Introduction
Among the many scenes the Gospels have bequeathed to us, Luke 7:36–50 offers a beautiful and profound reflection on Jesus’ passage through this world and his way of teaching. There we find Jesus, a guest in the house of a Pharisee, being surprised by the entrance of a woman identified only as a sinner of the city. Without a name, without a social face, without a family to protect her, this woman dares to cross the space reserved to men and Pharisees to cast herself at the Master’s feet. Amid tears, ointment and loosened hair, she performs a gesture scandalous for her culture yet profoundly revelatory for Christian theology: she gives herself wholly to Christ and receives from Him the word that restores life, identity and peace: “Your faith has saved you; go in peace” (Lk 7:50).
This episode prompts a series of questions: who was this woman? Why is she called only a “sinner”? What did it mean, for a woman of the first century, to lose the right to be called by name and be reduced to a social label? What is the significance of the perfume in an alabaster jar? Why is the gesture with the hair so powerful? And, finally, how are we to understand the parable Jesus addresses to Simon the Pharisee, confronting the false respect for the law with the truth of love?
This essay seeks to answer these questions in depth, structuring an analysis from historical, cultural, exegetical and theological perspectives, with an eye also to the pastoral relevance of the text today. The journey will be long, for every detail of the scene opens a universe of meaning.
The Literary Style of Saint Luke
If we look attentively at the literary style of the Gospel according to Saint Luke, we see that he combines historiographical rigour, poetic grace and pastoral sensitivity. His writing is cultured and orderly, like that of a Greek historian, yet at the same time marked by lyrical beauty and deep human compassion, drawing near to readers’ hearts through narratives full of tenderness.
A close disciple of Saint Paul, Luke did not live directly with Christ, but devoted himself to investigating the facts carefully and gathering testimonies from those who were present. Thus his work portrays the life and mission of the Messiah indirectly, yet with technical precision and historical fidelity, revealing the zeal of one who wishes to assure the Christian community of the truth of the faith handed on.
His Greek is more elegant and elaborate than that of Mark and Matthew. The vocabulary is rich, including medical and technical terms—he is traditionally considered a physician—as well as careful literary constructions. He thus approaches the Greco-Roman historiographical style, akin to that of classical authors. Already in the prologue (Lk 1:1–4) he presents himself as a historian: he claims to have investigated events from the beginning and wishes to narrate them in an orderly way, to offer the reader security and clarity. This tone frames the Gospel as a historical work attentive to the political and social context in which the events took place.
Another striking trait is his taste for paired structures and parallelisms: the annunciation to Zechariah and to Mary, the canticles of Zechariah and of Mary, narratives that mirror and complete one another. Added to this are the beautiful hymns and prayers—the Magnificat (Mary), the Benedictus (Zechariah), the Gloria in excelsis (angels) and the Nunc dimittis (Simeon)—whose Semitic cadence recalls the psalms, even as they are embedded in a refined Greek narrative.
Luke also distinguishes himself by the wealth of detail: he carefully describes people, places and situations, as in the parables of the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son. He values dialogues, gestures and expressions that render the scenes vivid and engaging. Finally, in his narrative style, God’s mercy is always highlighted, especially towards the poor, women, foreigners, sinners and the excluded. He crafts parables and episodes charged with humanity, conveying warmth, tenderness and compassion.
The Literary Drama of Luke 7 in Four Movements
The episode narrated in Lk 7:36–50 presents a scene of rare literary and theological density, which can be divided into four movements:
Invitation and omission (Lk 7:36–39) – Jesus is received in the house of a Pharisee named Simon. Yet the host does not perform the basic gestures of hospitality: he offers no water for the feet, no kiss of greeting, no oil to anoint the head. This omission opens the narrative tension.
The woman’s entrance and gesture (Lk 7:37–38) – A sinner of the city enters and, in radical contrast with the Pharisee, lavishly fulfils the gestures of welcome. With perfume, tears and hair, she anoints and kisses Jesus’ feet, transforming her lack of social dignity into an act of gratuitous love.
Parable of the two debtors (Lk 7:40–47) – Perceiving the Pharisee’s silent judgement, Jesus tells the parable of two debtors, both forgiven but with unequal debts. The teaching is clear: authentic love is born of the experience of forgiveness, not of social status or the coldness of the law.
