Sinful Woman

Luke tells the story of a woman who, I must admit, reminds me a lot of myself. Let’s set the scene:

Jesus has gone to the home of a “wicked” man – a tax collector. He is having a meal with the man, probably sitting at a table waiting for food to be served while talking about society, culture, and the man’s struggles. This woman walks in.

She’s not invited; she’s a dinner crasher. Despite the host being a hard, prideful man, his home is somehow open enough to enable her to enter. She walks in timidly, knowing this was not her place and fearing, perhaps, being found out; yet she knows there is One here who she desperately needs to see. It is Jesus, the Son of God, the Messiah. Or, in her culture, the Rabbi.

He’s been walking around for awhile, talking with people, performing miracles, radically challenging Hebrew culture and social norms. If anyone can bring power and healing to her life, it MUST be this Jesus. As a woman, a sinner, a super-sinner, living in relative poverty, she needs a new way. And she believes He is it. It’s worth the risk…if she can just get in.

So she does. She walks into this man’s house – a member of the government, hated by the people, yet hosting the Rabbi. Did she just walk in the front door and yell, “Hey peeps! Wazzup?” No. Did she knock? Surely not; she was the type of woman who would not have been let in. She must have creaked the door open and tiptoed in. Her hands cradled a jar of expensive perfume, probably expensive beyond her means and quite precious. She knew she would need it.

So she tiptoes in, inching ever closer to the table where sits the Man she knows can purify her, can save her. In her head, she probably believed she would walk in, walk right up to him, and beg for mercy. Instead, something interesting happens. Luke says she kneels behind Jesus.

Behind Him.

It doesn’t seem the best way to get your prayers answered or your needs met, does it? I don’t think she planned it that way. I think she walked into that room and saw Him, saw everything she believed in right before her very eyes, saw that it was, indeed, true, that her heart sought (and found) the Savior. That realization overwhelmed her, and she fell to the floor behind Him.

The very next verse says her tears covered His feet. She knelt behind Him,
yet her tears fell on His feet? He must have turned around! It doesn’t tell us how the host reacted immediately. Did he call someone to bring this sinner woman out of his house? It doesn’t say that. Luke simply continues with the story as if the host stands off in the corner, waiting and watching to see what the woman will do, what her game is. She proceeds to anoint Jesus’ feet with her expensive oil, then wipes them clean with her tears and her hair.

A short debate ensues as the host cannot believe Christ’s hospitality. This was a sinner woman, the most wicked of the wicked! She probably was shunned by the community, an outsider, dirty. It does not say her sin was sexual, but based on the culture of the time and his strong reaction to her history, she was probably an adulteress. A whore.

Yet Jesus sensed her presence. He heard her fall to her knees before even reaching Him. And he turned around. He turned to her, allowing her the ritual for which she had come (though with Christ, it was unnecessary; He doesn’t require ritual for forgiveness), then honors her with salvation.

That’s probably how it will be when I meet Him. Even as my heart trusts, believes, and knows that Jesus is the Son of God, that God is real, that God redeemed me and set a place for me in Heaven, I imagine I’ll walk through those pearly gates on tiptoes, looking for the One I have so long sought. And when I catch a glimpse of Him and it all is truly, truly real before my very eyes, I will fall to my knees and cry. Tears of repentance, of anticipated ransom.

God will turn to me and let me take whatever ritual I need, whatever my flesh tells me is necessary for His gift, even though it is not necessary. Then He will say those most beautiful words to me and to all who gather in witness:

“Her sins – and they are many – have been forgiven.”

Reflections on Eve

At creation, she was simply "woman." She needed no name, for she was special in her own right, by her simple existence. Woman lived with Man in the most beautiful paradise - Eden.

In Eden, there were two named trees. Out of abundance, only a few were named - the Tree of Life and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. God warns man and woman against the second, saying they should never eat of it or face death. With the Tree of Life in their midst, death must have been a foreign concept. For God did not forbid them to eat of that one. May we assume they probably did once or twice? And all was peace - for it was not in God's plan that they die, but that they live forever. The Tree of Life was His gift.

But the slimy little serpent took matters into its own hands, all temptation and evil embodied in one creature. One tiny creature with the ability to destroy perfect creation. And it succeeeded - the woman ate of the ONE tree God said she could not, then fed the man. God was not happy and laid a curse on all three. The serpent would forever crawl across the ground on its belly; the woman would suffer great pains in childbirth; the man would work hard for little to nothing, but would have no choice but to do so.

