The Aroma Of Grace
The moon had sunk low when she heard him leave. She closed her eyes, “It was always the same,” she thought, “it is darkest now; he will not want to be seen.” Her eyes snapped open, searching in the darkness of her room for the faint glint of silver she knew would be sitting on the stool beside the bed. She yearned for it, but she hated it with equal ferocity. The quiet room disrupted for a moment by the sudden rush of air she pushed from her nose, “And they call me a sinner!” Of course, she know they were right, but she refused to carry the inscription alone. A long line of faceless men paraded through her mind, most of them lost to time now, or buried beneath the tears that had long since stopped flowing. A few faces she could recall—men well known here in this town; men who carried their faces high in the seats of honour beside the gates, yet were cloaked in shadow as they passed through her door. She snorted again, “Sinner indeed.”
As the night quietened, as the cool air prickled against her skin, she swung her feet to the floor. Here, like always, she paused as the familiar vice tightened around her chest. Her breathing reduced to shallow gasps for something outside of herself, she rehearsed the ancient verses she’d learned as a child, clinging to some distant comfort as she forced herself to breath again. She did not remember the first time this had happened, but she knew it now as her companion of the evening; this was her nightly visitor, when all other visitors had walked away.
It was the stench, she had decided. The smell of men she did not know, the smell of sweat, the smell of silver left on stools, even the smell of her shame. It was the stench of a man’s lust, but deeper still, she knew it was the stench of her own sin that made her reach. Forcing herself to breath, she walked the well-worn path toward the bowl of water on the far side of her room. Like a long-rehearsed dance she began to bathe, progressively scrubbing harder as she tried furiously to wash away the stain of her own regret. It was the same every night; eventually the towel was put aside. Dry and trembling she reached for the small flask of hard-baked earth wrapped in fine woven cloth; unstopping the narrow neck she eagerly drew the air in through her nostrils again, carrying with it the scent she bought from traders just last month. It was there, in those exotic spices that swirled inside her mind, that she ran for refuge. Her small bench was filled with these bottles; more lined the alcove hidden behind the sheer curtain to her right; even more in a wooden box against the wall behind her. Her ancient craft left her in no shortage of coin, there were always sinners like her to join with, willing and eager to empty their purse. Their eagerness only surpassed by hers, she had obsessively traced every merchant of scents she could find. She wanted to wash away every trace of the life she had pursued, and while the man that had left her bed might do so at the bottom of a skin of wine, her escape was the jewelled smell that caused her eyes to close and her mind to forget.
With the dawn came the faces so easy to ignore in the dark. Men who’s eyes ravaged her in the night, now disdained her in the day. While men turned their eyes to gaze at some distant spectre, the eyes of the women narrowed to slits of such keen edge as to rival the sharpest blade. They did not need to speak as they passed her in the marketplace, enough was said in their silence. There would be no laughter with friends, no banter about fashion, no gossip to share. She was alone. She had never been invited to dine with a family, or been seated with a dignitary in a place of honour, nor would she ever be.
It was here, in the marketplace, as she aimlessly lifted the spices and wares from far off places, that she heard again the name that carried with it mystery. Apparently a prophet, but unlike the nation had seen in living memory. Apparently a great teacher. Apparently a would-be-king. Jesus, the Galilean. Apparently he had done great things; men born blind could see, men lame could walk, men shunned by unclean skin had returned home. Apparently. Yet what intrigued her more were the stories of dinner parties with tax collectors, rumours of drunkards who were welcomed at his fireside, and even women—women like her who know travelled with him as friends. She put the vial of spice down. “Surely not,” she mused, “Surely the stories are exaggerated.” She retreated from the rows of sellers and traced her usual path to the stone ledge beside the well. There she sat to watch. No eye turned toward her, she was invisible to all; all but one.
Like most men, her eye would have passed over him, were it not for the dark eyes that looked right back at her. Yet not just at her, but into her. Of course, she was used to men who gazed in stolen moments as she passed by, men who’s eyes were glazed with wanton fantasies—but these eyes looked deeper into her soul than she had ever known. In an instant she stood exposed before his gaze, the old vice of shame swept over her again, more powerful and painful than she had felt before. Yet she could not look away. While standing fully clothed in that market, she knew that she was exposed and naked; yet ashamed as she was, she could not break his gaze. She heard his voice. She had been known by many names in her life, but now he gently spoke the name she had been given by her mother.
“Tonight I will be dining with Simon, do you know where he lives?”
She could only nod her head.
“You are invited as my guest. I hope you will come.”
The rest of that afternoon was a blur. She could not go. She must not go. But how she longed to see him again. Why? Why was he different to all those she had seen before? Why did his eyes leave her ashamed, yet not defiled? And why did she long to be seen by him again? And as if in response came the ancient prose, unbidden yet suddenly welcomed; the song her mother sang when she was yet just a child.
“On that day you will say: “I will give thanks to you, LORD, although you were angry with me. Your anger has turned away, and you have comforted me. Indeed, God is my salvation; I will trust him and not be afraid, for the LORD, the LORD himself, is my strength and my song. He has become my salvation.” You will joyfully draw water from the springs of salvation, and on that day you will say, “Give thanks to the LORD; proclaim his name! Make his works known among the peoples. Declare that his name is exalted. Sing to the LORD, for he has done glorious things. Let this be known throughout the earth. Cry out and sing, citizen of Zion, for the Holy One of Israel is among you in his greatness.”” (Isaiah 12:1–6, CSB)
And then she knew.
All pretence of impressive clothing, or impressive speech, or even the justification of her sins while in the company of sinners—all fell away. She knew what must be done. She had seen Jesus, and more importantly, she had been seen by Jesus—seen in all her filth, seen in all her shame, seen in all her sin. She had been seen, yet she knew, she had been loved. Jesus desired her like no man ever had, nor could. She hadn’t been desired for what she could give, but for what could be given. Even as these thoughts assailed her, she found herself on hand and knees, feeling for that familiar place in the hidden hole beneath the corner of her room—it was here her greatest treasure had been stored away. In this precious box had been stored all her hopes and dreams—that one day she would smell the stench of her shame no more, that the greatest scent of all would wash away the remnants of her life of sin. And it was this little box that she clutched now to her chest as he she ran through the long shadows of late afternoon. The eyes that usually saw through her now followed after her with wonder. The scorn of onlookers now a dull concern that retreated to the back of her mind. Even the shocked look of Simon as he looked in horror as she burst into the room. Tears, long since hidden behind hardened eyes, fell once again, blurring all but the one she clung to. Others were speaking now, words of condemnation and anger, but his voice quieted them all. Her fingers trembled as he spoke, telling a story of creditors and debtors, yet her eyes were only for him. Soon his words filled the air, mixed with the scent of her gift—the box that had been her hope.
Jesus had seen her, truly seen her, and yet loved her. She lifted her face to his as he once again called her name. She did not care that others scorned her, or even heard the words he uttered—these words were meant for her soul alone.
“Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.”
*This is a fictional account that is founded on the true events as recorded in Luke 7:36-50
