Women such as this were souls of consummate pragmatism.

The salient focus of her life was survival for her and her son. She had to have an income. She had no marketable skills, but the Almighty had so shaped and formed her that she commanded enormous sensual power over men. She simply used that power to survive. This was not to say that she did not find in her trade certain elements of pleasure. She was, after all, a woman. But had she an alternative, she would have leaped at it. She knew what she did was morally indefensible, yet society tacitly tolerated it as it had done for millennia. Owing to her favors to certain members of the Sanhedrin and others of prominence like Simon, she had never been threatened with stoning. Somehow religious leadership was more tolerant of prostitution than of adultery. It was a profession as ancient as man himself.

But the shame inside her was held in check by the prudent necessity of survival for her and her son. Despite her sensuality, she was a mother. She was a good mother. How can such a woman ever be understood as a good mother? The very question itself reveals monumental ignorance of the coercive power of a mother's love. She had lived her maternal life as a she-bear protecting her young from ravenous predators. She did anything she could to protect this son of hers, to give him a life, to give him a future. Now she had witnessed what Jesus had done for this dead boy, only a few years older than her son. She had seen what he had done for this mother.

"Oh, my God! Could he, would he deliver me from this life? Is there some hope for purity of soul, for peace, for a decent life for my son?" Tears rolled down her satin cheeks. Sobs heaved at her breasts. When she saw Jesus speaking with Simon; when she saw him take Simon's arm and walk in the direction of his home, the back of her wrist went to her mouth in surprise. "No!" she exclaimed within herself. "They cannot be friends!" She followed to see.

Simon's home was clearly the most elegant in the economically depressed small town of Nain. It boasted an open courtyard leading up a step to a lovely veranda and into an entry way with assorted anterooms. There was a kitchen, a small study and, of course, the Teraglin, a substantial 15-foot square room. This was Simon's festive reception and dining room. Even the ceiling was exactly 15 feet high. It was into this room that Jesus was now ushered. A long, low table surrounded with leaning-cushions accommodating up to twelve people--four at each side and two at each end--sat in the middle of the room. On it a sumptuous meal had been set. Guests reclined about the table on cushions, their heads toward the table and their feet angling away. Often, when important guests were invited, other guests were welcome to stand about the perimeter, thus giving the occasion an additional quality of significance.

Jesus, however, was not accorded the seat of honor at the center of the table. While he was clearly the reason for the event, Simon himself took this prestigious seat--his seat. It was a slight that the Pharisee intended and one that did not go unnoticed by the other guests. What did go unnoticed was the presence of this woman who slipped in among the others, shawl thrown about her head, partially obfuscating her identity. Everyone who knew her also knew that she was no stranger to this room. Indeed, on occasion she had entertained there. This time, however, she had no intention of entertaining.

Quietly, while all were occupied with the food and banter going on about the table, she moved smoothly and easily until she came to stand at the feet of Jesus. A few moments passed after which, had you been there to see, she began to take several deep breaths; and, had you looked, you could have seen tears welling in her blue eyes. Her head bowed, her tears fell, splashing quietly on his feet. Where the teardrops fell, they formed splash marks in the accumulated dirt and dust, for Jesus had not been afforded the usual courtesy of having his feet washed by the servants of his host. As he felt the tears drop, he turned his head to see. The woman, embarrassed, fell to her knees and began to wipe them from his feet with her hair.

Jesus observed her in silence. He did nothing to encourage her. He did nothing to stop her and that, perhaps, was encouragement enough. As she fell to her knees she moaned, softly wailing and sobbing. Conversation around the table ebbed as she slowly became the focus of attention. She began to kiss his feet and then, extracting the phial from between her breasts, she emptied the entire contents onto his skin. She massaged his feet with her hands, kissing them and weeping in an all-consuming paroxysm of feeling. She now compelled the attention of every guest. Silence in the room except for the sounds of her deep pain. She kissed his feet again. And then again, followed by what may have seemed to the casual observer to be compulsive kissing--almost as if to stop would be to violate the sacred and waste an opportunity for worship.

This was not lost on Simon. How dare this woman come in here at this private, celebratory moment! How dare she make a spectacle of herself and shame him in this way! His anger fueled his skepticism about Jesus as well. If this man were really a prophet, he would know what kind of woman she is! These, his unspoken thoughts. In Simon's mind, in allowing this woman (for all of the pleasure he himself had taken of her) to fawn over him like this, Jesus had compromised any credibility he might have engendered previously. However, his doubts about this prophet were about to be challenged.

Jesus turned from observing the woman and fixed the Pharisee with his gaze. "What troubles you, Simon?" he asked. "I can see that you are more than a little agitated." He waited for a response. None came. "Let me ask you something," he continued.

Simon cleared this throat irritably, condescendingly. "Yes, teacher?"

"I heard a story once. It seemed two men owed money to a certain lender. One owed him five hundred denarii and the other owed fifty. Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he canceled the debts of both." He paused for a moment. "Tell me, Simon, which of these two men will love their creditor more?"

Uncomfortable Simon. He should never have invited this--this peasant beneath his roof. What impertinence! What adolescent arrogance! He was not pleased. He did not want to answer. Chagrined, he wanted to exit. But he couldn't just get up and walk out of his own home. Desperately wanting this whole embarrassing affair to be over, he felt trapped.

"I suppose the one with the bigger debt." So much for stating the obvious. What else could he say? Everyone in the room was listening.

"Well said, Simon!" smiled Jesus.

Then he turned back toward the woman and said, "Do you see this woman, Simon? I came into your house, invited by you, as your guest. You did not give me so much as a drop of water for my feet. Look at her, Simon. Look at her!" It was a command; the Pharisee did not, could not, resist. "She has wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You gave me no kiss of greeting, no kiss of welcome, yet this woman has not ceased to kiss my feet." Simon glanced away in embarrassed disgust. "Look at her, Simon!" Simon complied. "You did not put oil on my head. Not a single drop! But she has massaged my feet with perfume. Her sins are many, Simon. You know that better than almost anyone." The Pharisee's face flushed. "She has loved many men. She is forgiven every indiscretion. But as you have noted, he who has been forgiven little, loves little."

Then Jesus spoke to her. "My dear, look at me." She stopped rubbing his feet and lifted her eyes to his. "You are forgiven. You are as clean as snow covering the boughs of the cedars on mount Hermon. Go now. I bless you from my heart!"

Someone whispered, "Who is this who forgives sins? Who does he think he is?"

Jesus ignored them and reached forth his hand to stroke her face. He wiped away the tears. "Your faith has cleansed you," he said softly. "Go in peace."