Grace in the Pouring
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Originally, when I started writing this blog last week, my mind kept going to Jimmy Cliff’s Sitting in Limbo.
That was exactly how I felt.
Sitting in limbo.
Waiting for my time to come. Waiting for other people to make decisions. Listening to everybody have their two cents about what I should do, what I shouldn’t do, and what should come next.
Somewhere in all that waiting, I started feeling lost.
I shut down a little.
And in the middle of shutting down emotionally, I found myself dealing with more physical pain than I was used to.
But somewhere around the middle of the week, something shifted in me.
I remember thinking, You know what, God? Waiting for people to make decisions does not negate the calling You’ve placed on me or what You have called me to do.
So let me get up.
Let me make a video.
Let me make a post.
Let me remind somebody else who You are.
I may be waiting, but my calling is not waiting.
Then, toward the end of the week, I received a call about the mishandling of my last born, and it stirred everything up in me all over again.
It felt like every time I tried to get back up, the enemy threw another dart trying to knock me back down. Yet every time, it seemed as though God sent a hand to pull me back up and remind me that I was not alone.
And by the time I went to bed last night, I told my husband, “My plate is full. I have no idea what I’m even writing for the blog this week, when I’ll have time today to write it, or when I’m going to finish my assignments for class.”
But I also told him, “I’m going to rest and trust God to speak.”
And I think He did.
Because here I am in the early hours of the morning, and somehow God has brought me back to the alabaster box.
Back to why we serve.
Why we pray.
Why we keep pouring ourselves out before Him.
And why we cannot allow anyone else to dictate the cost of the oil in our alabaster box.
Scripture — Luke 7:36–50
In Luke 7:36–50, Jesus is eating in the home of Simon, a Pharisee, when a woman from the city enters carrying an alabaster jar of perfume.
Luke tells us that she was known as a sinner.
She stands behind Jesus at His feet, weeping.
Her tears begin falling on His feet, and she wipes them with her hair. She kisses His feet and pours the perfume she brought over them.
Simon sees what is happening.
But he does not see her worship first.
He sees her reputation.
He thinks to himself that if Jesus were truly a prophet, He would know what kind of woman was touching Him.
And Jesus responds to the thought Simon never even says aloud.
He tells him a story.
Two people owed money to the same creditor. One owed five hundred denarii and the other fifty.
Neither one could pay.
So the creditor forgave them both.
Jesus asks Simon which of the two would love the creditor more.
Simon answers that he supposes it would be the one who had been forgiven more.
Jesus tells him he has judged correctly.
Then Jesus turns toward the woman.
Simon had given Jesus no water for His feet.
She had washed His feet with her tears.
Simon had given Him no kiss.
She had not stopped kissing His feet.
Simon had not anointed His head with oil.
She had anointed His feet with perfume.
One person in Jesus’ story owed more.
One owed less.
But neither of them could pay.
That part matters.
This woman did not come into the room pretending she had nothing to be forgiven for.
She knew what she carried.
She also knew who Jesus was.
Luke does not tell us the monetary value of what was in her alabaster jar. And we do not have to borrow the price of perfume from another Gospel account to make her offering costly.
Because she did not just bring perfume.
She brought herself.
Her tears.
Her shame.
Her reputation.
Her gratitude.
Her love.
And she poured it all at the feet of Jesus.
Jesus did not treat her according to the whispers in the room.
He told her, “Your sins are forgiven.”
And then He told her, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
She walked into the room carrying an alabaster jar.
She walked out carrying peace.
Folklore — The Boy and the Flute
There is an old Hasidic story about a young boy who came with his father to worship on Yom Kippur.
The boy could not read the prayers like everyone else could.
He listened as the people around him prayed, but he did not have the words they had.
What he did have was a flute.
His father did not want him to play it during the service. But as the prayers continued, the boy became overwhelmed with the desire to express what was in his heart.
Eventually, he could hold it in no longer.
He took out his flute and played.
The people around him were horrified.
They heard an interruption.
They saw something inappropriate.
Something that did not belong in that moment.
But the Baal Shem Tov understood the boy’s offering differently.
He recognized a sincere heart trying to reach God with what it knew how to give.
The boy did not worship the way everybody else worshiped.
He gave what he had.
People standing nearby may not understand what you are pouring out.
They may even think you are doing too much.
But they do not know what brought you to His feet.
Reflection
When I think about the alabaster box, I don’t just think about the woman in Luke 7.
I think about Jamaica.
I think about Oak Glades housing scheme in Kingston.
I remember when my father sent me a portable CD player—a Discman—from the United States.
Music was already a big part of my life. I listened to all kinds of music. I remember listening to Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want to Have Fun.
Some of the CDs I listened to back then had been bought right on the streets of New York. I had Donnie McClurkin. I had CeCe Winans.
