Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, "Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” (John 12:1-8 NRSV)
I knew that visit was different.
Perhaps, it didn’t seem very different. Jesus had visited our small village
often. It was convenient for him. You see, Bethany, was so close to Jerusalem,
only a mile and a half away. And it was
so small and secluded, just a few hundred people living across the Mount of
Olives, east of Jerusalem. So
peaceful. Full of palm trees rustling in
the breeze coming out of the valley.
Hidden away from the bustling noises of the nearly 50,000 people who
lived in Jerusalem. Bethany was a
beautiful place. And it was only an
hour’s walk from Bethany into the city.
So, it was a perfect place for Jesus to come and rest and be
refreshed.
He would stop to visit my sister, Martha, and I. Or he would stay overnight in our village,
sometimes with Lazarus, our brother. Or
with our neighbor and friend, Simon, who Jesus had healed from leprosy.
But, that visit.
Well, there was something different about that visit. Something different from all of the
rest.
It had only been a few weeks since Jesus had raised my
brother, Lazarus, from the dead. I think
you know the story. How Lazarus had
become sick and we had sent for Jesus, who was across the Jordan, east of
Jericho. The road from Bethany to
Jericho was 45 miles--a three day’s walk.
We sent for Jesus when Lazarus became sick, thinking that he
would respond immediately. That he would
come to heal our brother, who we knew was one of his closest friends. Yet, he didn’t come until several days
later. Until after our kind, sweet,
quiet brother was already dead and in the tomb for three days.
I’d anointed his body for the burial. Our family had accumulated a large amount of
anointing oil--over a pound of pure nard.
Or, as you measure it, over 12 ounces.
Nard was a rare oil.
It was imported from Nepal, northeast of India. We imported nearly all of our spices from the
Far East, but nard--well, nard was something special. Along with frankincense and myrrh, nard, made
from the spikenard plant, was very rare.
Because it was so rare, it was also very expensive. We had saved up small quantities of it, so
that we might use it to anoint the bodies of family and friends for burial. We were so frugal in our use. Over time, we had accumulated a pound, which
was a large amount--an amount that if sold in the marketplace would bring half
of a year’s salary, which in your currency was nearly $30,000.
We were not wealthy people.
This was the most expensive thing we owned. It was very precious to us. I kept it in an alabaster jar, stored away in
a small cupboard. Only Martha and I knew
where it was kept.
After Lazarus died, I was nearly inconsolable with
grief. The professional mourners in our
village had long since left, yet I continued to grieve. I was so distraught over his death. But, even more than that, I grieved that
Jesus, in whom I had trusted and believed and who loved Lazarus like a brother,
had not come when we called. And there
was no message. Nothing. Lazarus had died. So had my faith in Jesus.
And, then, he came.
My sister, Martha, greeted him with an accusation, in such a loud voice
I could hear it from inside our house.
“Where were you? If only you had
been here, Lazarus would not be dead!”
I went outside. I was
crying. When I reached Jesus, I crumpled
at his feet, sobbing. He looked at
me. And, then, he, too, began to
cry. He started to walk to the tomb
where Lazarus was buried. We followed him. When he arrived, he ordered the stone removed
from the entrance. Then, in a loud
voice, he called for Lazarus to come out. And he did. Alive.
Jesus had raised my brother from the dead.
Things began to change from that point. The story spread. Large crowds of people began to follow Jesus
and his small group of disciples. Crowds
numbering in the thousands. It was as
though this sign--this raising of my brother from death to life--this was the
sign the people needed to truly believe that Jesus was the Messiah to us for
thousands of years. It was him!
The more people saw my brother, the more the story
spread. And the greater the crowds
became. Our religious leaders began to
feel threatened. You see, Jesus had not
hesitated to challenge them. He had not
hesitated to stand up to them and to publicly accuse them of corrupting our
beliefs. They hated him. And, then, when Jesus said he was the Messiah
and they saw Lazarus alive, and the crowd of believers growing--well, things
began to happen. Their hate turned into
action. They made a plan, a plan to kill
both Jesus and Lazarus. A plan that even
involved Judas, our friend and one of the twelve.