Forgiveness and sending (Lk 7:48–50) – Jesus declares the woman’s forgiveness and sends her in peace. The scandal of those present—“Who is this who even forgives sins?”—reveals the heart of the scene: Christ’s authority and the primacy of mercy over judgement.
The Dramatic Contrast
In these four movements, the evangelist constructs a literary and spiritual confrontation: the Pharisee—socially respected yet cold and judgemental—proves unable to recognise God’s presence before him; whereas the sinful woman—socially despised yet loving intensely—gives herself without reserve.
This contrast lays bare the drama: apparent righteousness versus true love. The scene reveals that it is not social position or external correctness that opens the heart to the Kingdom, but the experience of forgiveness, which engenders love and leads to peace.
This is a structure typical of Luke’s literary style: dramatic scenes with opposing characters, which bring to light a profound spiritual truth, as though the evangelist were drawing on the Greek model of comedy and tragedy, where the tension between human poles makes room for Divine Revelation.
The Expression “Sinner of the City”: Historical Context
The Greek text of Luke has been translated “sinner”, but the word itself is generic and can designate any transgressor. Yet when applied specifically to a woman in the first-century Jewish context, the most immediate association fell upon sins of a sexual nature, since culturally these most exposed a woman to public stigma.
Among men, the figure of the sinner could include tax-collectors, thieves or murderers. Among women, the most targeted sins were adultery and prostitution.
For adultery, the Law of Moses prescribed the death penalty for both adulterous man and woman (Lev 20:10; Deut 22:22). In practice, however, the weight of condemnation fell almost always upon the woman, subjected to public humiliation. The Mishnah, Sotah 1:5, describes the ritual for a woman suspected of adultery, highlighting the vexatious exposure to which she was subjected.
For prostitution, although tolerated in certain contexts, the Mosaic Law viewed it as impurity and social stain, as the prophetic texts attest (cf. Hos 4:13–14).
Other sins, such as murder or theft, could also dishonour a woman, but were rarer and far more associated with the male world. The historian Flavius Josephus (Antiquities 4.253) confirms this cultural bias when he reports how female adultery was considered especially execrable and punished severely.
It should be stressed, nevertheless, that there was no “codified list” of female sins (adultery, prostitution, murder, theft). Rather, there existed a cultural tradition in which adultery and prostitution represented the most socially stigmatising transgressions for a woman. Thus it is plausible to conclude that, in calling the character a “sinner” (Lk 7:37), Luke engages with this cultural perception, and the woman in question was likely identified by the populace as belonging to one of these two categories.
The Loss of the Name: Erased Identity
In the biblical tradition, a name carries profound meaning: it is a symbol of personal identity and of unique value before God.
“I have called you by name; you are mine” (Is 43:1).
“I will give a new name” (Rev 2:17).
This is why Luke is so careful in naming characters. The Pharisee host is called Simon. The woman, however, remains unnamed: she is only “a sinner”. This narrative choice is deliberate and reveals the contrast between the Pharisee’s preserved social status and the woman’s erased identity. He, a man of standing; she, an invisible woman.
The Fathers of the Church shed light on this absence of a name. Origen comments that “she is anonymous because she has lost the memory of herself; but the Lord calls her back to life through forgiveness” (Hom. in Luc. 23). Saint Ambrose interprets the nominal silence as a sign that she had been “reduced to her sin”.
It is important to note that there was no legal statute that “removed the name” of a sinful woman. Rather, there was a social and cultural dynamic: the marginalised were known by their condition, not by their identity. We can therefore say that the woman in Luke’s Gospel bears the mark of exclusion—the burden of having lost the dignity of being called by name—until the moment when Christ restores it by mercy.
The Woman Without a Home: Exclusion and Vulnerability
In ancient Jewish society, a woman was expected from youth to live under her father’s protection; once married, she passed to her husband’s tutelage; and in widowhood, she was supported by close relatives. Without this safety net, she became highly vulnerable, both socially and economically.
The Jewish historian Flavius Josephus expresses this reality well when he writes in Against Apion (2.199) that “a woman’s place is the home, under her husband’s guardianship”. Likewise, the Mishnah (Ketubot 4:4) describes the obligations of guardianship that fell upon men, making clear that female independence was not envisaged by the system.
Losing such protection had devastating consequences. A woman without father or husband lacked the minimum guarantees of survival, often being driven to begging or even to prostitution as her only means of subsistence. Economic destitution compounded social stigma, reinforcing a cycle of exclusion and marginalisation.