And then I heard Alabaster Box.
There was something about that song.
I remember lying on the couch, looking up toward heaven, playing it over and over again.
And singing along.
And crying.
Not cute little tears.
Real tears.
I was a teenager, and my heart was heavy.
I was dealing with people not understanding me.
People judging me.
There were things happening inside of me that other people could not see, and at that age I probably did not even have all the words to explain what I was feeling.
But somehow that song gave me words.
So I would lie there and sing.
And cry.
And play it again.
And sing some more.
There is another memory from those years that has never left me.
Pastor Garfield Palmer, his wife Aunty Dahlia, and their children were our neighbors.
And honestly, they were and will forever be our neighbors, no matter who we eventually sell that house to.
Our families shared more than adjoining property.
We shared life.
There were many conversations by that fence over the years.
That particular day, my mother was standing by the fence talking with Pastor Garfield while I was inside singing.
Apparently, I was getting louder and louder, and my mother mentioned it to him.
And Pastor Garfield said something that I have carried with me ever since:
“Leave her alone. Let her minister. She knows the cost of her oil.”
I don’t know if he realized how deeply those words would stay with me.
But somehow, he understood something.
There was more happening inside that house than a teenager singing loudly.
Something was being poured out.
And years later, when I read about this woman at the feet of Jesus, I understand her differently.
The people in the room saw her.
But they did not know her.
They knew what they had heard about her.
They knew her reputation.
They knew enough about her past to decide what they thought she was worth.
Simon looked at her and judged her before she ever said a word.
But Jesus knew what had brought her to His feet.
Maybe that is why this story touches me so deeply.
Because there is a difference between people knowing things about you and someone actually knowing you.
There were people in my teenage years who did not understand me.
There were people who judged me.
My heart was heavy in ways they could not see.
But lying on that couch, looking toward heaven with tears running down my face, God knew.
He knew exactly what was behind every word I sang.
He knew why that song touched me.
He knew what hurt.
He knew what I could not explain.
He knew the cost of my oil.
And sometimes I think we forget that when we watch other people worship.
We see the raised hands.
We hear the loud voice.
We see the tears.
We see someone fall to their knees.
And perhaps, like Simon, we form an opinion about what we are watching.
Why are they doing all that?
Why are they so emotional?
Why are they so loud?
It doesn’t take all of that.
But how do you know what it takes when you don’t know what it cost?
You don’t know what they survived.
You don’t know the prayers they prayed when nobody else was listening.
You don’t know how many nights they cried.
You don’t know what God brought them through.
You don’t know what they had to surrender.
You don’t know the cost of their oil.
Simon saw a woman whose presence made him uncomfortable.
Jesus saw her heart.
Simon saw her past.
Jesus saw her faith.
The people in the room knew her reputation.
Jesus knew her.
And sometimes that has to be enough.
Because even when nobody else understands what you are pouring out, God does.
Even when people misunderstand your worship, God knows where it came from.
Even when people judge your tears, He knows the story behind every one of them.
So pour it out.
If all you have are tears, pour them out.
If all you have is a song, sing it.
If your worship comes from a place nobody else understands, give it to Him anyway.
They don’t have to know the cost of your oil.
You know.
And God knows.
Prayer
Holy, righteous, and eternal Father God,
Thank You for loving us beyond measure, beyond our past, beyond our mistakes, and beyond the things that people judge us for.
Your love is unmatched, unearned, and so pure.
Help us to remember when life becomes a struggle that we have Your feet where we can lay it all down. We can come to You and cry. We can pour ourselves out before You, just as the woman did when she washed Jesus’ feet with her tears.
Oh God, I just thank You.
I thank You, Jesus, that beyond words, You understand tears.
When we cannot explain what hurts, You know.
When our hearts are too heavy to form the words, You still understand.
You see every tear.
And as I am lying here at 4 a.m. this morning finishing this blog—the blog that was due last week—I cannot help but reflect on how appropriate it is this week and how applicable it is to my own life.
I was asked a question yesterday that I still have not answered.
But You sent somebody else to remind me that they see You within me.
And that, O Lord, is even more powerful than any mishandling of me.
So I thank You, Jesus.
Bring grace and bring mercy unto each and every one of us whose hearts have been broken over and over again because we have a genuine desire to serve You and to do Your will.
When people misunderstand us, mistreat us, or mishandle us because we profess Christianity and because we desire to serve You and do Your will, help us not to allow their treatment of us to change who we are in You.
Help us to come boldly before Your throne.
Help us to keep serving.
Help us to keep loving.
Help us to keep doing Your will.
Help us to keep pouring out our oil at Your feet, knowing that even when others do not understand the cost, You do.
And when all we have left are tears, remind us that even our tears can become worship at Your feet.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
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