Bad Girls of the Bible Part 22

Anita knew she'd never have a chance like this again. Go, go!

Slipping past the crush of shoulders and elbows, she made her way toward him, a flush of antic.i.p.ation making her skin tingle. His face was so kind, so open. Would he even know who she was without the layers of makeup and the thigh-high dress? She looked nothing like her mug shot, nothing like the photo they'd run in the paper a zillion times. Nothing like the woman you used to be.

Maybe that was good, or the security guys who were eyeing her now might have already clapped her in handcuffs and directed her toward the nearest squad car.

The sight of the uniformed men made her spirits sink to the hem of her gray tunic. What was she thinking, showing up like this? That she could stroll right up and meet Governor Sheppard, shake his hand, pat his cheek? Her, of all people?

With her heart pounding in a slow rhythm of despair, she surveyed the governor's entourage, desperate for a friendly face, someone she might convince to help her. There was the lieutenant governor, who-along with the mayor-opposed her pardon to begin with. No hope there. Several others she didn't recognize were standing behind him, plates in hand.

Then she saw him. The governor's son, stretched out in the gra.s.s, off to the side by himself. His jacket, shoes, and socks were cast aside, as if he were a college student cutting cla.s.ses on a warm spring day. Or a hospital patient taking his daily const.i.tutional.

Of course! She remembered the stories from the evening news. How he'd contracted some mysterious, life-threatening disease. Had open wounds that refused to heal and suffered from various painful symptoms, not the least of which was suspicion and grossly unfair judgment on the part of John Q. Public.

She'd forgotten his name. Wait...Jess. Yes, that was it. Thanks to his health problems, Jess-Governor Sheppard's only child-faced an uncertain future. A tragedy, everyone said. Even her cellmates thought it was a sad story. Gazing at him now, she saw little evidence of his illness, though his skin was drawn and his hands displayed more than one ugly scar.

His eyes were bright though.

And he was looking straight at her.

What am I supposed to do? Something, apparently. She offered him a tentative smile, waiting. His eyes beckoned her forward. Almost against her will she found herself moving in his direction, past the governor, who surely hadn't noticed her, and past his handlers, who seemed unconcerned about a stranger approaching the famous man's son.

She wanted to talk to his father-oh so much!-but maybe, just maybe, this son could get a message to him.

Reaching the bare spot of gra.s.s at his feet, she paused, close enough to gaze fully into his eyes and read his expression. What she saw there was surprising. No, shocking. It was forgiveness.

His father's pardon was one thing. A legal exercise. But this was something else again, something more profound, more permanent. It was as if-but this is ridiculous!-as if the son knew her, knew her story, all of it.

And forgave her. For all of it.

The first tear surprised her, running down her cheek, then down her neck, staining the collar of her gray tunic. He sees me! It was the only thought that would take shape in her addled brain, whirling with conflicting emotions.

But that was the whole of it: He saw her. Saw her for who she truly was. Anita. Not a wh.o.r.e, not a murderer, not a once-pretty girl who'd lost her way, not a punching bag for a parade of losers. He saw the now of her, the essence of her. And found her worthy as is.

Miraculous wasn't the half of it.

More tears followed, cascading down her face until she couldn't bear to hold up her head any longer. Her chin dropped to her chest, sending her tears dripping downward, onto the ground around his ankles, landing at last on his bruised heel.

He never said a word. Neither did she. Not even when she found herself on her knees with her wet cheek pressed against his bare feet. In the fragile silence she felt Jess's hand rest lightly on the disheveled ma.s.s of hair falling around her shoulders like a bridal veil.

She thinks I don't see her. Governor Sheppard smiled to himself, nodding as the mayor droned on and on about his plans for cleaning up the criminal element of Charleston. How could he miss those eyes full of sorrow, that face full of fear and longing? Even before he saw her, he'd sensed her presence, felt her moving toward him, reticent but determined. She was gutsy, he'd give her that. After what she'd been through, the woman held herself together well.

When the mayor paused, obviously waiting for some sign of approval, the governor presented him with a brief nod and an affirming murmur, launching the man on another laundry list of accomplishments.

The governor watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was on her knees now. Good, good. Humility became her, like a fine velvet cloak. She had an inner strength and beauty few bothered to notice. His son had seen it immediately. Jess had studied her case at length and had offered his always-wise counsel: Pardon her. As a father, he could hardly dispute his son's compa.s.sionate directive. Yes, the decision had ruffled a few feathers. So be it. He'd done that plenty of times and planned to do it plenty more.

When he finally s.h.i.+fted his gaze back to the mayor, he realized with chagrin that he'd unintentionally drawn the mayor's attention to Anita.

"Who is that s...o...b..ring all over your son, Governor?" The mayor peered at her, then leaned back, clearly appalled. "Don't tell me it's that prost.i.tute you pardoned last week!"

He shrugged. No getting around this one. "I believe she's the same woman, Mayor."

"I'll call my chief of police!"

"No need." He squeezed the man's shoulder, hoping to calm him, but above all to stop him. "She's not breaking the law, is she? Perhaps she simply wants to express her grat.i.tude in some way."

