Anointing Now

John 12:1-8

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 seated at the table with Jesus. Mary brought 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.

Now Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him) said, “Why was this perfume not sold for 300 denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this, not because he cared about the poor, but because he used to keep the common purse and would steal from what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought to 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.”

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If you’ve been around for any number of the many funerals we’ve had at Cross of Grace in the last few months (many of you know we’ve had too many funerals around Cross of Grace in the last few months), you know that Pastor Cogan does a very deliberate, careful job of inviting and encouraging those gathered to act on their grief. I mean, he goes out of his way to encourage those who are grieving and celebrating the life of someone we’ve lost to do something about that sadness – to send a card, a note, a text; to make a phone call or an appointment for lunch; to tell the stories, to share the memories, to let others who are grieving know that you’re grieving, too.

It is worthwhile, compassionate, pastoral instruction. It’s how we grieve together, love one another, give thanks for and celebrate a life well, even after the big day of someone’s funeral – a day that can’t possibly contain or cover or resolve all of the grief we carry for those we’ve loved and lost.

And I think that’s something like what Mary is up to with Jesus this morning, only in a pre-emptive sort of way.

As the story goes, Jesus returns to Bethany – where he had been before and where he had gotten into trouble for raising his friend Lazarus from the dead. And, when “raising the dead” was added to the list of things Jesus could do – people kept following him and believing in him and wanting to see more of him. And all of this worried the powers that be, so they made plans to kill Jesus because of it. They’d even given orders for anyone who knew where he was to hand him over. So, when Jesus returned to Bethany – the scene of his crime as it were – trouble was brewing.

Which is what makes Mary’s anointing so remarkable.

It was like his days were numbered, and she knew it. Like, the end was near. Like his diagnosis was terminal. Like it was time to say and to do what needed to be said and done, before it was too late.

I think, like Pastor Cogan’s encouragement at a funeral service, Mary’s anointing was a worthwhile, compassionate, pastoral example of how to love one another, to give thanks for, and to celebrate a life well – on this side of a loved one’s grave.

It’s remarkable because there was plenty of other important work to be done. Maybe they should have been hiding Jesus away somehow, not calling attention to him by dousing him with perfume. Maybe they needed to devise a scheme to get him out of town or to plan his defense. They certainly didn’t need to be wasting their time and money on nard and anointing – as far as Judas was concerned, at least.

And isn’t that always the case? Aren’t we often too busy, too distracted, too much in denial about our own mortality – or about those that we love – to say the things we wish we had said? To do the things we pretend we can put off until tomorrow? To offer the forgiveness? To make the amends? To say the hard thing? To take the trip? To make the change? To take that leap of faith, convincing ourselves there will be time for that when … when we graduate; when the kids are older; when the nest is empty; when we’re finally retired; when we have more, or make more, or when… when… when…

But Mary and Jesus show us a different way. We may never know all that was running through Jesus’ mind as he readied himself for Calvary and for his own crucifixion. Was he full of fear or faith? Was he anxious and exhilarated? Was he full of doubt or determination? Was he at peace, calm, having second thoughts, resigned … some combination of all of these things?

Whatever it was, it makes me wonder about what he longed for most, in his most human heart of hearts, in those days before his dying. And I imagine he wanted the same things we would each long for if we were given enough advance notice of our demise: to be with the people we love and with the people who love us back; to say and hear and share all