But, at the time Jesus came to our house on that Saturday
evening, six days before the Passover, I didn’t understand all of this. You have a saying--that hindsight is
20/20. That’s very true. I understand everything now. But, then, I didn’t. At least not fully.
Yet, I could feel that this visit was different. There was something in the air. Tension, sadness, excitement? All of these
wrapped into one? It’s hard to name, but I could feel it. I could feel it just like I feel the wind
blowing. And, perhaps, it was the wind
that blew into me that evening, that breathed in me and caused me to do what I
did.
You see what I did was completely improper. No woman of good standing would have let down
her hair like that. No woman of good
standing would have even considered anointing a man with oil. Men anointed men. Kings anointed kings. Women--well, women only anointed dead men and
dead kings.
Yet, Jesus never seemed to care about these rules and
conventions. He never seemed to see me, a woman, in any way that was different
from from any man or from anyone else.
So, as Jesus and Lazarus and the others reclined around the
table after dinner--a dinner served, of course, by my dear sister, Martha--as
they reclined there, I went to that small cupboard and I took out that
alabaster jar that contained everything of value to us.
And I broke it open and poured it onto Jesus’ feet. Not his head, but onto his feet. As a slave would have poured oil onto the
feet of her master. And, then, I let down
my hair and I used it to wipe Jesus’ feet.
Perhaps, my gestures were too intimate. Perhaps, they were too extravagant. Yet, in that moment, I looked into his eyes
and I knew that they were right. And, in
that room filled with the beautiful fragrance from the oil, I knew that I was
deeply loved by him. I felt like the bride hearing the bridegroom speak the
poetic words to her from Song of Songs: “Your plants are an orchard of
pomegranates with pleasant fruits, fragrant henna with spikenard, spikenard and
saffron, calamus and cinnamon, with every kind of incense tree, with myrrh and
aloes, and all the finest spices.”
The reaction from the others was immediate. Judas--that betrayer, that non-believer--led
it, condemning me for using all of this expensive oil on the Jesus’ feet,
instead of selling it to help the poor.
As though I had never helped the poor in our village.
But you know what that’s like--when you give wholeheartedly
to help the poor or the hungry and are immediately criticized by those who talk
about helping others, but do nothing about it.
It seems that good and true actions always bring immediate criticism.
Jesus’ reaction was immediate, too. He told Judas to leave me alone. And then he said these words, words that I
didn’t understand then, but do now.
“This perfume was to be used in preparation for my burial and this is
how she has used it.” I didn’t know then
what I know now--that we would never have had the opportunity to use this oil
to prepare Jesus’ body for burial.
Jesus said something else, something that may seem
confusing. “You always have the poor
with you, but you do not always have me.”
Those of with him, we knew what he meant. We understand that he was quoting only part
of a verse from Deuteronomy, a verse that reads in full, “Poor persons will
never disappear from the earth. That’s
why I’m giving you this command: you must open your hand generously to your
fellow Israelites, to the needy among you, and to the poor who live with you in
your land.” (Deut. 15:11, CEB)
We understood at least this much then. But there was so much more to
understand. And that’s why this visit
was so different. Because, from this
visit things began to happen that allowed me and the others to understand why
Jesus had come to earth. It began with
this visit.
You see, the very next day, Jesus would ride a donkey into
Jerusalem, into the crowd of thousands gathered from the countryside to
celebrate the Passover and to celebrate this man about whom they had heard so
much. And then, just as quickly, to turn
on him and crucify him.
In hindsight, I now understand everything. I understand that Jesus generously and
abundantly gave his own life on the cross for me and for you. Generously and abundantly. Sparing no expense.
And I also understand that I should live and serve just as
he did--giving generously and abundantly of myself and my gifts to serve others,
especially those in need.
That’s why this visit was so different. May you go and do the same.
