Mary, Martha, and Jesus
I don't know. Is anyone besides me uncomfortable with this week's assigned gospel reading from the Revised Common Lectionary, John 12:1-8? I mean, when Jesus says, "You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me (verse 8)," doesn't that strike you as a little arrogant? And what do we do with the very troubling character of Judas? In the other gospels, he's kind of a pathetic betrayer. He tries to give his blood money back to the priests, and he kills himself in anguished remorse for his act of betrayal. In John's gospel, he's just a greedy thief (verse 6). Also, how do we handle the fact that all four gospels have a different variation of what is obviously the same story?
Okay. That last question doesn't bother me so much because I don't think the Bible authors gave a rip about historical accuracy. I just take each story on its own merits and try to figure out what point the evangelist was trying to make and how the particular tale can relate to my life and issues. And I like to put myself inside the story and look at it from the point of view of one of the characters.
So who am I in this story? I know one thing: unless I die on a cross for the sins of the world, I'm not Jesus.
But imagine a dinner party given in Jesus' honor in a humble home in Bethany. Jesus is being honored because he has given the hosting family the greatest gift imaginable--he has brought the host, Lazarus, back from the dead. Lazarus lives with his two unmarried sisters who serve as hostesses. I guess they're a poor family. Maybe the three adult siblings have never married because weddings are just too expensive? There don't seem to be any servants here, either. Big sister Martha waits at table herself, while little sister Mary does the slave's work of hospitality by washing the feet of their guests.
This is all perfectly fine and dandy until Mary does something completely unexpected. She busts out a jar of pistachio nut oil--a really expensive jar, worth about twelve to eighteen grand on the open market--and she anoints Jesus' feet with it. In itself, this act makes me a bit uncomfortable because I know this oil costs a lot more than this poor girl should be spending. But then she really does something wild. She starts to wipe his feet with her hair.
Awkward.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. This is just too passionate. It's too intimate and too personal. I'm embarrassed in the face of this self-emptying adoration.
But Mary doesn't care. She doesn't think about what's right or legal or theological or practical. All she knows is that she loves this Jesus. He gave her back her brother. He turned her mourning into dancing. She can never repay him for the blessing he gave to her. All she can do is pour out her heart with this expensive foot bath in humble devotion and gratitude.
So who am I in this story? I'm Judas, of course. I can't bring myself to envy Mary's love for Jesus. I can only feel ashamed that I am unable to give myself to such passion, so I make a self-serving criticism of the woman who is capable of bestowing her heart so openly and poignantly. "Why," I ask, "was this perfume not sold and the money given to the poor?" Not that I even care about the poor, but, as the treasurer of the group, I want to see that my own needs are met. You see, I'm very good at making justifications for my own selfishness and lack of zeal.
But Jesus understands something here which neither I, Judas, nor Mary herself understand. Charity for the dead is equal in this culture to charity for the poor.
As beautiful a gift of love as Mary has given Jesus, he is about to give a greater gift--his life. And the wonderful thing he has already done for her will be as nothing compared to the wonderful thing he is about to do. He will make all things new.
May you have a blessed week, my friend. Thank you for reading. Find your passion for Jesus. Remember the poor.
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