It was in a small hamlet of Judea, with its random cluster of humble mud and stone dwellings—a setting unchanged over the centuries. Jesus sat in the shade of an ancient, twisting olive tree in the village square. His disciples were nearby, seated on stones, or squatting on their heels. The afternoon heat shimmered off the stone walls, but a steady breeze kept it bearable. A bougainvillea tumbled over the garden wall nearby, its vivid flowers nodding in the light wind, as if in agreement. There was the gentle fragrance of bread baking on a stone hearth somewhere in the vicinity that blended with the smells of dust, donkeys, sheep and goats. Chickens pecked aimlessly at the hard ground and clucked to their offspring.
Jesus’ voice was strong and commanding, but at the same time, infused with compassion. As he continued His teaching on persevering in prayer, on humility, townspeople began gathering in a loose semi-circle behind the disciples. There was something about His voice….was it authority? He spoke straight into one’s heart—not like the religious leaders they heard on the Sabbath in the synagogues, whose boring homilies seemed to go around in circles.
Speckled sunlight played over Jesus’ head and face, illuminating his tanned, pleasant features; highlighting the unfathomable depths of His eyes. When He looked at a person, one felt His gaze penetrating into one’s very soul, searching every corner. But it was a good feeling—maybe a relief that SOMEONE knows you utterly; that one can’t hide and one doesn’t really want to anymore.
As Jesus was speaking, a little girl, about two or three years old, detached herself from her mother’s side and took a few steps toward Jesus. Her dark eyes were wide and unblinking as she gazed at Him, not comprehending His words, but His face and voice awakened something in her. This child had been born with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. In those few seconds of lack of oxygen, certain damage had happened and the toddler was unable to learn basic speech and early skills.
Jesus stopped His teaching, turned His head and looked at the tiny girl. Reaching out his hand toward her, Jesus smiled. The child’s little face began to light up, as if by a growing incandescence within. She laughed out loud as she ran to Him, and buried her face in His chest, as Jesus put His arms around her. Picking her up, Jesus set the small one on His lap. He cradled her flower-like face in His strong, work-calloused hands, and looking into her eyes, He blessed her—with new Life, with Destiny, with Hope for a future.
The little girl’s mother had quickly approached, perhaps thinking the child was bothering Jesus, but when she saw the tender scene of His love—enveloping, covering, healing her baby, she stood back with tears flowing down her cheeks.
Other mothers in the small courtyard began moving toward Jesus with their own babies and small children. He kissed the first little girl on the top of her head and set her down; then began picking up other wee ones, as they were handed to Him. Putting His hands on them, He also blessed each of them, as the parents stood nearby, with hearts warmed and gladdened by His loving touch.
The small children somehow were aware of the specialness of this moment and seemed to bask in the tender glow of Jesus’ care. Their usual wiggles and energy quieted as He touched and hugged them, kissed their round, dimpled cheeks, and imparted His Life to them. One little boy laughed out loud in his joy, as Jesus tickled his tummy. Tiny babies stopped fussing and relaxed in His arms.
The disciples, at first tolerated the interruption, but as they saw more and more people pushing into the courtyard with their children, they felt annoyed. Jesus certainly had more important people and issues to deal with—why was He bothering with these children! Peter and others of the disciples began intercepting the mothers to turn them away. Jesus spoke up with His gentle but firm tone, “Let the little children come to me – and don’t hinder them – these are what God’s Kingdom is made up of.”
The Messiah—as always—finding a teaching moment in everything, looked around at His abashed disciples by turn, “For unless you become as one of these, you cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“These children embody the meaning of simplicity, humility and teachableness,” was in essence what Jesus was saying. “Don’t complicate things by trying to analyze my Kingdom and adjust it to your expectations and experience. Come to Me with childlike wonder and acceptance. Don’t strive, strain and struggle. Don’t worry. Just BE! It’s God’s Joyous Kingdom of Children—and you have to become as one of them to enter It!”
Connie Vellekoop—8/22/10
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Alabaster Flask
Tamara pulled her head covering over the bottom of her face and slipped into the garden through a small, private gate. She seemed to know the way well as she hurried along the stone path between beds of flowers and herbs. A breeze wafted the scent of their fragrance over her, though she wasn’t conscious of it. Olive and fruit trees provided welcome shade. Entering an arched doorway of the palatial home, Tamara came into the kitchen, where servants were hurrying about, preparing and serving guests at a banquet.
