"The Good News Is...Great Love for God and Neighbor"

Some of the most powerful scenes in Luke’s Gospel involve little to no dialogue. It’s as if a recurring theme in his account of Jesus’ earthly life and ministry is that actions speak much louder than words. For example, Luke 5 describes a paralyzed man being lowered through a house’s roof by his friends. Without speaking a word, the man’s companions demonstrate a faithfulness that impresses Jesus. Time and again, Luke’s Gospel shows that those considered models of discipleship are often not the insiders but those on the margins. And more often than not, the outsiders show their faithfulness not through words but through prophetic actions that embody great love for God and neighbor.

Another similar scene happens two chapters later in Luke’s Gospel, when the story of the unnamed woman of ill repute unfolds as she quietly enters a house where Jesus is eating with some Pharisees. They were probably debating the subtle details of the law, which was their usual practice. They were gathered for a meal where status, purity, and propriety all matter—where you can feel the invisible rules in the room. I imagine that was the part of the conversation Jesus liked the least. And so, I think he was intrigued when a woman entered the scene.

There must have been quite an awkward silence. She approached Jesus with an alabaster jar and sat at his feet. She doesn’t argue her worthiness. She just comes—carrying what she has, carrying what she is—and risks being seen. The text simply states that she was “a sinner.” Luke could have been more specific, but he didn’t want us to focus on her sinfulness, only her faithfulness. So while Simon and his fellow Pharisees clutch their pearls, she lowers her gaze to his feet, bathes them in her tears, dries them with her hair, and anoints his feet with precious oil. Simon is doing ethical calculations in his head. He’s tallying purity and propriety while she’s pouring out gratitude. Notice that the text tells us his initial question was something he said to himself. But Jesus must have read his heart, because he tells Simon he has something to say to him.

He shares a simple parable. One person was forgiven for a missed $25 co-payment. Another received a letter from the billing department at Wesley Long Hospital informing them that their $40,000 surgery bill had been forgiven with no strings attached. Who, he mused, do you think will be more grateful? Simon knows the answer and, being no fool, must have realized that Jesus has him trapped in confession. “The one forgiven $40,000,” he says.“Right you are,” Jesus replies. Jesus then reminds Simon that this woman has shown him hospitality that Simon failed to offer—forms of hospitality that a host like Simon would have been socially expected to fulfill.

And so, without saying a single word, this woman delivers a homily of hospitality.  And it is far from the only one in Luke’s Gospel. In fact, her actions are echoed in another story that occurs just a few chapters after today’s reading. It’s a story I’m sure you know: the story of the Good Samaritan. Like the woman, the Good Samaritan doesn’t speak at all—at least not until the very end of the story. He says very little—almost all of the mercy happens before any words do. You know the story: he finds a man beaten and robbed, having already been abandoned by a priest and a Levite, both of whom were known for their sacred words and litanies. Yet, the Good Samaritan, much like the woman in Luke 7, understands intuitively that some moments don’t call for words; they call for action. And that’s exactly what he does. He cares for the man and, like the woman in today’s text, anoints him with oil—silently, lovingly, faithfully.

And so, friends, remember this: love for Jesus at the Table must become mercy for the neighbor in the ditch. That mercy shows up in calendars and casseroles, in who gets invited, and what we do with our money. The woman’s faithfulness becomes a continuous refrain, a song of mercy that calls the Samaritan to set aside words for a moment and pick up some oil to soothe the broken body and broken heart.

In Luke, the gospel goes beyond polite beliefs or correct talk; it becomes visible at tables, on roads, and in homes. The unnamed woman in Luke 7 demonstrates that true hospitality isn’t about social status but about humble love—drawing near to Jesus, honoring him, and receiving forgiveness that makes someone new. After showing us love poured out at Jesus’ feet, Luke sends us into the world where neighbor-love looks like oil and bandages, restitution and repair, gratitude and witness, and a community that refuses to exploit the vulnerable. The real question isn’t just about saying the right things about grace, but whether our bodies, budgets, tables, and time will live out that grace—until the forgiven become forgiving, the welcomed become welcoming, and love of neighbor becomes the church’s most credible confession.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.