Time to Rest

John 12:1-8
Fifth Sunday of Lent

I was talking to a non-Christian friend this week about Lent.  Turns out, a season of self-sacrifice and penitence doesn’t exactly make easy sense in our culture.  Turns out, it doesn’t always make sense to those of us who practice it; making it a little tricky to explain.  I told her that it’s about finding an order to life that is outside ourselves.  That seemed satisfying to her, but her follow-up question made it tricky again.  She asked me, “Why is it that your God always seems to call you to sacrifice?  Is sacrifice what your God wants for you?  Does God always want us to go without?”  

I’m glad I have friends in my life that stretch my faith; those were good questions.  I think that, any other week, those questions might have stumped me.  But not this week; this week, I’ve been sitting with this story about Mary.  A story, not of self-sacrifice, but of extravagant giving; there’s a difference.  A story of a woman who, by the power of God in her life, was able to see a bigger picture.  A story about a gift, returned for a gift.  A bit like what we remember here at this Table.  

I told my friend, with some confidence, that no, it is not always about self-sacrifice.  Sometimes, finding an order to life that is outside ourselves, leads us to rest and to share in God’s extravagant giving; sometimes God leads us to celebration.  

Today, as we follow Jesus toward the Cross, he leads us to a home in a suburb of Jerusalem; a place called Bethany.  It’s a home Jesus knew well: the home of his old friends Mary, Martha, and Lazarus.  By the way, this all happens right before he would walk into Jerusalem for the last time.  The parade that we will celebrate next Sunday.  

So what does he do before that, he rests in the home of his three friends.  These three were not exactly his disciples, at least not in any formal sense.  They simply seem to be his friends.  The Gospels tell of his disciples and those others who followed.  They tell us of his allies: people like John the Baptist and Nicodemus.  They certainly tell us about his enemies.  But we rarely hear about friends.  So before he continues down the difficult road before him, he rests with his friends.  

Just days before, Jesus had worked a miracle at their house.  Lazarus was sick so they sent for Jesus across the river.  If you know the story, you know how Jesus came intentionally too late.  Lazarus was dead: so dead he stank, so dead that Jesus stood in front of his tomb and wept.  Then Jesus called Lazarus from the dead Lazarus stumbled out with his death-shroud trailing after. 

So they open their home to Jesus; of course they do; wouldn’t you?  They take him in, they make him a dinner, and they give him space to rest.  Maybe Lazarus was still recovering from his four days in the tomb; that would take some time, I would think.  Maybe Martha was making a stew.  Meanwhile, Mary was up to something.  Martha was of course used to this: Mary disappearing when there’s work to be done.  Maybe, with supper on the table, no one even notice Mary come back with a jar in her hands.  The Gospels don’t record her saying a word; she just knelt at the feet of Jesus and broke open the jar.  I’m told the smell of pure nard is a sharp scent, halfway between mint and ginseng.  Then, as everyone in the room noticed her, she did four remarkable things in a row.

First, she loosened her hair in a room full of men, which an honorable woman never does.  Then she poured perfume on Jesus' feet, which is also not done.  The head, maybe—people do that to kings—but not the feet.  Then she touched him—again, a single woman rubbing a single man's feet—also not done, not even among friends.  Then she wipes the perfume off with her hair.  A surprising, extravagant, and scandalous act, end to end. 

Stories like this one can be found in all of the Gospels.  And it’s one of those cases where it’s hard to tell if the writers are remembering it differently, or if sort of thing happened a lot to Jesus.  At any rate, John is the only version (if you will) where she is named. Here, her name is “Mary,” she’s a friend of Jesus—not a stranger, not a notorious sinner—but a friend.  So why this public, scandalous, and excessive display? 

Judas states what probably others were thinking: "Why wasn't this perfume sold for a whole lot of money and given to the poor?"  It’s a good point, but Jesus, who loved and cared for the poor, doesn’t agree.   

"Leave her alone," he says.  "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."  As if to say, “Just this once, let her look after me, because my time is running out.” 

We don’t know what was going through Mary’s mind when she did what she did.  Maybe it’s simple gratitude for the life of her brother.  We do know that Jesus reads prophecy into this act; this was a message from God.  Out in the yard, a freshly vacated tomb that still smelled of burial spices, waiting for a new occupant.  The air was dense with death, and while there may at first have been some doubt about whose death it was, Mary's prophetic act revealed the truth.

When Mary stood before Jesus with that pound of pure nard in her hand, it could have gone either way.  She could have anointed his head and everyone there could have proclaimed him a king.  But she did not do that.  When she moved toward him, she dropped to her knees instead and poured the perfume on his feet, which could only mean one thing.  The only man who got his feet anointed was a dead man, and Jesus knew it.  "Leave her alone," he said to those who would have prevented her.  Let her finish delivering the message. 

So Mary rubbed his feet with perfume so precious that its sale might have fed a poor family for a year, an act so lavish that it suggests another layer to her prophecy.  There will be nothing economical about this man's death, just as there has been nothing economical about his life.  Yet, in him the extravagance of God's love is made flesh.  In him, the excessiveness of God's mercy comes into our world. 

This bottle will not be held back to be kept and admired.  This precious substance will not be saved.  Just like Jesus it will be opened, offered and used, at great price.  It will be raised up and poured out for the life of the world, emptied to the last drop.  Before that happens, Jesus will gather his friends together one last time.  At another banquet, around another supper table, with most of the same people present, Jesus will strip, tie a towel around his waist, and wash his disciples' feet.  Then he will give them a new commandment: Love one another, as I have loved you. 

At least one of the disciples will argue with him, while others will wonder if he has lost his mind.  Perhaps a few will remember Mary’s prophecy from a week before.  

At home in Bethany, the storm clouds gather and Mary gives the forecast: it will be bad, very bad, but that's no reason for Jesus' friends to lock their hearts and head to the cellar.  Whatever they need, there will be enough to go around.  Whatever they spend, there will be plenty left over.  There is no reason to fear running out—not of nard or of life—for where God is concerned, there is always more than we can ask or imagine—gifts from our lavish, extravagant Lord.  Gifts we remember as we gather around this Table.