Since I was a child, I was this “beautiful little girl with curly hair”. The one that everybody loved, the one that attracted the looks and the attention, the one that everybody wanted to take on her lap...
She sighs sadly.
I grew up as a lovely little girl, nice to everyone and with whom everyone was nice... not imagining... not suspecting the evil and the rot that can creep in, take root and completely control the hearts and lives of even the most respectable people.
She pauses for a moment.
And then, that night, everything changed. It was shortly after my bat mitzvah. I was still so young.
A friend of my father’s, a prominent member of the Pharisee party...
Her voice breaks, tears well up in her eyes.
He abused me... he raped me...
She sobs.
I think I can still feel his arms around me as I struggle to escape. I can still feel the disgust for the despicable act he did against me and the shame as he runs away after his crime threatening me: “Don’t you tell anyone about it, you dirty little slut, temptress, sinner!”
Long silence.
Sinner... already... this word that sticks to my skin for so many years.
Cursed be this day when my life has turned into a nightmare!
Cursed be this man, who destroyed my life!
Cursed be the day of my birth: for my existence of misery, it would have been better if I had never been born.
Oh, he came back.... many times... so many times... too many times!
I was terrified, I was afraid of the banquets and parties that my father organized. For the perfect little girl, they were occasions of rejoicing, occasions to celebrate the God of Israel, to remember the great works He had done for our people in the past... and to encourage us to wait for His action for today or tomorrow.
These feasts, this religion, were now only terror for me. I did not sleep through the nights because of anxiety: would he be there? Was there any way to escape him? Was there anyone I could confide my terrible secret to?
In public, he was very nice to me. He was a very respected and popular person... My father was so proud that he was a friend of the family. He never missed an opportunity to invite him over and praise him when he wasn’t around.
Only I knew the evil, the rottenness that was in that man. He never missed an opportunity to abuse me, to violate my body and my soul, to tear out little by little, piece by piece, my heart inside me.
I had become withdrawn, fearful. There were outbursts of anger and violence in me that I had not known before. I remember hitting (and killing) a kitten that was just passing by: its beauty, its innocence were unbearable to me...
But this anger and violence were mostly directed against myself. How many nights did I spend awake, crying and wishing to die? If the law didn’t forbid it, I would have probably killed myself.
People saw these changes in me, of course. My father himself once took the time to talk with me:
“I don’t recognize my child anymore...what’s wrong with to you?”
I tried to explain to him that this man, his friend, he was bad, mean to me, that he was doing dirty, disgusting things to me... that I didn’t want to... I stammered... how could I explain such a situation to my own father?
He interrupted me:
“This man is a respected member of our community, a blameless Pharisee before men and before God, one of my closest friends. He is very kind to you: you should be grateful to him rather than falsely accusing him like you do. My daughter, your mother and I are very sorry for your attitude...”
I ran away with tears in my eyes.
That night, I didn’t sleep again. If my own father reacted like that, there was no one I could confide in. No one could understand my situation. No one could stand up for me and give me justice.
Isn’t it God’s role to take care of the poor, the foreigners, the underprivileged... in short, the victims?
And here, God is on the side of my aggressor.
I would give him what he wanted, as long as it was over quickly. Then I would throw up my disgust and take a bath in the vain hope of washing away the stain that was spreading ever further into my soul. Maybe he was right after all: I was the sinner.
The nice little girl with beautiful curly hair was so far away.
The atmosphere at home had become unbreathable. My father and mother were always blaming me... the arguments never stopped, the violence in me was pouring out on them, often without any reason. Poor things, they couldn’t understand.
And then, one day, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I decided to leave. Without telling anyone, I ran away, in the middle of another sleepless night of anguish.
From my father’s house, I took nothing with me, except... a small vial of perfume that I had received for my bat-mitzvah. My father had given it to me, telling me that it was reserved for my wedding night, to perfume me and celebrate the beginning of my life together with the companion who would share my joys and sorrows for my entire life.
A beautiful symbol... that I took with me in the hope that, by escaping from my attacker, I would be able to rebuild my life and, who knows... find a man who would deserve that I break this vial for him... that I perfume myself for him...
A moment of silence.
Alas, things only got worse... Maybe my despair attracted opportunists... Maybe men talk to each other... Anyway, I was abused again and again, always hoping in vain that the next relationship would be the right one.
I don’t want to tell you the details, or even remember them... if it were possible at all.
She stares at the ground in front of her.
Anyway, I ended up here: a prostitute.
Selling my body to pay for my bread.
Trying to attract the customer, only to be rejected afterwards, like an object that one has grown tired of too quickly.
A smile on my face, to hide the pain of my broken heart.
Dragging with me this reputation of a sinful woman marked on my clothes, on my body, deep inside my soul.
How many nights did I spend crying over my misery? How many times did I go to the valley of Hinnom, where they throw and burn the garbage, with the plan to break my perfume vial and kill myself to end this miserable life?
How many times have I cried out to the God of Israel: where are you, you who care for the widow and the orphan?
He was a well-known figure: it was said that he was a prophet who performed miraculous deeds: sick people were healed, lepers were cleansed... it was even said that dead people were raised.
It was also said that he taught in an extraordinary way: that he did not show favoritism and that religious people were often shocked by his words... to which they found nothing to answer.
But above all.... he was said to be a friend of sinners: that he did not hesitate to associate, and even to eat with tax collectors and people of ill repute.
So I decided to go and see him... well, especially to see if it was true, this story that he was a friend of sinners. If there was a man in the city who could look at me even once as anything other than a sinful woman...
Jesus was at Simon’s, the Pharisee.
