The Harlot's Supper: Burnt Bread and Bitter Wine

Introduction
The book of Hosea is a story about a struggle, a battle of wills. It graphically illustrates the war between love and lust, truth and lies, and redemption and judgment. It is a story about a husband and wife, a God and a country, sex and politics, love and money, wine and bread. It is poetry; emotional, gripping and raw. This is a theological essay on chapter seven of the book of Hosea. It seems strange to begin a chain of thoughts in the middle of a story instead of staring at the beginning, but this tale does not spin in a rigid, sequential fashion. It is a collection of poems that act as spokes in a wheel, the hub of which is the truth that the metaphor represents.
My purpose in writing this paper is not to dissect the narrative and theorize about historical details and trivial facts, or to overanalyze every metaphor, raping it of its powerful imagery, nor is it to merely recapitulate the story that has already been authored. My purpose is to paint a picture. My pen is a brush and my words are paint. It is up to you, the reader, to allow the ink inscribed in parallel lines to come alive and illustrate themselves onto the canvas of your imagination with vivid colors and strokes, creating a masterpiece worth a thousand of my feeble phrases, my awkward attempt to delineate the truth that has been revealed to me.
As I write, I sit before a mirror so that I may examine my subject closely. For this is, in fact, a self portrait. I pray for humility, that my brush strokes will be honest and not attempt to cover up my many blemishes and flaws. I also pray that you, the reader, will see your reflection clearly in this painting, for it is not only a self-portrayal but an illustration of humanity. We are all the unfaithful bride; whore’s saved by grace.

The harlot’s supper: Burnt Bread and Bitter Wine

She didn’t think anyone could see her when she fornicated on her bed, but he was there. As her body was being pillaged, a thief crept into her temple, under cover of the night and carved out her heart leaving behind an empty catacomb of nothingness, a shadow with no substance, an empty house with snakes wilting on the steps.
Those beautiful stained glass windows to her soul, once illuminated with love and truth are now vacant and cold. Her eyes aren’t as bright as they used to be, as they were in the days of her youth. Her innocence is gone. She has been defiled. She allowed a stranger to desecrate her temple. She lay with him in exchange for his bread and his wine. He entered into her, parted the curtain that separated the holy place from the most holy of holies and spilled his seed of deception on her alter, impregnating her with his lies causing her to birth illegitimate children. She is a whore.
Her husband is devastated. In his anger he stripped off her filthy rags of righteousness. She lied there naked on the marriage bed, her shame revealed, her sin as exposed as her bare breasts. He knew she had been with someone else. He was filled with anger and jealousy; he could feel the blood in his veins run hot. How could she? How could she do this after all he had been through for her? He longed to restore her to himself and to rescue her from her captivity, but her sin he could not ignore. It was right in front of his face, but he could not bear to turn his back on her. He would not.
She had sold herself back to the abusive master he had bought her from. The price had been paid in full, she was free, she didn’t have to wear that red dress anymore but still she turned away from him and subjected herself once again to the life of a prostitute, calling to her lovers as a dim-witted dove calls for a mate, soliciting cheap tricks on every corner, beneath every street light; sleeping in a den of thieves when what she really longed for was a home.
How could she forget him? How could she rip out his heart and cast aside the gifts he had lavished upon her? The covenant she had broken; the sacred document, their certificate of marriage, signed in blood, she had not remembered. The fiery coals of her passion had smoldered in her heart all night, and like kneaded dough that rises without having to be stirred, blazing into a fire at dawn and consumed her king.
He cried out in his anger, his face flushed with rage, he turned over the table, spilling her wages of harlotry on the floor and raised his hand to strike her…but he couldn’t. How could he? As he looked down at her, shivering and helpless, naked, wounded and broken, his heart was changed within him; all of his compassion was aroused and he remembered.
Every night he dreams of days gone by when she rested comfortably in his arms. She dwelt with him in his house, walking beside still waters and lying down in the greenest of pastures. He remembered her beautiful eyes gazing up into his, bright with love and devotion, fully trusting. He was desperate for her to respond that way to him again, the way she did in her youth. He missed her so much, he ached to hear once more, the song she used to sing to him, the one that made him cry. He wanted so badly to restore her to her home, to wrap her in his loving arms, to feel the warmth of her tears of joy when they shared their most intimate and passionate moments together. Every fiber of his being screamed out her name.
The candles were lit, a feast was prepared, but the place he had set at his table for her was empty. He longed to hear her knock on the door. He ached for her return. If only she would come to him. If only she would call out to him, he would restore her and bind up her wounds.
He pleads with her, his heart torn in two. The woman he adores has betrayed him. He pursues her, he fights for her, he woos her, but she does not respond. He whispered to her but she didn’t hear. He spoke to her but she ignored him. He shouted from the roof-tops, but she was oblivious. He sent her letters that remained unread and messengers unheeded and finally he was beaten, whipped and nailed to a tree on a hill for her to see, but she was blind.
Though she slay him, he paid the price for her, a ransom to set her free. He gave everything he had. Her insults were thorns in his brow. Her lies were nails in his hands. Her adultery a spear in his side. But, still he loved her and offered himself to her; bread of life, broken for her iniquity; new wine, poured from his veins that were pierced for her transgressions. But she did not accept his sacrifice. She turned away from him and called upon her lovers-her captors. In her hunger she wailed on her bed and slashed her wrists to receive a harlot’s supper: burnt bread and bitter wine.