Man then turns and gives his own gift to woman - a name. Eve. Giver of Life. In this darkest moment, when she sees her own nakedness and trembles in fear of God for having defied Him and faces the curse of pained labor and ejection from the paradise of Eden, man turns and gives her his own gift. Isn't it weird in these darkest moments when that shred of redemption comes, when someone says that one thing you long to hear? "Yes, woman, you are cursed. You have done wrong. You ruined everything. So I shall call you....Eve. The Giver of Life." What? She must have smiled, must have found some comfort in that. For they were more than the first man and woman - they were lovers.

Now it is God's turn to give another gift. Before, it has been no issue to have man and woman around the Tree of Life. Indeed, it was His plan that they should eat freely of it and live forever. The plan has changed. For many years, every time I read this story, I thought God was being harsh. I thought He was, in fury and anger, casting man and woman out to fend for themselves and face a new disaster - death. I thought He was angry to the point of regretting Creation, of changing His mind about creating man in His image and loving him and walking in relationship with Him. As I read this story anew, a different picture emerges.

God, of all, knew the weight of this heavy curse He placed on man and woman. He knew man would suffer greatly at the futility of his work, would grow frustrated and weary as manual labor took a toll on his body. He knew woman would suffer greatly bringing new life into the world and would neglect her own body to raise her child, would fall apart as age and stress ate away at her. He knew if they continued to eat of the Tree of Life, "they would surely live forever." And He knew they shouldn't.

Why would man and woman have eaten? Wouldn't they have wished for death? No! They were not created for death; they would know nothing of it. And don't we agree - the fear of the unknown is the greatest fear of all? Even as their bodies deteriorated, they would continue eating, for the fear of not knowing what would happen if they stopped would be too great. They would live forever, falling apart, struggling, laboring, and getting nowhere. Their hearts, in great tragedy and pain, would fall further and further away from God, bordering on irreconcilable as time passed with no relief, no rescue, no redemption. So God, in all His wisdom, gave them another gift...the gift of death.

Death is not something to be feared. It is God's gift. It is the passing of a labored life back into harmony with God, with reconciliation to the Master, Creator, Father. Had He not seen the future and protected man and woman from the Tree of Life, they would live forever in misery...instead of gaining true life in peace.

So I no longer think God was fearful of the rebellion of man and woman for His own sake; it was for ours. It was for us that He created death in the first place, after we Fell and began to live in Sin. Before Christ, it was our redemption. Then, of course, came Christ as the Redeemer...and by DEATH, He saved us. Maybe it wasn't the original plan; maybe free will made the Fall possible and death necessary. But I would not give up the struggle here to live back in Eden in my sinful nature, eating fruit to live forever...to suffer...forever.

My Heart

For 24 years, my relationships have been poisoned. They have suffered under bitterness and hatred and a pressing need to keep my distance from people - or keep them distant from me. It's been about protection. A wounded heart in a wounding world does not bode well; it was best to hide. For awhile, I thought I found a place - it was a place where I felt the love of others, but kept separate from it, feeling like I was just some 'project' for everyone. I worked hard to prove my worth by faithfully showing up to everything, hanging around places I never felt worthy or welcome, just to remind you that I wasn't going away. I served where there was need, even when it meant more burden and less fuel for my own spirit. In some way, I wanted to show you you could love me, to show you I was worthy, to earn your love.

Then came illness. As I wrestled between life and death, I pushed you further away. I couldn't bear you to see me like this, so weak after so many years of trying to prove my strength. And you obediently gave me my space - more than my heart truly wanted. You decided not to trust me any more, to wonder day-by-day what my status would be. You tried to protect me from myself, to not push too hard lest I push back violently against you.

But the truth is - these events had nothing to do with physical illness. They were matters of the heart. They were issues of my own fear and self-hatred. My knowledge plain and clear of the fact that I never belonged with you. Without knowing the depths of my story, the power of my darkness, you welcomed me in. But I kept my distance. I did not deserve you; I did not deserve God; I did not deserve to breathe another breath.

Yet you still took me in. At times, it was difficult as you struggled against what you could not see. Or perhaps you did see but were kind enough not to mention it. You resented my distance, my bitterness, my shortcomings of potential when all you could see was the brilliant gift of God buried in the muck. But you let me wallow, you gave me my space. And you never knew that when I looked in the mirror, I knew only one truth -

I was looking at a whore.

Your faithful love whittled away at me. God's whisper kept calling. For a long while, I rejected, wanting to stand strong on my own two feet. Wouldn't God be a handout? Wouldn't He make me feel even more unworthy? Wouldn't His goodness highlight my filth? No, I could do this on my own. Just as I always had; just as I always would.