When I arrived there, I felt like I was at my father’s house over again: the meal was taking place in the front yard, shaded by a large pine tree. The sun was shining without the heat being unbearable. A little refreshing wind was blowing from the sea. The birds were singing in the trees, as if in response to the conversations of the humans.
The beds on which the guests were laying were arranged in a circle. Simon, the host, was seated in the middle. His two guests of honor were on his right and left. I remembered the endless fuss about who were going to be the guests of honor at my father’s banquets... and I wondered if Simon’s guests were also jealous of each other, especially those who had the seats of honor.
And then there was all that food on the table: delicately grilled lamb that smelled so good, vegetables, fish, baskets of fresh fruit, glasses of wine that were always full... and bread, fresh bread, still warm, whose smell I loved so much as a child.
Of course, there was also the public, the spectators; all those people massed around Simon’s property, who were there to listen, and even comment, on the words of the guests. Of course, there was no question of touching the food, but we were an integral part of the banquet, or perhaps we should say, of the scene that was unfolding before our eyes.
I approached with the others... oh, I’m so used to this backward movement caused by my presence that I didn’t even notice. I looked at the guests... and my heart stopped beating for a second. There he was! My aggressor! The one who turned my life into a nightmare. In an instant, shame, fear, even terror and disgust came over me. All the darkness and rottenness of my life flooded me once again. Ah, could I ever be anything else than the sinful woman?
He didn’t recognize me... or he preferred to ignore me... I couldn’t tell.
I was about to run away, to flee once more and to take refuge in my misery when... when I met Jesus’ eyes. Oh, I’ve met many men’s eyes: provocative, full of desire sometimes, disgust often, contempt always.
But his gaze was different: I had the impression that he could see into the depths of me, into the depths of my despair, but he did not look away like the others. Could it be that he could understand me? What neither my father nor God himself could ever do?
I approached... and that’s when I noticed. His feet! They were dirty, filthy, covered in road dirt. How could Simon have been so lacking in basic politeness as to not give Jesus water to wash his feet?
Suddenly, I realized: he was in the last place of the banquet, the one where they put the troublesome guest, the one they especially want to offend, or make fun of.
He too was an outcast, a reject, a disturbing intruder in the midst of these respectable guests.
Yes, if anyone could understand me, it was Jesus.
I continued to approach him, until I was very close. Tears started to roll down my cheeks... not tears of despair, but... how can I put it? As if the torrent of my woes and misery was overflowing. Or better: as if the dam that held back all my suffering inside myself had just broken. My tears flowed and flowed, trickling down my cheeks, my chin and falling, drop by drop, on Jesus’ feet.
As my tears continued to flow, Jesus’ feet were bathed, wet, soaked even by my tears. And little by little, the dirt and grime washed off the floor.
And as his feet were cleaned by my tears, I felt as if the depths of my being, too, were becoming cleaner and cleaner.
This went on for a long time... an eternity... years of suffering, abuse, despair finally flowing freely.
Then I unraveled my hair and wiped his feet. I know that this is a folly and a scandal, that it is the gesture of a wife in front of her husband... but understand me: the beautiful curly hair of the pretty little girl has been forgotten for years. It’s getting harder and harder to even give it a little shine with a few drops of oil. And my clients aren’t really interested in watching me unravel my hair; they want something else, and they want it now.
Finally, I pulled out my perfume vial and broke it. The neck of the alabaster vase made a little “crack” as it broke and I poured, slowly, all of the perfume on Jesus’ feet. To think that, so many times, in my despair, I had wanted to break this vial in the middle of the garbage...
His feet were now clean, dry and perfumed.
Without even saying a word, Jesus had understood me better than any man, better than my father and even... better than God himself.
So I kissed his feet as a sign of ultimate reverence... which was a little crazy, I must admit.
It seemed to me that inside myself, something of the carefree and joyful little girl had come back to life...
Finally, Jesus spoke. He spoke to Simon... and all eyes turned to him. I was relieved that the focus was no longer on me.
“Simon” Jesus said, “I have something to tell you. Two people owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he forgave the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?”
It seemed to me that Simon, who must have been used to discussions between rabbis, hesitated for a moment before answering: “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt forgiven.”
Then Jesus turned to me; and I felt his gaze upon me... and at the same time I felt the little girl in me come alive even more.
Jesus continued: “Do you see this woman?”
He was talking about me! He considered me as a woman... in his mouth, I was not the sinful woman!
“I came 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 this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”
It was me, a hundred times me, a thousand times me, this portrait that he drew up in a few words. Yes! Yes! My soul was black, overwhelmed, miserable. And there, suddenly, this Jesus who comes out of nowhere and who seems to understand me as no one has ever understood me, better than my own father himself.
And who, even though he seems to understand and see the situation of my life perfectly, does not reject me, does not burden me with the weight of his contempt, does not consider me as the sinful woman. I feel as if I have received more love from him in those few moments than in the rest of my life.
Then, as if to further confirm what I felt deep inside, he added, “Your sins are forgiven.”
Obviously, such a statement created a lot of confusion among those respectable religious people: “Who is this who even forgives sins?”
I’ll tell you my opinion, for what it’s worth: in my opinion, this Jesus is God... nothing less. This God to whom I have cried in vain for so many years, whom I have called during my nights of anguish, to whom I have prayed in the garbage of the Hinnom valley... This God who understands the victim, who forgives the darkness and misery of sin, this God who defends the weak... Jesus has all His characteristics. He can only be God!
Suddenly there was a lot of confusion in Simon’s house... everyone got up to leave and commented on what had happened.
As I was leaving, Jesus said to me again: “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
So I left, with my head held high as a forgiven, loved, respected woman...
Inside me, the little girl wanted to sing, to dance, to shout her joy finally found.