Friend of Sinners

Good people know their place

and would never touch me,

much less look me in the eye,

probably for fear of contamination.

They speak mostly of me—not to me—

and then, of course, only from a holy distance.

I am a sinner.

In averting their eyes,

they never see me—

never see my awkward hands,

fumbling to grasp their rules;

never see my feet,

passing as close as I dare to the synagogue;

never see my collapsed form,

heaving with sobs of frustration.

I am too condemned even to look at.

I pretend that I am strong,

gripping my basket with both hands

all the way to the market,

but I feel their judgement

scorching like the sun on skin

and going deeper—

burning another hole in my heart.

I will try harder, I vow to myself,

but still—I know it’s no use—

I will never be good enough.

I know what God does to sinners—

He sends floods,

fire and brimstone,

pestilence, disease,

earthqua—

Who are You?

Calling out to me,

running after me,

Your eyes meeting mine,

inviting me to eat.

Jesus?

I do not know You,

and You must not know me—

I am a sinner.

But You know?

…And You came for me…

Oh!

I drop my basket,

following You through the streets,

unconscious of the stares.

You take me to the others—

sinners gathered around a humble meal.

You sit and eat and talk with us.

Maybe God does have mercy—

I am home.

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