A Lavish Love

Sabbath fades with the setting sun, and they gather together at table. The foreboding scent of death hangs in the air. Perhaps it lingers from the events of the last week. Jesus calling Lazarus forth from the tomb after four days might be the obvious reason for the unmistakable scent of death, but Lazarus is alive and well, reclining at the table, eating and talking. Something else is in the air. The disciples are tense. They had tried to talk Jesus out of returning to Bethany, the last time he was there the Jewish leaders tried to stone him, surely returning was not safe. And when they arrived, the home was full of mourners, many influential Jews had made the two mile trip from Jerusalem to Bethany to pay their respects to Mary and Martha on the death of their wealthy and influential brother, Lazarus.

Jesus raising Lazarus from the tomb had confirmed his status as Messiah for many and confirmed him as a threat that could not be allowed to continue for others. Caiaphas, the high priest, had decided that it was better for one man to perish than the whole nation. Jesus and the disciples had retreated to Ephraim, near the wilderness, and have spent the rest of the week quietly, not moving around publicly. In the morning, Jesus will enter Jerusalem for the Passover. But tonight, they return to Bethany.

Martha serves. The word John uses, diakonei, is the word from which we get the term deacon. John tells us that Martha is seeing to Jesus’ needs, ministering to him. The next day, as he predicts his death after entering Jerusalem, Jesus will use the same word saying, “Whoever serves me must follow me; and where I am, my servant also will be. My Father will honor the one who serves me.”

Mary quietly leaves the room and returns with a jar of anointing oil. She approaches Jesus. All eyes are on them. Will she dare to pour the oil on his head? To anoint him as king? Will this be the moment his revolution begins? Will they celebrate tonight and prepare for the fight to come? No. All eyes are on her. Instead, she kneels at his feet and breaks open the jar. The scent is unmistakable.

When we breathe in a smell, just behind our nose is a part of our brain called the olfactory bulb, it is part of our limbic system, the home of our motivations, where our memories are stored and from which our emotions emerge. We are able to distinguish a trillion different smells, and when our brains label the smell, it is linked with our memories and their accompanying emotions. Most of us have experienced having a scent overwhelm us with a memory of a special time or person. Her perfume, his after shave, your shirt the morning after a campfire, baby powder,…

Mary pours the bottle out onto Jesus’ feet, the anointing of a dead man. The air is filled with the scent of pure, undiluted nard. The oil from the root and stem of the nard plant is amber colored with a strong, sweet scent. Just days ago, a similar jar was broken in the family tomb to anoint the body of Lazarus. And in just a few days, Jesus will be the one on his knees washing the feet of his disciples. The description of the nard as pure and undiluted reveals more than its value. The root word in Greek is pistis, faith. The pouring out of this nard is the pouring out of her faith.

Now, in this moment, Mary’s entire focus is on Jesus. She pours out her love for him with no regard for custom or the thoughts of those watching. As the last drops pour from the bottle, she looks up and their eyes meet; it is as though no one else exists. She loosens her hair, something that no respectable woman does in the presence of any man except her husband. She touches his feet, again an act of intimacy shared only between husbands and wives. And then, knowing the sweet scent of the nard will linger on her, she wipes his feet with her hair.

Judas objects to the extravagant expense. Why wasn’t this bottle sold and the proceeds given to the poor? It was worth 300 denarii, a whole year’s wages for a working class person.

Rev. Andrew Prior comments on the intimacy of the scene and Judas’ discomfort. “Judas refuses to look. Whatever his motives about money, it seems to me that, at a psychological level, he is discomforted by this devotion…. His condemnation is a projection of his discomfort, and a measure of his lack of love for, and conversion to, Jesus. He is repelled by the intimacy to which he is called.”

Jesus answers the unease of all in the room, watching in stunned silence. “Leave her alone.” And he quotes Deuteronomy 15:11, “There will never cease to be some need on the earth, but you will not always have me.”

The rest of the verse they would have known, and his meaning would have been clear to them. The whole verse says, “Since there will never cease to be some in need on the earth, I therefore command you, ‘Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.’” Jesus is not saying that his disciples should not care for the poor. Jesus is not condoning waste. Jesus is not encouraging extravagant luxurious spending.

The anointing of the body when a person died was a priority, and it was expensive. The Talmud, the collection of the rabbis’ teachings, taught that the care for the dead was a priority over almsgiving, the care of the poor.

Jesus knows by Mary’s action that she understands what is to come. Without regard for custom or cost, she lavishly pours out her love.

To describe the scene is to speak in poetry. Mary lavishly pours out the oil in love, foreseeing the lavish pouring out of his life in love. To imagine the scene is to picture intimacy. Mary crosses the boundaries of proper interaction, loosening her dark tresses, stroking and wiping his feet. To study the scene is to study your own reaction.

I would like to think of myself as a minister, serving like Martha. Or as a Lazarus, feasting on the new life Jesus offers. I hope to one day be a Mary, to worship with abandon, to give generously from my heart. But all too often, I am faced with the reality that I am a Judas, in fact, we all are. We teeter between wanting to be a part of the group, part of the church, but not wanting to be all-in, fully committed disciples. We count the cost, and we measure our response. And sometimes we are even critical of others’ devotion because it makes us uncomfortable. What holds us back?

I was once having a conversation with a wealthy member, who gave a substantial amount of money to the church each year and often would give to specific causes, about his giving. I asked, “How do you decide how much to give? Do you set aside 10% for giving or another amount?” No. He hadn’t. “If I tithed,” he said, “it would be embarrassingly too much.” I was in my twenties; he was in his late 70’s. I didn’t challenge him. Many times over the years, I have replayed that conversation in my mind and wished I had responded. Not because of the money, but because of the man’s relationship with Jesus.

Mary didn’t care what others thought. Mary loved Jesus. Her gift wasn’t given for others. Her gift was a gift of lavish love. May we, like Mary, respond to the scent of death as Jesus approaches Jerusalem. May we, like Mary, understand what is to come. May we, like Mary, lavishly pour out our love.