Extravagant Worship

As I am preparing for the trial this month, I find myself in the Luke 7 passage of the annointing of Jesus by the sinful woman. When I try to picture myself entering that trial room, I feel a lot like the woman walking through the room full of religious authorities. I have thought and journaled lots about what it feels like to walk through the room with all of their eyes on me, their thoughts and judgment heavy in the air, pulling my gaze down to the floor as I hurry to my chair. And just as Jesus was there to receive that woman's offering of worship, I am comforted to know that he will receive my act of worship and obedience as I pour out the truth of my story, allowing his healing power to overcome my shame. To that end, as a next step, I am praying and writing through how Jesus might have experienced the Luke 7 woman's act of worship.....


I am here to do the work of my father who has sent me, and I feel an urgency to press on that is driven by an intense love for all of his children. I am heading to the house of Simon the Pharisee. I love him so very much, and yet I know all that is at stake for him, as he is confronted with who I am, and what I have come here to do. His whole life has been dedicated to living out the law according to Moses, and so much clutter has come into it that he has lost sight of the love that my Father has for him. Love is scary in that it compels us ahead of ourselves, and yet if trusted, completes us. I know that ultimately I hang on a cross, judged by many like Simon, and yet that too is work of love and completion.

As I walk into his home, I draw on the reserves of peace and love and tenderness that time with my father creates, and I am anchored deeply in the midst of so many who want to entrap me, intrigued by who I am, and yet afraid. There are many people, and it has been a long, dusty, hot day. The room is full, and the smells of spent humanity hover in the damp air, mingled with the aroma of the meal that has been prepared. As I lower my body to recline next to the table my body rests here, but my soul rests in the arms of my father who is ever my refuge in the midst of those who pursue me. My bones are weary, and my muscles ache from many hours of walking, and tension from being in the midst of crowds all day. There is no place I would rather be, because I am doing the will of my father, and he hovers so near.

As I am getting settled I am aware of a woman who has drawn near to me, as near as she dares, and is kissing my feet. I sense that she is acting out of a deep longing and hunger for love, and connection and wholeness that she has identified in me. Oh how I love her and know her. I know every hurt that has come so deeply and at times violently into her, and I care for her pain, because I know that it so matters to her and that she so matters to me. She has answered longings and cravings for love and acceptance in ways that leave her feeling empty, violated, stripped and hopelessly dirty. She has been made to think that she is unworthy of any kind of love except for the kind that is bought from her, which isn’t love at all. She is right that the people in this room see her as a sinner of a particularly disdainful kind, one who has no value to society or to the God they so righteously serve. I see her as a frightened, weak, lonely, lost little lamb who is at the feet of her shepherd, broken and aching with longing. As she kisses my feet and wets them with her tears of brokenness, my heart rejoices that she is found, and that she has waded through all that I know surrounds her, taunting her mercilessly at times, and has come to me.

As she pours her tears onto me, and into the pores of my dry, weary skin, I lavish her with my love, grace, and tenderness which is inconceivable to her based on her life experience. And yet my gift of grace comes also with the ability to receive it, and to allow gentle healing to her wounds that cry out to me. Her tears run down my feet clearing a path paved by her brokenness and her willingness to worship her Lord without regard for all that hovers near to her, reminding her. As I look at her and love her, the tear-stained pattern on my feet brings my thoughts to my eventual suffering on the cross- dirty, tearful work that I yearn to complete even if it were to be for her alone. As if she has heard my thoughts, she picks up her most precious possession, that which I know she has literally sold much of herself to earn, and commits an act of utmost extravagance. As she, amidst tears and trembling sacrifice, pours out this sweet fragrance, all else stands still, as the refreshing, cool, fragrant liquid spreads over my feet and her hands, and knits our hearts and souls together. Just as the perfume wipes clean all of the dirt and all of the tears, so will the piercing and pouring out of my very essence, wipe away all that runs in the way of her complete intimacy and oneness with my father.

The tender, suspended extravagance of that moment is broken by a voice of judgment, spoken out of insecurity bred by the belief that all earned by public righteousness. Simon, who I love and desire equally, reminds me in a loud, but quietly desperate voice, that she is a sinner, because if I receive and love her, where does that leave him? His comment hits its mark as she averts her eyes and is soaked once again in shame and the remembering of all that she has done and allowed. I know that her pain and her experiences color the exchange as she braces herself for my response, and even as I first speak my words, she can barely hear them, if at all. I tell Simon a story that speaks of two debtors, who unable to pay, have their debts forgiven. Simon correctly deduces that the one who had the larger debt forgiven has a greater love for the forgiver, but he struggles in making the leap into his own heart. I know that when she first hears me speaking of the greater debt and of forgiveness, that her mind is immediately drawn to the greatness of her debt – all that she has done and all that she has allowed, and that it hinders her from recognizing the love for which I have given her capacity, and the unmerited, but freely lavished extravagance of forgiveness that is hers.

As Simon tries to sort out where that story leaves him, and as she fights through the shame and lies that hinder her, I continue to speak against the belief that my cares and concerns have anything to do with those of this world. Simon, yes you have a lovely house, and the financial resources to feed me a nice meal, and host me and many others for the evening, but that has nothing to do with what my father wants. You have tended to all that is to surround me this evening, but this woman tended to me. She entered this place, knowing that she would be looked at through eyes of judgment and disdain. She knew I would be here, and, in spite of all that awaited her and accompanied her, she was compelled to be wholly present to me, and in the face of what she sees and feels in my presence, to pour herself out in a reckless act of love and worship. She has allowed her sin to lead to brokenness, and out of such great brokenness and love comes great forgiveness.

I turn to her and look into her eyes and treasure her with my gaze, seeking to reassure her that my words are for her. I tell her that her sins are forgiven. I know that forgiveness is especially hard for her to truly receive and I pray that my gaze speaks clearly to her of my fierce, abundant love and my fervent desire for her to wholly accept and receive my forgiveness. I pray also that this exchange will remain forever in her minds’ eye and in her heart, as she will so often need to call upon its remembering, in the face of the lies, and the pain, and the shame that her experience will allow to pursue her. And as she prepares to leave, I point to her faith as that which has saved her, so that she knows to grasp onto it firmly and not let go. And then I bid her to go in peace.

My prayer as I go to the trial is that I can see it as an opportunity to worship the Lord by pouring my testimony of truth at his feet, for his use. Just as the woman who annointed Jesus' feet likely kept her eyes on Jesus the whole time she was walking through the room, I pray that my eyes can rest on him as well. Lord, at your feet I pour......