I’ve written two blogs based on my recent messages from Luke 7 and was set to move on—I even started prepping some new stuff. But then I felt the Holy Spirit nudge me: “Hold up, you didn’t check in with me. Let’s stick with Luke 7 a bit longer; there’s something big you’re missing.” I like to think of myself as the extravagant worshipper, like the prostitute who crashed Simeon’s house, but the Spirit pointed me to Simeon instead—the judgmental Pharisee who’s sure he’s got it all figured out. Taking an honest look at myself through that lens might show me some things I need to deal with internally, stuff that could help me get closer to being the worshipper, the follower, the lover of Yeshua that I desire to be.

We humans are dreamers, gifted with a curious habit of casting ourselves in the softest glow. In our minds, we’re the heroes of our own tales—daydreamers like Walter Mitty spinning grand adventures, Maverick soaring through the skies in Top Gun, the lone survivor braving a cinematic disaster. Rarely do we imagine ourselves as the one who is wiped out in scene one, or the cautious administrator trying to rein in the chaos. We see ourselves with a generous lens, don’t we? A 1981 study by Ola Svenson found that 93% of American drivers rated themselves above average—a statistical impossibility, yet a telling glimpse into our hearts. As Paul gently warns in Romans 12:3, we’re prone to think more highly of ourselves than we ought, resisting the sober judgment that faith invites.

This bias follows us everywhere—into movie theatres, the quiet moments of our days, and even the pages of scripture. When we step into the story of Luke 7, we’re quick to see ourselves in the woman at Jesus’ feet. Her tears fall like a river, her hair wipes the dust from His soles, her costly perfume spills in reckless abandon. She’s broken, yes, but beautiful—an extravagant worshipper who pours out her love without restraint. We long to follow this amazing worship leader, to offer our hearts with such abandon to our creator. And yet, there’s another figure in the room we’re slower to claim or resonate with: Simeon the Pharisee, the host who invites Jesus in but keeps Him at arm’s length.

Simeon’s house hums with the presence of the divine, little does he know that his maker is reclining at the table, yet his heart stands aloof. He watches the woman’s display with a raised brow, muttering to himself, If this man were a prophet, He’d know what kind of sinner she is. He misses it—misses Jesus entirely. Jesus turns to him, voice steady but piercing: “Do you see her?” It’s a question that cuts through the noise. Do you see her tears, her offering, her love? She’s doing what you didn’t think to do. No water for dusty feet, no kiss of welcome, no oil to honour the guest. Simeon had the long awaited messiah under his roof, yet he’s blinded by his own biases. 

Synagogues once bore these words, I don’t know if they still do or not but it’s powerful. “Know whom it is that you stand before,” but Simeon was listening in familiarity.

We don’t want to be Simeon, do we? We’d rather be the woman, the one Jesus defends, the one whose faith brings her peace. But if we’re honest, there’s more of Simeon in us than we care to admit. We invite Jesus in—into our homes, our churches, our hearts—but too often, we forget whom it is that we have invited in. We dream of extravagant worship, yet settle for less. Yeshua pretty much lays it out for Simeon in an overarching sentiment of, she is an extravagant worshipper, you are not. 

We dream of a life where love pours out at His feet, but the cost—our pride, our time, our fears, our vulnerability—holds us back. Like Simeon, we’re close in proximity yet somehow distant.

Jesus’ words to Simeon linger in the air: “She has been forgiven much, so she loves much. But those who think they have little to be forgiven love little.” That’s the rub, isn’t it? The woman knew her need; Simeon assumed he had none. We’re drawn to her because we feel our own cracks, but we resist Simeon because we’d rather not face our own distance. And yet, Jesus doesn’t shame him—or us. He invites us to see.

So who are you in this story? The woman, weeping and worshipping? Simeon, distracted, judgmental, proud and detached? Maybe both. There’s no shame in the answer, only a call to sit  with Jesus and listen. 

If He sat with you now, what might He say? “I see your tears, and they’re enough,” or perhaps, “Come closer—I’m still waiting to be welcomed in.” He’s not here to condemn but to meet us—right where we stand, heroes and Pharisees alike.

We’re dreamers, yes, but we’re also dust. We long to love Him extravagantly, yet we falter in the quiet of our days. The beauty is that He sees us—both the woman we aspire to be and the Simeon we often are—and he extravagantly loves us still. Sit with Him. Bring your tears, your questions, your honest heart. His voice is calling, always drawing us deeper, always drawing us near.

Steve Deal