Saugatuck Congregational Church, UCC
©Rev. Alison J. Buttrick Patton
March 13, 2016
On this fifth Sunday of Lent, we teeter on the cusp between life and death, between love and betrayal, hope and heartbreak. We are six days away from Passover. Tomorrow, Jesus will make his triumphant entry into Jerusalem where the soldiers wait to arrest him. Yesterday, Jesus stirred up a hornet’s nest by raising his friend Lazarus from the dead. Today, Jesus sits at the table of his resurrected companion, house guest to the three people who have been among his closest companions: Lazarus, Mary and Martha. On some level, they all know what awaits him. Raising Lazarus may have been the last straw, a visible, public act so outrageous that the Pharisees feared Rome would hear of it and come down hard on the entire community. A person who claimed his power came directly from God, who defied the laws of Rome and of nature, such a one could not be permitted to live. The Pharisees put a price on Jesus’ head.
So the atmosphere in that house was charged, like the air on a hot summer’s night. Beyond the walls of Lazarus’ home, soldiers combed the countryside looking for him. Inside, the man who had died less than a week ago played with his food and wondered what he should do with the rest of his resurrected life.[1] Mary and Martha, so recently weighed down by grief at their brother’s death, marveled at the magnitude of what Jesus had done. And Mary, at least, contemplated the likelihood that she’d had one beloved person restored to her, only to lose another. They all knew that things were about to get ugly.
It is in that context, already so drenched with a potent mix of emotions – gratitude, grief, hope, wonder – that Mary reached for a costly jar of scented nard, snapped open the top, dropped to her knees, and poured out the entire contents on Jesus’ dusty, calloused feet. Now, a Roman pound measures twelve ounces. So, Mary poured out a full cup and a half of that oil, thick as honey and smelling strongly of spiced lavender, until the whole room filled up with the sweet-pungent aroma, filled with the smell of her gratitude and perhaps her impending grief. “This much I thank you; this much I love you; this much I am prepared to give, even knowing where this will all lead…”
It was a radical act in so many ways. For one thing, women did not typically anoint men; other men did that, usually to consecrate the next king. For another, this jar of nard was said to cost three hundred denarii, perhaps a year’s wages for a day laborer. So Mary’s act is shockingly intimate, presumptuous, extravagant, breath-taking, jaw-dropping… and faithful.
After all, hadn’t Jesus been that outrageous, that generous, and more so, time and again? Hadn’t he surprised his followers – with 180 gallons of water turned to wine at a wedding feast; with bread enough to feed five thousand people on the banks of the Sea of Galilee; with acts of healing that changed the entire course of people’s lives? After his resurrection, the risen Christ would instruct Simon Peter to put his fishing net down on the other side of the boat, and Simon would come up with a net overflowing with sun-kissed fish, after an entire night of catching nothing.[2]
That was Jesus’ way. Because it is God’s way: extravagant generosity at every turn.
So, mirroring her Lord’s own heart, Mary poured out that oil and did not count the cost. It has occurred to me to wonder whether Mary acquired the oil after Jesus raised her brother from the dead, a thank-you gift worthy of this most amazing act, or whether the perfumed ointment had been in her possession all along – a treasure that she kept tucked away for some special occasion.
My parents have a cupboard filled with jars – jams, sauces and other treats mostly given to them by us as gifts – a jar of rhubarb ginger jam at Christmas; an exotic mustard on my dad’s birthday. Chocolate cherry sauce to pour over ice cream. One day I opened the cupboard and found the whole assortment. “When are you going to open these?” I asked them. “We were waiting for a special occasion,” they said.
A special occasion – a day worthy of the gift. How common it is for us to keep our treasures tucked away, like that. After all, once you open the jar, eat the jam or use the oil, it’s gone. The treasure is all used up. Better to save it.
But Mary did not hesitate. On that day, a week before Jesus’ death, she poured out her whole treasure, used it up in one go. Did this as a way of saying to Jesus, “You, I treasure even more than this most costly nard. You are worthy of the very best I have to offer. You are worthy of everything I have,” by which she really meant, “Everything I am.”
It is a beautiful gesture, but it also leaves me shifting uncomfortably in my seat. By that one act of gratitude and generosity, Mary makes me wonder: Am I willing to pour myself out, like that, and not count the cost? Are you? What does it even mean to give everything I have, everything I am? The playwright George Bernard Shaw once wrote,
“I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the community, and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live.”
“I want to be thoroughly used up.” It is simultaneously a compelling and a worrisome image, summoning visions of that jar of oil lovingly emptied, and also of people who are perpetually exhausted. There is so much good work to do, so much necessary, urgent work. Poverty to overcome and people to feed; violence to transform into peaceful dialogue; bigotry to banish; children to educate; diseases to cure…. It’s easy to conclude that we’ve got to pour ourselves out – got to give it everything we have, and then some, until we’ve depleted our resources. But then what?
Public theologian Billy Connor wrote this week about justice-fatigue – feeling completely wrung out – out of energy, out of words: “With all of the intractable issues in our society that seemingly won’t get right or can’t get right many justice workers and seekers of all kinds are finding themselves in need of a refreshing well of renewal.”[3]
Even Jesus needed time to rest, to eat, to pray. Indeed, it’s what he’s doing here: regrouping, preparing for the final act. Remember: this scene propels us right into the passion narrative. Once Jesus leaves the house, there will be no going back. But for now, for these few hours, Jesus rests in the company of friends, and they who have been ministered to by Jesus now minister to him.
I think this is the bit that Judas Iscariot fails to comprehend: that one extravagant act of gratitude and generosity makes the rest possible – the feeding and healing, serving and marching, confronting those dehumanizing forces that would deplete and deny us at every turn.
Tomorrow, Jesus will walk out onto the Jerusalem road, still smelling of that sweet perfume. He will climb onto a donkey and turn his face toward the gates of the city, knowing that he will be arrested there, and then put to death. As the cheers of the crowds ring in his ears, he will take a deep breath, smell the spiced lavender, remember the blessing bestowed on him by Mary. Later, as he stands before the high priest Caiaphas, that aroma may yet cling to him. When Pilate has him flogged, the scent of Mary’s perfume may mingle with the sharp sent of sweat and blood. Perhaps it will linger even as the soldiers lead him away to Golgotha; Perhaps it will give him courage, if Jesus needs courage – and don’t we all? Surely, it will remind him that there is beauty and power in pouring yourself out, in giving everything you have – not until it depletes you, but, until it fills you up – with wonder, with gratitude, with love. Because then, then, anything is possible: rivers in the desert, tyrants defeated…maybe even a resurrection.
Tell me, Sisters and Brothers in Christ: how is your spirit this Lenten season? Do you find yourself rung out? Or like Lazarus, unexpectedly given new life, are you wondering what to do next? Here is my prayer for you this season – that you might discover, or rediscover, that you are treasured by God. That somewhere along the way, you might experience God’s love poured out on you, like sweet-smelling oil. That, so anointed, so overcome by wonder and gratitude, you might find yourself inspired to unpack all your treasures, pull out all the stops, and pour out all you have – for justice, for mercy, for the uncontainable love of God.
And so may God’s whole precious world be blessed.
[1] Feasting on the Word, Year C Volume 2, Homiletical perspective, p. 141.
[2] Feasting on the Word, Year C Volume 2, Pastoral Perspective, p. 144.
[3] http://www.onscripture.com/jesus-justice-fatigue-and-why-being-black-exhausting#sthash.9mB03C9B.dpuf