But His whisper continued and in the darkness, I found Him. He simply sat with no expectations, no demands for my freedom. Just one simple offer.

"Come here...I want to tell you something."

After much evasion, I finally went. What would God want to tell me that I didn't already know? That I was impure, unholy, and condemned to Hell? That even His Son would not save me? Thanks, but no thanks.

But He wouldn't tell me right away. Instead, He answered the millions of questions I never dared ask. The questions of the heart and of the darkness, of evil and unworthiness, and thousands upon thousands of questions of whoredom. How does a young woman whose body and heart have been so violated ever come to feel whole again, ever come to embrace purity, ever find a way to live with a Father so different than her own, so Holy?

He answered. He answered before I could ask. He answered the rumblings and the small tingling in my heart, and He answered. Finally, I sensed what He wanted to tell me all along, what He was dying for me to hear. And I was ready - so I pled with Him.

"Lord, tell me I'm beautiful!"

"Child, you are more than that. You are beloved, blessed, and wholly beautiful. The world has made you its whore, but I have made you my daughter. This you are above all else, above all other things. You are my precious daughter. And you are pure."

From that moment, tears will not stop falling. They fall even as I write this, as my body trembles in the brokenness of releasing trauma and in the awe of God. Healing comes rapidly into my life - every day, a small step forward. The darkness sometimes takes it grip back, but I shake it off, knowing the Light and the Truth.

Yet, I am more lost now than when I lived in darkness. I find myself in a world I cannot relate to. Those who knew me well before are long gone, moving on in their lives to new adventures and maybe staying in touch, but not able to sit and talk and know my heart. Those who have known me only on the surface continue to do so. Many love me deeply, and I can feel their love, but it's a difficult concept for me. How does a whore learn God's love? not just the love FOR God, but the love OF God, the ability to love other people...and most importantly, the ability to BE loved by other people. And how do I find a place to serve when I am only coming to know myself? My heart longs to reach out, to be surrounded by you and your love. To serve you wholly in whatever capacity I can...but not in the same old ways I used to use to earn your approval. I want something different.

I long to be something different in my world. Someone walking in freedom, truth, faith, and peace instead of the bitterness, hatred, and self-loathing of so many years. It's a hard adjustment, learning to live in this place I never knew existed. Bear with me. And hold me in strength and love. Free my heart to be less lonely but never rushed, never pushed or pressured. In freedom, I will be something better in God's world.

Something more than just a whore.

How I Fell in Love

This morning, I woke and headed out the door in less than 10 minutes. The plan was a quick stop by the post office, then grocery shopping at Wal-Mart before the crowds hit.

As I stood in line at the post office, waiting on the ridiculously inept people in front of me to figure out how to send insured packages, I glanced around. I looked at the boxes for sale, the gift wrap, the change of address cards. Out in the hall, I watched people check their PO boxes. There, behind a stout woman, his face smiled at me.

He just stood there, staring, with that smile on his face. Flattered and a little coy, I let a small smile sneak out before looking away. A few minutes later when I started looking around again, there he was - behind the stout woman and smiling straight at me. He was too far away to see if I had something in my teeth, and I knew my hair was a little frizzed but not distracting. Was he really interested in me?

I looked forward to completing my business before he left just so I could walk out through the lobby and flash him my best smile, maybe even a quick 'hello.' But when I looked up once more, impatiently tapping my foot because now, the people in front of me forgot to put something in their package (which had already been taken to the back and thus, had to be searched for and found and a million other things), the stout woman moved toward the door.

Yes! I thought. I will finally get to see him without her hind end blocking my view. Could his body be as wonderful as his face? And that smile that was still plastered across it?

As she moved toward the door, she slowly revealed more of his body. A bag was slung over one shoulder. 'How sexy!' I thought. The more I saw, I saw him finely dressed and standing casually, yet with respect and dignity. Finally, the door slammed shut behind the stout woman and I daringly looked down the hallway with the gentlest, flirtiest smile I could muster...

And saw a cardboard cut-out of a postal carrier standing next to the automatic stamp machine, staring straight at me and smiling that beautiful smile.

(It's just been that kind of day.)

As Grandpa Lay Dying...

