A gift

I had a speech prepared. Short and sweet. Something I could rattle off before they shoved me out of the house and back into the street.

My hands were sweating as I clutched the cool vessel against my heart. As I made my way down the street, I almost turned back a hundred times. Each time, I stopped in my tracks and glanced down at the thing in my hand. It was poor. Pitiful. Pathetic. But then, my feet kept walking, carrying me toward my own humiliation.

But I suppose there’s nothing left for me to lose.

I watched him enter the house. The host acknowledged him with a grunt. Rabbi. That was all he said. My mouth fell open. No kiss of greeting. I didn’t even see a servant boy with a rag and some water for his feet.

Surely, the host must have known who this man is. Even I know. If that was how he received a good man like that…what might he do if I show my face in his house?

I tightened my grip on the vessel and shuddered. But something came over me. Some madness. Some desperate madness. My steps quickened, foolish and purposeful, as I approached the door.

I rattled off a lie to the servants at the door. I’ve come to bring your master a gift. A gift! I held up the vessel. For once, I was glad that my reputation preceded me. The servants shrank back from me, unwilling to be contaminated. I had been prepared for more of a struggle.

Very well.

In the dim room, smoky with beautiful smells and smudges of oily light, the men were reclining. Nobody noticed me at first. I quickly scanned the room for his face, terrified of locking eyes with anyone. But I didn’t see him. Without thinking, I took a step forward, squinting to see. My foot kicked something hard. Startled, I gasped. A dining couch. The one closest to the door. The worst seat in the house.

He turned his head and looked at me. My mind groped for the words I had prepared. May God bless you, Rabbi. But the words were stuck on my tongue. I fumbled with the vessel in my hands. May God — may God —

I couldn’t speak. I could only stare back at him stupidly, unable to explain my unwanted presence. I waited for his face to curl into a sneer.

I heard the men begin to murmur. Get this woman out of here!

No, no, no. Please. I dropped to my knees. My hands were shaking and damp with my own sweat as I grasped his feet.

The men cried out in offense. I had done it now. The host called for his worthless servants to remove me from the room.

I couldn’t bear to look into his face as I crouched before him, my body bracing for him to shove me away. My eyes blurred. I blinked, then watched in horror as they fell upon his feet. My warm tears, dripping on to his feet. His dirty feet. Still dirty. Because they hadn’t even given him a rag and some water. The tears came more freely, dripping down my nose. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I sobbed, helplessly smearing away the dirt. I reached up for my head covering to dry his feet. But I had none. For shame. With nothing else to use, I reached behind me and bunched up my hair in my hand.

Gasps of disgust.

But still, they didn’t touch me. So I kissed his feet, because he hadn’t let them throw me out. I kissed his feet, because they had not even given him a rag and some water. And I broke open the vessel I had brought and poured it out on his feet, the fragrance filling the room, because they had given him the worst seat in the house.

God bless you, Rabbi, I wanted to say. But still, I couldn’t speak. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was. How much I wished I could take back all the things I have done. How there aren’t enough goats and cattle in the world to atone for me. I’m sorry. I hoped he knew. I hoped he would understand.

Later, I would remember every word he spoke to those men in the room. In the days and months and years that followed, they streamed into my memory like sunlight through a mesh of leaves. I would tell and retell it to anyone who would listen.

Therefore I tell you, her sins — which are many — are forgiven.

I looked up, my mouth hanging open. They’re what? What did he say? I glanced around. Had he meant someone else? Many sins. The men glowered down at me. He was surely referring to me.

Me? I dared to look up at him. I was surprised. I hadn’t seen him up close before. He was so young. Far younger than I.

But I believed him. Then he said it again.

Your sins are forgiven.

The others grunted. Who is this, they scoffed, who even forgives sins? But he didn’t answer them. He didn’t even turn around. He kept looking at me. His young face, somehow already crowned with cares, his eyes shadowed with sorrow. Yet ageless, and without fear.

He told me one last thing, and I obeyed.

I went away, just like he said. Still afraid, but not of those men. Afraid of him.

He was either a convincing liar who had nothing to lose, or a mad man, who dared to utter such blasphemy without blinking.

Or he was telling the truth. And that’s what frightens me.

But each night, as I lay my head down to sleep, I turn over those words in my mind, words unchanging as stone, and softer than a pillow.

Your sins are forgiven.

Your faith has saved you.

Go in peace.