Take me to mercy, take me to love (from 3.1.26)

 Luke 7:36-50 Woman anoints Jesus' feet at Simon's party

This week, our story involves a dinner party—quite possibly one that starts out just about perfect. Simon, a respected religious leader has hosted a dinner party and invited Jesus. I imagine Simon has put all the finishing touches on everything and has pulled out his best hospitality for this mysterious and likeable teacher. Simon is good at this sort of thing  and it’s all going just as planned. When it’s going good, it feels good: The right people, the right vibe,  the food is delicious, the conversation just what everyone needs, the optics are great. Until, in walks a woman identified as a sinner. 

Not only was she uninvited, she was complicated. She doesn’t fit the moment.  And then, as if her simple presence weren’t bad enough, things get awkward fast when she begins to weep. She pours oil on Jesus’ feet, kisses them and starts wiping them with her hair.  It’s so intimate, and startling and some probably even grumble inappropriate.  I imagine Simon shooting daggers with his eyes at whoever was standing at the door—who let her in! What is she doing! 

He speaks up, muttering to Jesus maybe under his breath: “do you know what kind of woman is touching you?” (v. 39)

Maybe he was wondering what this would do to Jesus reputation or, worse, what it would do to his reputation? What is it that keeps Simeon from open-heartedness and loving this woman in the honest and compassionate way Jesus does?

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Have you ever walked into a room and quickly taken stock of who is where? We scan the people looking for where or how we fit: Who looks like me? Who doesn’t? Who is confident? who seems out of place? Who looks interesting to me? (Have you ever walked into a church and experienced this? I have!)

 We don’t thinking of it as judgement, after all we’re just trying to find our place in the scene, but--it’s a way of ranking people.   In our bible story, Simon, the religious leader, ranks the woman: Is she a religious teacher? (hardly). Respectable profession? (far from it). Respectable actions? (Oy). Simon judges the woman’s place in society before he considers her love for Jesus.  

Now, Simon is respected and has enough esteem and power that he can subtly look at folks as “better” or “worse” than him. His judgement masquerades as righteousness—or, the word that actually comes to mind is snobby.  From where Simon sits, not only are this woman’s actions way over the line, she does not belong. And morally, she’s beneath him.  I think that analysis is so loud that there is no space for the voice of mercy.  

But, just as Simon’s jaw is hitting the floor at what is unfolding before him, Jesus steps in and allows this woman to touch him. He honors her love and takes us to mercy.

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Sometimes, I think we to pride ourselves on inclusion. In one sense, yes, we are very inclusive: I am not here to judge your cussing or your dancing or how many cigars you smoke on the golf course.  I’m not here to judge this woman’s very obvious sin whatever it was. 

But, if we were co-hosting with Simon that day, would we stand shoulder to shoulder with him and wonder--who let her in?  Would we quietly and firmly help her up and out of the room so we could get back to the dinner party? We might not judge people for vices so harshly but we sure do sort and rank people according to other standards. And the way we do this can suffocate love.  

I want to nudge us a tiny bit further today. Try this on: Last week, we brought in a new migrant family to be a part of our ministry here at church. I am so grateful to know this family and I’m so grateful for the generosity of you all and the mighty little team of leaders, and our church council.  I’m so grateful that everything aligned just so.

We share common ground with this family. They are parents, earning an honest living, hoping for the best for their kids just like many of us. 

And also, this family is very different from many of us here in the sense that their life experience as a family that has immigrated has been quite distinct from ours. However, we still extend this love to them whole-heartedly.  It’s the right thing to do.  In a sense, it’s easy because loving like this because it fits with our moral identity as “the good ones.”  We see ourselves as people who reach a hand out to vulnerable folks like this. 

Where love gets complicated for us is when we are asked to love folks who are, let’s say, outspokenly anti-immigrant.  Maybe we’d respond in an emergency, but over the long haul: would we befriend them and invite them to dinner, and stay in relationship with them? Would we do it even if they had views that felt threatening or morally gross?  Could we do it without making them into a project or arguing a point or forcing them to change but simply inviting them to dinner?  

In our gospel story, Simon is from a religiously serious people. His values are traditional and on point. But he assumes he stands in the right place he is “in the right with God.” This assumption blocks his love.  

Here’s what I mean: If you have the chance to get outside of the city on a clear night, or even better, far away from Chicago or any city, you will find that the sky is thick with stars.  The milky way, our galaxy, is a mystery up there and it stretches out softly across the dark night sky.  But, here in the city, we can’t see it. It’s not that the Milky Way has disappeared. No, it’s still there.  We can’t see it because there’s too much light surrounding us. There are vehicle headlights, and street lights, and skyscrapers all lit up. There are glaring buildings, screens glowing, and signs flashing. The dark is overrun with light pollution.  It’s both awful and ironic, this thing that helps us see—this brightness that backlights the words on this page—prevent us from seeing far away.  

What if something similar can happen deep down in our souls?  

Take Simon. His light is bright. He is certain and morally clear.  The way he looks at the world and ranks and sorts people into these orderly little groups helps him to get his bearings and know who belongs where.  It also blinds him to this radiant constellation of love that this woman is pouring out at Jesus’ feet.   It’s not Simon’s hatred that keeps him from love—no, that’s too harsh.  It’s the glare.  It’s the glare of having it all figured out.  The glare of being morally proud of himself. The glare of being right. 

In the dinner party scene, Jesus cuts through the glare. “Simon, I have something to say to you” (v. 41).  “Do you see this woman?” (v. 44), Jesus asks him? Not, “do you approve of her?” or “do you respect her?” Do you see her? 

Flooded with that glaring light. Simon can’t seem to get to mercy.   This glare, this moral glare (which Martin Luther might call is self-justification) keeps us from loving people.

I want to mention one other barrier that keeps us from loving our neighbors  because moral glare isn’t the only thing taking up space in Simon’s head. It’s also the noise.  

Let’s say that Simon is managing a lot in this moment as host. He is managing a dinner party, she’s weeping her heart out.  He’s stressed and amped about reputation or vibe or his honored guest, Jesus. She could care less.  He is running the room—something he usually does well. And time has stopped for her.

Sometimes, I think another thing that keeps us from love isn’t cruelty. It’s that we are so busy keeping all the duck walking in a row and quacking in harmony. We are so busy being competent. So busy being on the right side.  So optimized and efficient and running and around the well-lit house that our eyes--filled with that hurried glare--miss the person right in front of us.  It’s not that we set out to miss people, it’s just that some of us are moving so fast we speed right by them. 

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We are called to great love of God and neighbor. I think this kind of love weaves itself into us and into our relationships, neighborhoods, and into our life together.  This kind of love enlivens and heals and connects and brings joy.  This is an anchor in our faith. It’s Good News. And yet, we are pulled by these counter weights away from this love.  We’re pulled by our busyness, certainty, and by that moral glare.  

In our story, Jesus question cuts through the noise: “Do you see her.”  Jesus cuts in with mercy for this woman; and also, mercy for Simon; and actually, with mercy for us.  

Because just as God sees her, God also sees us: striving, distracted, judgmental, trying our best. And mercifully, God calls us closer: closer to the people who are hard to love. Closer to humility. Closer to slowness.  Closer to God.