My grandpa, Charlie Rogers, is not expected to live for Christmas this year. In these moments, I cannot help but think back on this man.We went to Grandpa's every Christmas Eve, when he and his wife, Nancy (not my grandmother), gifted everyone one outfit, usually from L.S. Ayres. I dreaded the clothing, for what kid doesn't, and I dreaded my time there. Nancy was a stern woman, sharply cut with a sharper tongue. It was plain to everyone that she didn't like kids, not even grandkids. Each trip, I was lectured beforehand about being on my best behavior so as not to upset her. Grandpa, for as much as he could, treated me with kindness. He always gave me pennies to feed his gumball machine - fully stocked before each visit. With a chuckle, he'd hand over as many lincolns as I wanted until mom and dad told me not to take so much gum. A little later, he added a super nintendo in a quiet room. It had only one game - Jeopardy - but I liked it anyway. Still, I was comfortable to sit in the living room with him and watch golf.Other than that, we only saw him once every 2-3 years. Dad talked like he lived in Siberia, like it would take a day and a half's journey to make it there, like it was some major inconvenience to visit Grandpa; he was less than an hour's drive away. On the rare occasions we stopped by mid-year, Grandpa was just as hospitable as always. Nancy labored to set out deli meats and cheeses on a fancy platter, insisting that we helped ourselves. I played quietly with a basket full of Pound Puppies with their Cocker Spaniel while the adults talked. Once or twice, Grandpa invited me to sit down with them and play a few games of euchre. Oh, how included I felt!I always regretted that we didn't spend as much time with him as we did with the rest of dad's family - the other side of the divorced couple. I never understood that, really. All of dad's brothers and sisters gripe as much as he always did about visiting Grandpa. Like he's an inconvenience, unpleasant, someone to be patronized but nothing more. The one year dad took me to a Rogers family reunion on Grandpa's side, I was shocked at the number of relatives I had never met (and have not talked to since). Dozens of people, none of whom I knew.They were right, sort of. Grandpa was an old-fashioned man. He'd sit in that recliner or on one end of the sofa and watch television day and night. Only a few times, he would pull himself up against a walker and make his way out through the garage to smoke in the driveway. That was only after he stopped smoking in the house. Whenever a Black person came on his television, he cursed "all of those damned niggers" and was not shy about letting us know who he hated, why, and what they were doing to poison the planet. It was tough to listen to, but with a guy like that - I knew he would never change, and I knew, without details, that he grew up in a different time and place than I did. So I wasn't fond of his language all the time, but I was still fond of Grandpa.He was pretty fond of me, too. The family didn't call him "the slug" for nothing. Aside from a routine morning excursion to Hardee's for breakfast with his friends, he didn't move much. He wasn't the kind of grandpa who showed up at his children's or grandchildren's events. They said he didn't travel well. But in seventh grade, he pulled himself out of that recliner, and he and Nancy came to watch me at a tennis meet. It meant the world. And he shared a special smile for me always when I visited, and always joked about blowing up my portrait to hang on the large wall in his dining room. He joked and smiled and I knew he had something special in his heart for me.After dad died, I only saw Grandpa a couple of more times. My uncles took me with them on one visit, and Grandpa and Nancy took us all to a local pub for lunch - grandpa's treat. Even though I was too young to be in there, Grandpa talked with the guys he knew (he'd had a smoke or two in that pub before) and they let me sit at a table. We ordered, and the meals came. But mine came first. Then Nancy's. Then none. I sat and did not eat, knowing the etiquette of waiting for everyone to be served. Grandpa frowned and said, "Don't you like your food?" I nodded and said, "It smells delicious." With a spark of recognition, Nancy smiled and said, "It's ok. We don't have to wait on them. Go ahead and eat before it gets cold." I did, but I could tell she appreciated the manners. I think she came to like me. Christmas 2002, it snowed so bad that my car slid on the ice and my brother made me turn back before reaching Grandpa's. I never saw him again.Now, Grandpa lay dying. Probably in that same old spot on the end of the sofa that he's loved so well over the years. Nobody told me. They've know for months that his condition was deteriorating. I found out through my brother, who had known for awhile, as well, but just assumed someone told me, too. They never did. They still haven't. Dad's family doesn't keep in much contact with me. They blame me for his death and say I never loved him enough. It is a tough strain. Once I found out about Grandpa's condition, I wanted to contact him, to write him a letter or call him or drive up and visit him. He's still less than an hour away.But I've been told that I can't just go up there. Can't just bother him like that. If I'm interested in seeing him, then "arrangements can be made" if I fall into favor with the right aunt and jump through 30 hoops and bend over backwards. It is not a fight I can win.So as Grandpa lay dying, here I sit - reflecting on my short experience with a man that everyone else calls a "slug." Reflecting on a man who surely has a story to tell if only someone would listen. I'd listen, if they'd let me. But I can't get close to him. And now, there is no time. The doctors say he will die before Christmas, probably within the next week or two. Cancer, spreading from his bladder, is riddling his body, and he will not win.We both lose.