The mayor snorted. "What does crying all over Jess's feet have to do with saying thank you?"

The governor fixed the man with a steady gaze. "Not everyone is willing to touch my son."

"I see." The mayor s.h.i.+fted in his chair, a guilty look crossing his features. "But...aren't you worried about his...health?"

Governor Sheppard knew his smile wouldn't soften the blow of his words. "My son has only a short time to live. Believe me, she can do him no harm." He turned back to watch her as she slowly dried Jess's feet with her hair. Incredible! The woman's complete lack of pride was astounding. "Look how it delights her to do this." He shook his head in amazement. "Do you see her?"

The mayor exploded. "Of course I see her!"

"No, I mean do you see how grateful she is to be forgiven?"

"What I see is a woman making an utter fool of herself in public. Look at that! She's...she's..."

"Kissing his feet," the governor whispered. "Splendid!"

"Are you mad, sir?" The mayor was sputtering now, his face the color of beets in a June garden. "Do you expect your const.i.tuents to wors.h.i.+p you?"

"I'm honored when they're grateful, yes." Reluctantly turning away from the tender scene nearby, the governor trained his eyes on the red-faced mayor. "Unlike you, for example."

"Me?"

"When I arrived for this event, supposedly held in my honor, you didn't even offer my son something to drink. Yet this woman has showered his feet with her tears."

"Well...I'm..."

"And when someone splashed lemonade all over his hand, you laughed and left him dripping. Yet she dried his wet feet with her own precious hair."

"Oh! Surely you don't..."

"And while you required me to listen to all your good deeds, she spoke not a word to my son, only kissed his feet with grat.i.tude."

"Sir, I'm truly...I'm..."

The governor suddenly rose to his feet, catching the eye of everyone within a hundred yards. The whole corner of the garden grew silent, waiting for him to speak, as the scent of some rare perfume wafted through the air, bathing the unsuspecting crowd with its invisible glory...

Winning the Lord's Favor Without a Word:

The Sinful Woman

She's our final Bad Girl-and my far-and-away favorite. Suppose we join her for dinner.

Now one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, so he went to the Pharisee's house and reclined at the table. Luke 7:36 Don't you know everybody must have wanted Jesus over for chicken 'n' dumplings? The man was the talk of the town-healing the leper, giving sight to the blind, raising the widow's son right out of his coffin. Honey, his dance card had to be full of invitations to one social occasion after another, Simon the Pharisee's dinner among them.

Although this party wasn't his idea, Jesus attended nonetheless, willing to be used by his Father in the home of this pious (and, let's be honest, pompous) Jew. It was quite a feast, with the guests stretched out on their left sides, as was the Greek custom, propped up on their elbows while eating with their right hands. It beats trying to eat standing up-something I can never manage without wearing half my meal-but it still sounds awkward. On the plus side, even if half the town showed up for dinner, the host wouldn't have to worry about tracking down more chairs.

Some attendees, though, were more interested in the guest of honor than in the menu, including one soul who would've been counted among the least of these.

When a woman who had lived a sinful life in that town...Luke 7:37 Sigh... Another Bad Girl without a name. At least the woman at the well had a consistent label. This shady lady is variously referred to as "the sinful woman," "the woman who anointed Jesus," or "the woman with the alabaster jar." Considering the whole town knew her reputation, it's odd they didn't also know her name.

In my radio days I once prefaced an on-air story about Henry VIII by asking the newsman on the microphone that morning, "How's your history?"

"Sordid," was his cheeky reply.

That exchange describes our soon-to-be-heroine perfectly. Her sins aren't detailed, but we can surmise she was a woman of the streets-a prost.i.tute-with a long history of sin. The Amplified Bible calls her "an especially wicked sinner" and, in verse 39, "a notorious sinner" and "a social outcast, devoted to sin." The New Living Translation describes her as "a certain immoral woman."

Okay, okay, we've seen that movie.

Whatever her shortcomings, she stayed well-informed about the late-breaking news of the day.

...[she] learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee's house... Luke 7:37 That's odd. What would a woman of the street want with a man of the cloth?

Lucky for her, a personal invitation to Simon's dinner wasn't necessary. The less fortunate were allowed to visit such public banquets in order to s.n.a.t.c.h up the leftovers. (Some things never change. I've seen folks visit restaurant buffets after church, line their purses with napkins, and stuff in everything short of mashed potatoes and gravy.) Since women weren't permitted to serve the food at fancy meals like this one, let alone recline at the table as invited guests, the best Miss No-Name could do was hang around the periphery, hoping for a few table sc.r.a.ps and an occasional glimpse of the grand Pooh-Bahs lounging around the head table.

The minute she heard about the banquet in progress, our Bad Girl quickly located the one item most precious to her and made tracks for Simon's place.

...she brought an alabaster jar of perfume... Luke 7:37 Alabaster was a soft stone, imported from Egypt into Palestine, especially popular for storing perfume and ointments. It was light and creamy in color, usually faintly lined with veins. We're talking a small flask here, something she could easily have slipped inside her tunic. (So much for the mental image I always had of a small, dark woman carrying on her shoulder a marble vase of perfume the size of the giant display bottle at the Estee Lauder counter.) Wrong.