In that context, we must not discount the possibility of abuse. Ancient writers report violence perpetrated by Roman soldiers against women in the conquered provinces. Tacitus, in his Annals (14.42), mentions episodes of abuse, and Suetonius also records similar situations. It is therefore not impossible that some Jewish women, after suffering such violence, were rejected by their own families, ending up even more exposed to marginalisation.
Thus, although we cannot assert with certainty that the woman mentioned in Luke 7 was a direct victim of Roman violence, it is historically plausible to interpret her situation within this context. The absence of family protection and social vulnerability could have led her to prostitution as a means of survival. The reading that links her condition to exclusion and lack of support is therefore coherent and grounded in the historical reality of the time.
The Perfume and the Alabaster Jar
In Luke 7, the perfume poured upon Jesus receives no mention of price or of breaking the jar—elements present in other Synoptic traditions. In Mark 14:3–9, for instance, the narrative emphasises the breaking of the jar and the value of the perfume, while in John 12:5 it is valued at three hundred denarii—about a full year’s wages. These details highlight not only the grandeur of the gesture, but also its economic and symbolic weight.
Perfumes—especially the rarer and costlier ones, such as nard imported from the East—were often used as a form of savings. Pliny, in his Natural History (12.26–27), describes the exceedingly high prices of these products, showing how possessing them was a sign of wealth and often a guarantee of financial security. In a society where a denarius represented a labourer’s daily wage (cf. Mt 20:2), a flask of perfume worth that sum was a veritable fortune.
These perfumes were kept in alabaster jars, whose purpose was to preserve the quality of the contents intact. The perfume was stored in solid form and, to use it, the vessel had to be broken. This means that the woman’s act was not merely pouring out something precious, but making the offering irreversible: once the jar was broken, there was no way to retrieve or store part of the contents. She gave everything, without reserve.
There is another culturally significant element: perfumes of this sort were traditionally destined for use on wedding nights. To keep them was to preserve the hope of one day being wed and loved. In this sense, the woman who pours the perfume at Jesus’ feet is not only giving up her economic reserve, but renouncing her last vestige of human hope. What once symbolised the desire for conjugal love and welcome into a home is now laid before Christ as a total offering.
Thus the gesture acquires a double meaning. Historically, the perfume represented wealth and security, worth up to three hundred denarii. Theologically, in breaking the jar and pouring out its contents, the woman declares the radical surrender of her life and of her hope for human love, recognising in Jesus the true Bridegroom of her soul. She pours at the Lord’s feet not merely a material good, but her entire story—her pain and her longing to be fully loved.
The Gesture with the Hair and the Message about Confession
The woman’s gesture of wiping Jesus’ feet with her hair takes on extraordinary force when situated within the context of Jewish modesty. Married women customarily covered their heads with a veil, so that exposing one’s hair in public was considered a sign of dishonour. The Mishnah (Ketubot 7:6) even records that going out with one’s head uncovered could be grounds for reproof. The Apostle Paul himself, in 1 Cor 11:2–16, reinforces this practice by exhorting women to cover their heads. In this cultural horizon, hair was not simply part of appearance, but a symbol of honour, dignity and intimacy.
For that reason, loosening one’s hair in public, and more so using it to wipe a man’s feet, was socially unthinkable. It was a sign reserved to conjugal intimacy, something to be shared only within the bond of marriage. The scandal of the gesture, therefore, is not limited to the unusual nature of the scene, but touches directly the cultural sensibility of the onlookers, who see in it a radical breach of conventions of female decorum and honour.
In the light of spiritual interpretation, however, this gesture is revealed as an expression of total surrender. In loosening her hair before Christ, the woman seems to offer what is most intimate and personal to her, as if to say: “I have nothing left; receive my soul as Bridegroom.” She abandons the conventions that marginalise her and places herself wholly before the Lord, without reserve.
This gesture of intimacy connects deeply with the sacramental dimension of forgiveness. The scene is, in fact, an icon of the sacrament of reconciliation. Contrition is expressed in the woman’s tears; confession, though not verbalised, is manifested in her actions; absolution comes from Christ’s words: “Your sins are forgiven”; and satisfaction united to peace is expressed in the sending: “Go in peace.” This dynamic of repentance, forgiveness and reconciliation does not end in the episode, but is entrusted to the Church by Christ himself:
“Whose sins you forgive, they are forgiven” (Jn 20:22–23).
