The Rev. Joseph Farnes
All Saints, Boise
Lent 5C
It’s not often that a blurb of praise on the back of a book encapsulates the experience of the book in a way that lingers in the mind long after. In this case, it was a woman praising the author for the book’s raw insights into grieving and mourning for a parent. In her praise, she wrote how this book was like “messages in bottles, sent from an island I knew I would one day visit but that I hoped to stay away from as long as possible.”[1] She knew that one day she would be mourning the death of her parents, and thanked the author for giving her the gift of glimpsing into what her future would be like on that day.
In reading that blurb on the back of that book, her words became mine. One day, I, too, will be unable to call up my parents or go home to see them. As the years go on, I know that the experience gets closer. My life will be shaken that day. The ones who nourished me and guided me and shared my entire journey of life will one day no longer be there walking with me in the world. One day I will have to say, “goodbye.”
Was it this kind of thought that was going through Mary’s head when Jesus said those words about his impending death? Did her heart stop like mine, wanting to say, “No, no, that can’t happen!” Something inside had urged her to take this expensive perfume from a far-away land, this perfume that would cost nearly a year’s wages, and something inside called her to anoint Jesus’ feet with it.
Something had driven her to uncover her hair in front of her guests and to wipe his feet with them. Something inside felt that no other perfume would have been good enough to care for Jesus’ dirty feet than this expensive one. In her heart she felt that no towel would have sufficed but her hair, even if uncovering her hair would be scandalous to the guests in her house. She anointed his feet, not his head. She didn’t want to anoint him like a king. She wanted to rub this fragrance on his feet that must be so tired after a long day. She wanted to show this wonderful friend of hers how much she loved him. She knew in her heart that loving him meant to love someone even greater. Loving Jesus brought her to love not just him but to love God through him.
Mary felt in her heart that she needed to do all these things, and now Jesus was telling her what was ahead for him: death and burial. In anointing his feet and wiping them with her hair, Mary had just helped prepare Jesus for his burial. His death was not far away on some island that she would one day visit. His death was close at hand, and she would be there to see that day.
One day soon she would have to mourn this human, this one who had brought her brother, Lazarus, back from the dead. One day soon, the one who had power over life and death would experience death and leave her among the living. One day soon she would have to mourn this human being who was eating the dinner her sister Martha had prepared. One day soon she would have to mourn the end of his life, and here he was telling her that this day was coming sooner than she might have prepared herself for.
And yet the stinging reproach of Judas was still ringing in her ears. Why didn’t she sell this indulgent fragrance and give the money away to those who truly needed it, to those who really deserved it? Did she love this human being more than the poor? How dare she do this disgraceful and extravagant thing! How dare she love Jesus like this! The world ridicules such extravagant love. The world demands that limits be placed and that justice be done first.
From Jesus’ lips comes her defense: Leave her alone, Judas! She bought this perfume for my burial. You will always have the poor to love, but I will not always be around for you to show me that you love me. In the moments after this extravagant act, the scent of the perfume hung in the air. The scent of Mary’s act of love filled the house for this dear friend who would soon no longer be there to walk with her and dine at her table, and the smell was heavenly like the incense offering at the temple.
Soon the disciples will find Jesus washing their feet. The master will soon be washing the feet of his servants, and he will call them friends and command them to love one another just as he loved them. Jesus washes their feet but does not anoint them with extravagant perfume. The extravagance of his love for them has been in sharing the journey with them, in teaching them, in caring for them. His love fills not just the air but the whole world.
We all know that grief is a frequent companion in the journey. We wish it weren’t so. We wish that we didn’t have to say goodbye to people we love. We wish that death were vanquished completely now – that we had no need to fear, that nothing painful would ever happen again. I wish it weren’t so.
Grief is a constant companion – and so is love. The love of Christ is a constant companion, if we watch for it, listen for it, let it flow into us and through us – and the love for Christ, the love of Mary for Jesus, that love of hers that drove her to anoint his feet and wipe them with her hair – that extravagant love that runs wild and impulsive – that love is a constant, too. We were made for love. To love, to be loved. Love one another that you may love Christ through each other. To love another person on this side of the grave is to smell the extravagant perfume with which Mary anoints Jesus’ feet. To love another person on this side of the grave is to let your lungs and body be filled with the love of God for this person and for all creation.
May the love of Mary for her friend teach you how to love. May you love extravagantly. May your love for one another and for Jesus be even half as fragrant as Mary’s perfume – filling not just the house, but the entirety of your life, the entirety of the world. Amen.
[1] Barbara Brown Taylor. Foreword and back cover to A Sorrow Shared by Henri J. M. Nouwen. Notre Dame, IN: Ave Maria Press, 2010.