Think pint-size. Palm-size. Purse-size.

Alabaster jars were common-it was the substance hidden inside that was valuable. Her jar undoubtedly contained all the perfume she owned. Pure nard, all essence, no alcohol, very expensive. The tiniest dab on the appropriate pulse points lasted well into the dark desert night.

But she wasn't wearing the perfume, drawing attention to herself with its luscious scent. She was carrying it in a small alabaster vial, her attention fixed on finding one particular dinner guest who might appreciate the fragrant aroma of her sacrifice.

She knew what the townsfolk thought of her. Their whispered words and rude stares made that painfully clear. But this Jesus was different. His words were kind, not cruel. His gaze reflected compa.s.sion, not judgment. The thought of such a man looking at her surely had her trembling with expectation.

Miss seeing the man from Galilee? Not this girl.

Perhaps she only meant to catch a glimpse of him from afar, but seeing his gentle countenance, she was drawn toward him, closer and closer, until she stood right behind him.

That's when the tears came unbidden.

...and as she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Luke 7:38 Oh, my sister! Don't hurry over those words. Read them again.

Do you see this woman?

She could not move, could not speak for all her anguished weeping. From a well so deep inside her that the murky waters had never seen the light of day, tears poured out in an endless flow, streaming over her cheeks, slipping down her neck.

His utter sinlessness undid her.

Every impure thought, word, and deed of her past welled up in her heart and flowed down her face. Darkest shame mixed with a strange sense of lightness. The tears of a harlot, held back in anger from years on the street, were suddenly released and spilled out like perfume, leaving her vulnerable, exposed, repentant, not caring who saw her or what they thought of her.

She didn't try to stop herself from weeping. Couldn't, in fact. Not in the presence of Holy G.o.d. The turbulent waters of her soul had found release and refused to be contained.

Were they tears of sorrow or tears of joy?

Yes.

Unlike the woman at the well, this thirsty soul brought her water with her. Standing so close to him, she knew-knew!-that Jesus alone understood her, forgave her, loved her.

He hadn't sent her away, had he? Hadn't brushed off her tears in disgust. Instead, he'd allowed her to baptize his feet with her salty flow. More than allowed, he'd accepted her wors.h.i.+p. His grace only increased her devotion.

With her head bowed in reverence, her body soon followed as she dropped to her knees only inches from the feet of her beloved Savior.

Then she wiped them with her hair...Luke 7:38 Her hair would have been bound up, according to social custom. Let down her hair in public? Oh, honey. That was considered so bold, so provocative, so abhorrent it was grounds for divorce.

But she was already an outcast. Untouchable. Unchosen. She belonged to no one. Except perhaps this man Jesus. If he would have her.

Loosening her long hair, she let it fall around her shoulders, then bent over farther still, until his tear-drenched feet were all that her eyes could encompa.s.s. Using the dark strands like a silken hand towel, patting and wiping and caressing, she rubbed his heels, arches, and toes until they were dry once more.

She didn't dare speak, but her thoughts were surely spinning. This Jesus did not rebuke her for touching him! He'd received her adoration, not once drawing back.

Overcome with emotion, with grat.i.tude, with devotion, she let her mouth follow the same path her fingers had taken and lightly touched his feet with her lips.

...[she] kissed them... Luke 7:38 In the most public of places, she performed one of the most intimate, yet innocent of acts. She pressed her mouth to his feet.

How easily we do this with babies, whose feet are as soft and sweet as their chubby fists. Kissing the feet of an infant, even of a toddler, is a delicious treat. Those tiny tootsies taste yummy until...well, until they're not soft little tootsies anymore but feet. Sneaker-scented, dirt-encrusted, who-knows-where-they've-been-lately feet. Ahem. Different story. Head for the tub, please.

Which is why her unabashed affection and total humility were breathtaking. To kiss an adult man's cheek or his hand or the edge of his garment was one thing, but his bare, stone-bruised feet? Scandalous.

But physical affection was how she made her living. It was all she knew to offer him. Men paid her money to touch them with her hands, her hair, her lips. That she lavished such attention on this man for free was her ultimate gift to him.

Nor was she finished. She had one more expression of love, quite literally up her sleeve.

...and [she] poured perfume on them. Luke 7:38 Her initial intent may have been merely to touch a drop of the perfumed ointment to his head, as was common. Ah, but that was an hour ago, before she'd seen him, touched him, kissed him. It was too late for such restraint. Extravagantly, yet with purpose, she poured the contents of her precious alabaster jar over his feet.

The same perfume she'd used to seduce men was poured out-every priceless drop-to honor the one man who would never use her. The heady scent of it must have permeated the room, sending necks craning to see what woman had dared invade their male-only gathering with her frankly feminine fragrance.

No doubt their guttural whispers swirled around her, even as her ministrations required every ounce of concentration, rendering her immune to their cruel commentary...

"It's the town wh.o.r.e!"