This power to bind and loose, confirmed also in Matthew 16:19 and 18:18, becomes the foundation of the sacrament of penance, as the Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches (1422–1498).
Thus the gesture with the hair not only reinforces the nuptial character of the scene, but also illuminates the sacramental nature of Christ’s mercy, which welcomes, forgives and reconciles the sinner, opening to him or her the path to a new life in communion with God.
7. Jesus’ Sermon to Simon
Jesus’ dialogue with Simon the Pharisee is constructed around a critique of a failure in hospitality. In the Semitic tradition, offering water to wash the guest’s feet, greeting him with a kiss and anointing his head with oil were basic gestures of courtesy, as seen in Gen 18:4 and Ps 23:5. These gestures were not part of the 613 prescriptions of the Mosaic Law, but expressions of respect and charity deeply rooted in the culture of the ancient Near East. In failing to perform them, Simon did not transgress the written Torah, but fell short of the greater principle of hospitality and fraternal charity.
It is in this context that Jesus presents the parable of the two debtors. Through it he teaches that true righteousness lies not in observing external formalities, but in recognising one’s own debt before God and allowing oneself to be transformed by forgiveness. The Pharisee, confident in his religious observance, does not perceive that his lack of love distances him from the heart of the Law. The sinful woman, though socially condemned, experiences divine mercy because she draws near with humility and surrender. Thus Simon did not break one of the mitzvot, but violated the greater law: that of love. In confronting him, Jesus reveals that even a public sinner may love more intensely than a man rigorous in the external practice of religion.
This message is not confined to the first-century setting. The sinful woman of Luke 7 continues to represent all those whom society today stigmatises and marginalises: people with addictions, prostitutes, those living on the streets, ex-prisoners and so many others who bear social and spiritual scars. They are called “sinners”, their names erased and their stories reduced to labels. Christ’s logic, however, is different: he calls them to faith and love, restoring their dignity and identity.
Thus Jesus’ sermon to Simon and the figure of the repentant woman unite in a contemporary, transformative message: before God, it is neither social prestige nor external observance that defines a person’s worth, but the capacity to love and to acknowledge the need for forgiveness. It is in this humble acknowledgement that true righteousness blossoms—able to restore lives and open the way to grace.
Conclusion
The episode narrated in Luke 7:36–50 constitutes one of the most dense and moving portraits of grace in the Gospel. In it, a nameless woman, burdened with stigma and marginalised by society, finds in Jesus not only welcome, but the possibility of a new life. Her story reveals the drama of exclusion: probably marked by adultery or prostitution, deprived of family protection and social dignity, she bears the weight of collective contempt. Yet it is precisely in this state of vulnerability that she becomes the protagonist of an extraordinary gesture.
The perfume kept for a wedding night—turned into savings and a sign of human hope—is poured out without reserve at Christ’s feet. Her hair, a symbol of intimacy and honour, is loosened before Him in a gesture scandalous to the culture of the time, yet laden with spiritual surrender. In these two gestures, the woman abandons her securities, her symbols of the future and her very intimacy, proclaiming in silence: “You shall be the Bridegroom of my soul.”
Jesus, for his part, not only welcomes her offering, but elevates it to a sacramental level. Her tears become an expression of contrition; her actions, an implicit confession; and from His mouth the sinner hears absolution: “Your sins are forgiven.” The sending in peace seals the reconciliation and anticipates what will be entrusted to the Church: the power to forgive sins in His name. Thus the scene becomes an icon of the sacrament of penance, where every Christian, like that woman, may experience the embrace of divine mercy.
The message, however, is not exhausted within the horizon of the past. The sinner of Luke still represents all those who live on the margins today: people with addictions, prostitutes, ex-prisoners, those without a home or a voice. Society labels them “sinners” and erases their names, but Christ calls them to faith and love, restoring the lost identity.
Consequently, the narrative is not merely a memory, but a living challenge: who is truly just? The Pharisee who fulfils conventions yet closes his heart, or the sinful woman who, recognising her misery, gives everything to the Lord? Jesus’ answer is clear: “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.” It is this same certainty that sustains the Church in her reconciling mission, and that should sustain every Christian in their life of faith: the confidence that, however great the fall, there will always be a place of forgiveness and a path back into the arms of God.