A Fourth Church Sermon by Jocelyn C. Cadwallader

March 21, 2010 | 4:00 p.m.

Pure Nard

Jocelyn C. Cadwallader
Pastoral Resident, Fourth Presbyterian Church

John 12:1–8

Picture the scene. Jesus is sitting at the table among friends. Perhaps you are there with them. Also among them is Lazarus, a man, a friend, who was dead just days before and had been raised, and his sisters are there too. Martha is in the kitchen, preparing the meal, pacing back and forth from the kitchen to the table, serving the meal, relishing the opportunity to host and serve.

The atmosphere is celebratory, perhaps laced with a hint of disbelief yet steeped in joyous gratitude for a multitude of reasons, ranging from Lazarus being raised from the dead to their being in the presence of the one whom they know to be the Messiah. And Mary enters in. She is carrying a container of sorts, a jar perhaps, and as she passes by, behind the other guests, on her way across the room to greet Jesus, the scent of perfume wafts through the air. She opens the jar, the scent becomes stronger, and it becomes clear to everyone at the table that what she has in her hands is more significant than a simple jar.

The scent is memorable. It heightens the aroma that was gently lingering in their nostrils when they arrived at the table. The scent is of the ointment, the perfume used to anoint a body upon its burial.

They were at a funeral not long ago—Mary and Martha were. They had buried their brother, anointed his body with perfume, and laid him to rest. A few days later, Jesus arrived and called out Lazarus’s name and commanded their brother to rise and come out of the tomb.

The scent of the perfume in Mary’s hands lingers in the nostrils. It stirs memories, recalls memories of the burial. These memories are not articulated with words, but these are memories of the body that are felt, memories sensed. And as Mary opens the jar, the scent ushers in the memories of the past.

You see her empty the jar upon the feet of Jesus. Perhaps a little confusion enters into the picture: why did she use so much, the scent getting close to the point of pungent as the volume pours out of the jar, soaks into Jesus’ skin, soaks into her hair, wafts and fills the air. And as the memories of the senses recall the past, the minds of those around the table can’t help but wonder what is ahead. Jesus is the one to speak first of that, acknowledging that he will not always be with them.

A question that I’ve been pondering: I wonder whether Mary knew of the position she was in? Was she was anointing Jesus’ feet out of appreciation, out of affection, out of love? Was she acting out of pure experience of love, like a young couple in love, unaware of the world around them, unaware of what might be ahead? Or, as Mary looked to the past, what had happened, what was happening in Jesus’ life and all that led to her love of Jesus, was she also intentionally encouraging those around the table to look forward to what was ahead in Jesus? Was she trying to invite the dinner guests, the readers of this story, to anticipate what is to come? Was she aware that she was on the cusp of what was and what is to come?

It seems to me that perhaps Mary’s anointing Jesus’ feet in this way models how to love in real time, in present time. She is showing those dinner guests—and us—how to love in this moment. She based her actions on the experiences of the past and she looks forward to what is ahead and she appreciates the present time. Can you imagine that moment?

Now before we get further into the lesson on love that Mary has for us here, there are two distinctions that I would like to make about this love that she is showing. First of all, when I speak of the love between Mary and Jesus, I do not mean to imply a sexual love. I do mean to imply an intimate love, however. There is an intimate relationship happening where at various points in their journey as friends, they share vulnerabilities with one another, weep with one another, share meals with one another, mutually respect one another. And second, when reading this text, we see Mary on the ground, kneeling at Jesus’ feet and, I have a sense of caution here.

I am appreciative of the words of Debbie Blue, author of Sensual Orthodoxy, to help me out on the physical placement of individuals in the story. Mary is not kneeling because that is the place where a truly devoted woman should be nor is it necessary to place oneself in a demeaning position to engage in devoted relationship. Blue says that, “If we hear (or learn or feel) from this text that what God wants of us is for us to get down on our knees in a demeaning posture and perform a demeaning act, if we believe this is what it means to worship God, to be a disciple of Jesus, it might make us feel all sorts of things: a little afraid, maybe angry or disgusted or apathetic or entirely offended but I doubt it would make us love.”

Being a disciple might not mean having to demean oneself, place oneself in a position of powerlessness, a position of humiliation. Blue articulates, “What if being a disciple is an authentic response to being loved? And what if being loved . . . actually feels like being loved?”