The aged cook, with a lined, tired-looking face, glanced at her quickly and pressed her lips together in disapproval as she continued stirring a large cooking pot. “You! Here again!” she hissed. “No, Aunt Lydia—I have not been summoned by your master, I’m here for another reason,” Tamara answered softly, but urgently. “If your dear, departed parents could see what you’ve become,” the elderly woman continued, in suppressed anger, “They would die from shame!”
Tamara dropped her head, as tears started up in her eyes, “No, Auntie—please listen to me. Is HE here?” Lydia snorted, “Who? My master— Simon!? Of course! He’s with his guests in the banquet hall!”
“NO! Not him,” Tamara almost spat out the word. Her face flushed with anger and scorn. “I mean, Jesus—I heard He was invited by Simon.” Lydia leaned closer, “Yes,” she whispered, “He is there at the table, the guest of honor. I saw a glimpse of Him—such a wonderful man—I wish I could speak to Him myself.”
Tamara said nothing, but swiftly left the kitchen, dodging the busy traffic of servants coming and going with trays of meat, bowls of fruit, plates of sweets, and flagons of wine. She walked down the long, stone-flagged corridor to the banquet hall and slid inside the doorway, pressing herself against the wall.
With her veil pulled around her face, she quickly scanned the banquet room. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling—the smoke mingling with the food smells and heavy incense. A long table, covered with a white Egyptian linen cloth, was filled with sumptuous food. All around were the guests, lounging on settees, as they leaned on one elbow next to the table. Tamara saw Simon the Pharisee and immediately turned her eyes from him in disgust. Then she saw HIM—Jesus. Everything else in the room faded out of focus—she could only see Him, talking to Simon and the other guests.
Tamara silently approached Jesus’ feet, which were unsandaled, but showing the dust of Judea’s roads still on them. She bowed low, and covering her face with trembling hands she began weeping, her head lowered until it almost touched His feet.
The anguished woman’s veil slipped from her head, revealing the golden auburn tresses that had distinguished her as an incredibly beautiful woman. With green eyes and shapely form, she had been talked about in many male circles, often with ribald admiration, especially by those men who bragged of knowing very her personally.
Tamara’s tears flowed so freely that they began to wet Jesus’ feet. In an instant, she unbound her long, beautiful hair and started to wipe His feet, cleaning them with her tears. Then, pulling an alabaster flask from her waist, she opened it and poured the golden, sweet-smelling liquid onto His feet and continued wiping, kissing them, and weeping—her tears mingling with the ointment—until His feet were cleansed of the roadway dirt. Tamara was utterly unaware of anyone else—so much so, that she had no idea of the spectacle she presented.
Jesus had turned from the table and sat up as He watched her actions—His eyes moist, His heart deeply moved. The guests became completely silent, shocked into speechlessness—each of them reacting, either in disdain or fascination, as the expensive perfume filled the room with its perfect fragrance.
Tamara finally looked up, with a tear-stained face and encountered Jesus’ incomparable gaze upon her. His tender, pure love-filled eyes looked into hers and penetrated the very depths of her troubled, sin-wracked soul. In one earth-shaking, time-suspending moment she knew she was accepted and forgiven.
Simon had stiffened noticeably when he and the other guests became aware of Tamara’s intrusion and actions. His face flushed as he recognized who it was, no doubt remembering his trysts with her. “If this Man were really a Prophet, He would know who it is that is touching Him and would be repulsed!” were Simon’s inward thoughts.
Jesus, turned to His host, and commenced telling him and all the others lounging at the table a short parable about two men whose debts were cancelled—one owing much and the other, a small sum. “So, Simon, which of the two would be more grateful?” Simon, visibly uncomfortable, responded, “I suppose the one who was forgiven the most?”
“Exactly,” was Jesus reply. “Do you see this woman? I came to your home; you provided no water for my feet, but she rained tears on my feet and dried them with her hair. You gave me no greeting, but from the time I arrived she hasn’t quit kissing my feet. You provided nothing for freshening up, but she has soothed my feet with perfume. Impressive, isn’t it? She was forgiven many, many sins, and so she is very, very grateful. If the forgiveness is minimal, the gratitude is minimal.”*
Jesus then spoke with gentle authority to Tamara, still kneeling at His feet, “I forgive your sins. Go in peace, you faith has saved you.” He smiled as she stood to her feet, unable to speak her thankfulness, but her face told of her joy—a brand new life had now begun.
All that human-kind requires is one profound glimpse into the repugnance of our own sin-sick, wretched souls, to realize that as we throw ourselves on His mercy, we have been forgiven much—gracefully, completely, and abundantly. For such we should be eternally grateful.
