The Heart of a Prostitute


Shawn Niles - January 12, 2010

Image of Bruised HeartDo you ever get the feeling that things just aren't as they should be? That something somewhere has gone wrong, and you can't exactly place your finger on it?

I have a routine of getting up in the morning, making a pot of coffee, putting some creamer in a cup, and sitting down with my Bible.

The important piece of information is that I'm not always in my right mind when I first wake up. There are times when I can't remember where the alarm clock is, and I forget where my socks are, and it takes every ounce of energy I have to just find the coffee pot. Let alone prep it for the sweet brown nectar that God must have created on the eighth day upon waking from His seventh day of rest.

However, once I have accomplished the task of turning on the pot, it is then necessary to grab the largest mug I can find, fill it slightly less than ¼ of the way with cream, and then wait patiently (or not so patiently) for the pot to fill.

Moments (that seem like hours) later I'm sitting at my table, opening my Bible, and enjoying my Guatemala Antigua freshly roasted coffee with cream (in an extra large cup).

However, one day in particular I had gone through that same routine. Alarm turned off, toe stubbed once, coffee prepped and poured, and now seated at the table, ready to take that first, delicious drink. Imagine my surprise when the taste of sweaty socks filled my mouth, causing me to wake up much faster than drinking a typical cup of coffee would cause.

I swirled it around in my mouth, attempting to hone in on the exact reason for the taste that was now attacking my taste buds. I swallowed, considering another drink (obviously not completely awake), longing to know what in the world was wrong with my coffee.

Upon looking down at the cup in front of me, I noticed bubbles and white chunky disgustingness rising to the top. While you may have deduced it much faster than I, the ugly truth became clear that I had reached for the wrong container of cream. A container that had expired quite some time ago, and should have been thrown away when the new cream was purchased. There's just something wrong with trying to swallow what is old and expired, when the new and delicious is within my grasp.

If you haven't already, perhaps you are now asking yourself what in the world this concept of old cream has to do with the heart of a prostitute. I'm glad you asked.

You see, in that Bible that I sit down to read every morning, I find stories of Jesus interacting with people on many different levels. And in almost every conversation, He is making it clear that the new has arrived. The people of Christ's day lived under a law that made God seem distant, angry and ready to strike them dead if they weren't wearing 100% cotton (Fruit-Of-The-Loom would have made a killing!) And here comes Jesus, healing and touching and loving, and suddenly the taste of religion is becoming sour in the mouths of the people.

Except, of course, the religious people.

The cream has turned, but they're guzzling it down like a fine wine.

On one such occasion you find Jesus sitting with them, eating with them, talking with them (probably avoiding the coffee). Bursting into the room enters a woman whose guilt is as obvious as a wounded gazelle in a room full of vultures.

Suddenly, the stench of sweaty socks fills the nostrils of Jesus as what is old and expired attempts to elbow out of the way what is new and refreshing. Something is not quite right, and Jesus begins to expose it for what it is.

And in so doing, He exposes us to the heart of the prostitute.

A heart that is broken, torn, used, abused. A heart that fully understands that the person whose feet she is crying at is the only one able to rescue her from herself and the people who would just as soon take her outside and kill her.

You see, the heart of the prostitute isn't playing games. There are no attempts at "one-upping" the others in the room. Were we able to peak into every heart of every Pharisee would we not find prostitution, exploitation, hearts as far from God as possible? Were we to visit their temples on the Sabbath, would we hear hymns of devotion, followed by giving, followed by messages calling the damned to repentance and promising forgiveness of sins?

All out of the mouths of men so far from God that all they had to maintain their control was fear and obligation.

Could it be that the most beautiful Sabbath to ever take place took place at the feet of Jesus in this crowded, smelly room at an unlikely time in an unlikely way? After all, the Sabbath was made for man, and this woman was certainly finding rest at Jesus' feet.

Were there hymns of worship? She didn't have words to sing, but she was certainly in worship at His feet.

Did she give an offering at the prescribed time? She poured unbelievably expensive perfume all over his feet, not to mention the cost of every tear that fell from her eyes.

Was there a message and a call to respond? The message was simple and the application was to the point: "Your sins are forgiven; go and sin no more."

Everyone who comes to Christ is going to do so in one of two ways. Either as a Pharisee, or as a prostitute.

One way is old, and smells and tastes like sweaty socks. The other is new, and refreshing, and very costly. It requires an understanding of everything I'm not and never will be. It requires that I lay aside all of my pride, and self-righteousness, and fall at the feet of Jesus without pretense.

I'm torn when I realize how many times I've come as the Pharisee. Perhaps it's time to run in and fall at his feet, and make it clear once more that I'm just another prostitute.

And tomorrow I'll make sure that the fresh cream is my only option.

 

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