Love is not some abstract belief we adhere to, not like something so-called purely spiritual. Love is something that has to do with the part of us that thirsts and hungers and feels and suffers and loves and cries—our passions, our needs, what is thoroughly and essentially human in us. That is what love has to do with and through which love might be experienced. Through this experience of love, we find ways to show that love that dwells inside. We find ways to express that love outwardly, honestly, genuinely. It seems to me that this is what Mary was experiencing, having felt Jesus engage with that part of her who thirsts and hungers, feels, suffers, loves, and cries. Jesus has engaged her passions, her needs, and her love, experienced in the present, manifested outwardly in this way, and she engaged him.

The other day, I went to get my hair cut. I go to the Aveda Institute, where students cut my hair. They have a whole process in which they are trained. They begin the session with an aroma, a stress-relieving therapy moment in which they dab about fifteen drops of scented oil on the head and then massage both the head and the shoulders. Then they move on to the shampooing and the cutting, etc. This week, as I’ve been pondering Mary’s actions, I was struck in this moment. In the midst of a busy week where I have found myself surrounded by people, rare a moment of quiet, I sat down in the chair, awakened my senses to the aroma of the oil, and I experienced someone touch me. I couldn’t help but think about the moment between Mary and Jesus. Jesus, this man who has spent the last few days weeping over the loss of a dear friend, raising him from the dead so that the people might understand more of who Jesus is, always surrounded by crowds of people wanting to be in his presence, to be touched by him, comes to the dinner table. A fragrance enters into the air, and someone touches him. An act of love takes place.

Can you smell the scents of the perfume? Or are you more concerned now by the words Jesus speaks? I could find myself sitting there, at the table, feeling baffled that Lazarus is there at the head of the table, once again, unexpectedly, miraculously, and this one, this Jesus, is there too. Judas, always worried about the money at stake, is there. Thank you, Martha, for the meal. But what did Jesus mean by saying he would not be with us much longer? We will always have the poor but not him? Is something going to happen to him? Mary is anointing him with the perfume of a burial—is he in danger? What’s going to happen to him? What will happen to us without him? The worry builds inside of me as I’m looking to the future. Worrying about what is to come, playing the guessing game, of sorts, and feeling the stress build inside of me.

But this woman on the ground, this Mary, acting in this foolish way—he has done such wonderful things for her, didn’t she hear what he just said? What is she doing? Doesn’t she recognize that he’s not going to be here much longer? Isn’t she worried, like I am, about what’s going to happen to her when he’s no longer here?

Mary doesn’t seem to be worried, like I am. In the passage immediately preceding this text, Jesus raised Mary’s brother Lazarus from the dead. It’s not explicit in the text, but it seems implicit to me that part of what she does and feels, this love welling up inside of her, is partly a response to that. Because of her faith, because of what Jesus has done for her, what she has seen him do in her life, based on her experiences of the past, it makes sense that she loves him. Her love has never been in question, only her actions at this dinner table.

This is the balance that Mary seems to keep at that dinner party. She loves Jesus. She desires to be his disciple, to follow him and honor him. She is aware of what might come; she heard what he said. And she’s carefully living into the moment at hand. She has the opportunity to pour out her emotions, her affections, her love for Jesus, in the moment. And frankly, what human who loves doesn’t act seemingly foolish at times? What human who loves doesn’t act lavishly for the one they love? A mother buys her daughter that silly pair of shoes that she loves so much. A father keeps his children from going to school one day to take them to opening day at the ballpark to spend time with them. A couple holds hands and runs through the park, tracing their names in the sand on the beach along Lake Michigan. A friend throws a surprise party for her best friend just to lift their spirits after a hard year. When given the opportunity, people find ways to express, in seemingly foolish ways, the love they feel for another. Perhaps foolish in the eyes of Judas, but meaningful in the hearts of those caught in the act.

And maybe we can catch a glimpse somehow from this story of something about God’s love, how God responds to us in love. Not necessarily how we expect God to respond, but how God has faithfully responded to us in love, both as a community and as individuals. How might we respond to God’s love; recognize that God’s love is just that good? “God’s love is [so] connected to what we need, to our guts, to our passion, to our essential primal humanness. And worshiping, loving God is our natural, real, uncalculated, unselfconscious response to that love.” We don’t have to fake it. Our worship, our prayer, our song, our interactions with one another in love is a response to a love that is so good that you want to, that you will, pour out your emotions in the moment, just as Mary did.

As I sit at this table, I am reminded of all that has happened to bring me to this place. The joys, the sorrows, the hardships, the accomplishments, the places in which I felt I fit and the paths that took me down bunny trails. I am reminded of the past that has brought me to this table, and I am also looking ahead, looking ahead to what’s to come, looking ahead to what might be beyond that horizon, to the cross that stands before Jesus, and I am in the present moment.

And for this moment, I give thanks. Amen.