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,
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