*(The Message Bible) Connie Vellekoop,
The aged cook, with a lined, tired-looking face, glanced at her quickly and pressed her lips together in disapproval as she continued stirring a large cooking pot. “You! Here again!” she hissed. “No, Aunt Lydia—I have not been summoned by your master, I’m here for another reason,” Tamara answered softly, but urgently. “If your dear, departed parents could see what you’ve become,” the elderly woman continued, in suppressed anger, “They would die from shame!”
Tamara dropped her head, as tears started up in her eyes, “No, Auntie—please listen to me. Is HE here?” Lydia snorted, “Who? My master— Simon!? Of course! He’s with his guests in the banquet hall!”
“NO! Not him,” Tamara almost spat out the word. Her face flushed with anger and scorn. “I mean, Jesus—I heard He was invited by Simon.” Lydia leaned closer, “Yes,” she whispered, “He is there at the table, the guest of honor. I saw a glimpse of Him—such a wonderful man—I wish I could speak to Him myself.”
Tamara said nothing, but swiftly left the kitchen, dodging the busy traffic of servants coming and going with trays of meat, bowls of fruit, plates of sweets, and flagons of wine. She walked down the long, stone-flagged corridor to the banquet hall and slid inside the doorway, pressing herself against the wall.
With her veil pulled around her face, she quickly scanned the banquet room. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling—the smoke mingling with the food smells and heavy incense. A long table, covered with a white Egyptian linen cloth, was filled with sumptuous food. All around were the guests, lounging on settees, as they leaned on one elbow next to the table. Tamara saw Simon the Pharisee and immediately turned her eyes from him in disgust. Then she saw HIM—Jesus. Everything else in the room faded out of focus—she could only see Him, talking to Simon and the other guests.
Tamara silently approached Jesus’ feet, which were unsandaled, but showing the dust of Judea’s roads still on them. She bowed low, and covering her face with trembling hands she began weeping, her head lowered until it almost touched His feet.
The anguished woman’s veil slipped from her head, revealing the golden auburn tresses that had distinguished her as an incredibly beautiful woman. With green eyes and shapely form, she had been talked about in many male circles, often with ribald admiration, especially by those men who bragged of knowing very her personally.
Tamara’s tears flowed so freely that they began to wet Jesus’ feet. In an instant, she unbound her long, beautiful hair and started to wipe His feet, cleaning them with her tears. Then, pulling an alabaster flask from her waist, she opened it and poured the golden, sweet-smelling liquid onto His feet and continued wiping, kissing them, and weeping—her tears mingling with the ointment—until His feet were cleansed of the roadway dirt. Tamara was utterly unaware of anyone else—so much so, that she had no idea of the spectacle she presented.
Jesus had turned from the table and sat up as He watched her actions—His eyes moist, His heart deeply moved. The guests became completely silent, shocked into speechlessness—each of them reacting, either in disdain or fascination, as the expensive perfume filled the room with its perfect fragrance.
Tamara finally looked up, with a tear-stained face and encountered Jesus’ incomparable gaze upon her. His tender, pure love-filled eyes looked into hers and penetrated the very depths of her troubled, sin-wracked soul. In one earth-shaking, time-suspending moment she knew she was accepted and forgiven.
Simon had stiffened noticeably when he and the other guests became aware of Tamara’s intrusion and actions. His face flushed as he recognized who it was, no doubt remembering his trysts with her. “If this Man were really a Prophet, He would know who it is that is touching Him and would be repulsed!” were Simon’s inward thoughts.
Jesus, turned to His host, and commenced telling him and all the others lounging at the table a short parable about two men whose debts were cancelled—one owing much and the other, a small sum. “So, Simon, which of the two would be more grateful?” Simon, visibly uncomfortable, responded, “I suppose the one who was forgiven the most?”
“Exactly,” was Jesus reply. “Do you see this woman? I came to your home; you provided no water for my feet, but she rained tears on my feet and dried them with her hair. You gave me no greeting, but from the time I arrived she hasn’t quit kissing my feet. You provided nothing for freshening up, but she has soothed my feet with perfume. Impressive, isn’t it? She was forgiven many, many sins, and so she is very, very grateful. If the forgiveness is minimal, the gratitude is minimal.”*
Jesus then spoke with gentle authority to Tamara, still kneeling at His feet, “I forgive your sins. Go in peace, you faith has saved you.” He smiled as she stood to her feet, unable to speak her thankfulness, but her face told of her joy—a brand new life had now begun.
All that human-kind requires is one profound glimpse into the repugnance of our own sin-sick, wretched souls, to realize that as we throw ourselves on His mercy, we have been forgiven much—gracefully, completely, and abundantly. For such we should be eternally grateful.
*(The Message Bible) Connie Vellekoop,
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