The Weed
You sit with your hands between your knees. In another time you would have been stoned. Instead, in this time, they simply stare. Judgement screams out in their silence. You don't belong here. You don't belong among their kind. They are the ones who have listened and heard. They are the ones who will be harvested as the wheat.
You are a weed.
There is singing from the loft behind you. As a child you would have shifted in your pew, turned and watched the singers. Your mother would have sternly told you to turn around. Now, you face the front of the church, if only to avoid the faces of those who knew you when you were trying to run away from God.
How foolish. How do you run away from someone who knows everything about you. He has watched you enter the vile realms of this world and He has watched you stumble out. He knows you have failed at love and succeeded at lust. He knows you have sold priceless parts of your flesh and soul, for a handful of pills or a bottle.
And here you are, a weed.
The song sung by the choir is beautiful. It brings you back, to the days before you watched them close the casket on your mother's body. You were fifteen years old then, and you took your leave of faith.
Still, you never stopped listening. You often cursed those who you considered street prophets, but you heard. The minister standing at the pulpit knew you at your worst. He beckoned you to come. He beckoned you to have enough strength to walk into his church. He asked you to let God embrace you now, as He did when you were younger.
It wasn't the first time that the reverend came to you in some dingy bar, sat with you, maybe had a beer. As if a brew in hand meant he could be trusted. He said once, "I don't want to claim to be more than I am. I'm a servant. I'm a sinner. I'm no better than anyone in this place. But, I'd like to share a Gospel story with you, if that's okay."
That was the moment, when you could have responded, "No, it's not okay. I want nothing to do with God. He turned His back on me. He took my mother."
But you held your silence and nodded your head.
He spoke about a man named Simon, a Pharisee. He said a lot of Christians remind him of Pharisees. He laughed when he spoke those words, but you think he meant them. He said Simon was having a luncheon, kind of like the Sunday gathering his church always had after service. Jesus was there.
You know the story. You know that he is going to talk about the sinful woman who crashes the gathering, the woman who doesn't belong. You're not her. You want to tell him that, but you stay silent.
"Whenever I read that story," he said, "I think about Simon. I think most of us center on the woman. Or we might center on the forgiveness of Jesus. The Gospel doesn't list her sins. It doesn't have to, and Jesus doesn't care. But He calls out Simon's sin. We perceive, in the story, that the woman has much to be forgiven. I think the deeper sin is the one scarring Simon's soul."
"I know the story," you responded weakly.
"There are many Simons in my church. There are some here. There are some in the street. Their sin is greater than any other sin. They have turned away those who needed to find God. They have turned away the little children. I would not want to stand before my Lord and acknowledge that sin."
"People will look at me," you said. "They know me. They know what I've done."
"I know you... and I'm inviting you to my church."
And that is how you came to be here, letting every Simon the Pharisee stare at your back with judgement in their hearts. The pastor steps away from the pulpit, before addressing the congregation. He walks to the pew where you are sitting. "Welcome," he says, "I believe that on this beautiful morning a brilliant smile adorns the face of our Lord."
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