There are rooms where everyone knows exactly where they belong, and where the seating tells you everything before a word is spoken. Today's Gospel takes us into one of those rooms, and then lets somebody walk in who was never on the list. What happens next rearranges the whole table.
Then certain Pharisees petitioned him, so that they might eat with him. And he went into the house of the Pharisee, and he reclined at table. And behold, a woman who was in the city, a sinner, found out that he was reclining at a table in the house of the Pharisee, so she brought an alabaster container of ointment. And standing behind him, beside his feet, she began to wash his feet with tears, and she wiped them with the hair of her head, and she kissed his feet, and she anointed them with ointment. Then the Pharisee, who had invited him, upon seeing this, spoke within himself, saying, "This man, if he were a prophet, would certainly know who and what kind of woman this is, who is touching him: that she is a sinner." And in response, Jesus said to him, "Simon, I have something to say to you." So he said, "Speak, Teacher." "A certain creditor had two debtors: one owed five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. And since they did not have the ability to repay him, he forgave them both. So then, which of them loves him more?" In response, Simon said, "I suppose that it is he to whom he forgave the most." And he said to him, "You have judged correctly." And turning to the woman, he said to Simon: "Do you see this woman? I entered your house. You gave me no water for my feet. But she has washed my feet with tears, and has wiped them with her hair. You gave no kiss to me. But she, from the time that she entered, has not ceased to kiss my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil. But she has anointed my feet with ointment. Because of this, I tell you: many sins are forgiven by her, because she has loved much. But he who is forgiven less, loves less." Then he said to her, "Your sins are forgiven." And those who sat at table with him began to say within themselves, "Who is this, who even forgives sins?" And he said to the woman: "Your faith has saved you. Go in peace." (Lk 7:36-50)
Simon has done something generous. He has invited a travelling preacher into his home, at a time when such an invitation carried weight and cost something in reputation. We should not make him a villain too quickly. He is a decent man, careful about the right things, and his house is in order. That is precisely why the scene is so uncomfortable: nothing goes wrong in it. Everything simply stays exactly as it was.
The woman is described in four words that would have been enough, in that town, to close every door: a woman who was in the city, a sinner. She has no speech in this Gospel. She never explains herself, never argues her case, never asks for anything. Her entire language is physical and slightly embarrassing: tears that fall before she can stop them, hair unbound in public, kisses that do not cease, a jar of ointment that was probably worth more than she could afford.
Notice where she stands. Behind him, beside his feet. She does not take a place at the table, she does not face him, she does not claim anything. She comes to the lowest part of the room and the lowest part of the man, and she stays there. And Jesus, who could have moved, does not move. He lets himself be touched by someone whom the whole house considers untouchable.
Simon's reaction is not a shout but a thought. He spoke within himself. This is how most of our judgements happen: silently, correctly, with excellent reasoning, and with nobody to contradict them. He concludes that Jesus cannot be a prophet, because a prophet would have known what kind of woman this is. The irony is exact. Jesus knows perfectly well what kind of woman she is, and he also knows what kind of man Simon is, which is why he answers a sentence that was never said aloud.
The story he tells is almost disappointingly small. Two debtors, five hundred denarii and fifty, and a creditor who cancels both. The interesting phrase is the one in the middle: since they did not have the ability to repay him. Ten times the amount, and yet the same helplessness. The gap between the two men, which looks enormous, turns out to make no practical difference at all. Neither one can pay. Both are simply given their freedom.
Then comes the question that traps Simon by inviting his intelligence: which of them loves him more? He answers cautiously, "I suppose", and he answers correctly. And in answering he has said out loud the very thing he refused to see. You have judged correctly, Jesus tells him, and the compliment cuts, because Simon's judgement was faultless everywhere except about the two people in front of him.
Then Jesus turns, and the whole Gospel turns with him. "Do you see this woman?" Of course Simon has seen her. He has seen her from the moment she crossed the threshold. But he has seen a category, a file, a reputation, an interruption. He has not seen a person. Seeing, here, is not a matter of eyesight but of whether we allow someone to be more than their worst chapter.
What follows is a list of things Simon did not do, and it is striking how ordinary they are. No water for the feet, no kiss of welcome, no oil for the head. Not one of them is a sin. They are simply the small courtesies of a host, and their absence is the coldness of a man who wanted the honour of the guest without the risk of the friendship. Beside that, the woman's excess looks less like scandal and more like the only honest response available to her.
The famous sentence has been argued about for centuries: many sins are forgiven her, because she has loved much. Love is not the price she paid; it is the evidence that something has already happened to her. The order matters enormously for our peace of mind. She does not weep her way into forgiveness. She weeps because the forgiveness has already reached her, somewhere out of sight, before the dinner, before the room, before anyone noticed. And Jesus confirms it at the end with words that owe nothing to her performance: your faith has saved you.
Saint Paul says the same thing this morning in his own vocabulary, and it is worth hearing the two voices together. He lists the appearances of the risen Lord and then places himself last, a man born out of due time, the least of the apostles, not worthy to be called an apostle because he persecuted the Church of God. And then: by the grace of God, I am what I am. Paul does not erase his past and does not pretend it was small. He simply refuses to let it be the last word about him. The woman at Simon's feet and the apostle writing to Corinth are standing in the same place, and both of them worked harder afterwards, not to pay off a debt, but because they had been loved first.
This is where the crib at Bethlehem quietly explains everything. God arrives small, poor, unable to defend himself, laid where shepherds and strangers can reach him without appointment. He does not come as a creditor with a ledger, nor as a host checking the guest list at the door. He comes low enough to be touched, which is exactly what Jesus permits at that table: feet within reach of a woman everyone else had written off. Those who love the Child of Bethlehem should be recognisable by the fact that people who feel disqualified are not afraid to come near them.
So the practical work of this Thursday is twofold and small. First, to name honestly the thing we assume would disqualify us if it were known, and to hear over it the sentence spoken to her rather than the one spoken by Simon inside his head. Second, to do one unnecessary act of welcome today, the equivalent of water for the feet or a kiss at the door, for a person our world quietly files under the wrong category.
She entered that house as a topic of conversation and left it as a person with a future. Go in peace, he says, and there is no condition attached, no probation, no schedule of repayment. The most correct man in the room stayed exactly where he was. The woman who was told she had no right to be there walked out lighter than anyone else at the table.
Scripture text: Catholic Public Domain Version (CPDV), public domain.
Prayer of the Day
Lord Jesus, you let a woman come close enough to touch your feet while the room around you decided she should not be there, and you defended her before she could say a single word. Give us the courage to come near you with whatever we are carrying, without rehearsing our excuses first. Free us from the verdicts we form in silence about others, and make our houses places where people who feel unwelcome everywhere else can sit down without fear. Teach us to love not in order to be forgiven, but because we already have been. You who live and reign for ever and ever. Amen.
For Meditation
- What do we still believe about ourselves that we think would disqualify us from coming close to Christ?
- Which person have we quietly reduced to a category instead of seeing as a face?
- What small act of welcome, costing us nothing but attention, could we offer today?
