This morning, let’s take a journey back 2,000 years and go to a very special dinner.

The time is two days before the Feast of Passover.  Jesus has already made his triumphal entry into Jerusalem and overthrown the tables of the moneychangers in the temple, restoring it to a house of prayer.  He has spent hours teaching openly of the last things, even disputing his enemies.  Events are propelling him toward the crucifixion on Friday.  It is dangerous for Jesus to be out in public, and he knows it.  He knows that the authorities are already laying plans to have him arrested; it is just a matter of time now.

 

But tonight, Jesus is sharing a meal with some of his followers at the home of Simon, a leper he has healed.  Visualize the scene as Mark describes it in the passage we just heard; picture yourself among the group of dinner guests.

 

As you eat, a woman enters the room, carrying a long-necked alabaster flask.  She attracts your attention immediately.  Moving with assurance and a sense of purpose, and ignoring the other guests at the banquet, she makes her way directly to Jesus.  Gently, she breaks the bottle at its slender neck and slowly, lovingly pours its contents on his head. 

 

Instantly, the room is filled with a sharp scent somewhere between mint and ginseng.  You recognize the aroma immediately; it is nard, an expensive perfumed ointment that comes all the way from India.  The fragrant oil drips down Jesus’ face and beard.  As great sobs wrack her slender frame, the woman kneels at his feet and pours the remainder of the perfume over them.  She then takes the ends of her long black hair and uses them as a towel, tenderly wiping the excess off of Jesus.

 

You wonder why she is there, an uninvited woman in a roomful of men, and you wonder why she has poured out something so costly onto Jesus.  You think to yourself that she should have saved the perfume for a more appropriate occasion – her wedding, perhaps – or as security for her old age.

 

You are not the only one to question the woman’s actions.  Someone on your right mutters, “That must have cost three hundred denarii” -- a whole year’s wages.  The crowd around you begins to murmur, and someone on your left says indignantly, “This ointment could have been sold and the money given to the poor.”  This fellow has a point, and all eyes look toward Jesus; surely, this champion of the poor will admonish the woman for her wastefulness.

 

But Jesus’ response is startling.  He, who always puts others’ needs ahead of his own, suddenly seems to enjoy being pampered.  “Let her alone!” he commands.  “Why do you trouble her?”  You are surprised by the sharpness of his tone.  Jesus gives the woman a smile of approval, then looks back at his followers who have criticized her.  “She has performed a good service to me,” he says.

 

“Good service.”  These are words of high praise coming from Jesus’ lips.  Perhaps he senses surprise in the room at the extravagance of his approval, because he goes on to explain, “you always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish; but you will not always have me.  She has done what she could.  She has anointed my body beforehand for its burial.  Truly I tell you, whenever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.”

 

Mark’s story is brief, and it leaves much to our imagination.  Who is this “Simon the leper” whom Jesus chooses to visit?  Who are the others at the meal?  And who is the woman, the central figure of the story? 

 

Mark’s account leaves many unanswered questions, because his focus is not on the who of the story but rather on what happens.  The woman’s action, the criticism of those who watch, Jesus’ re-action – these carry the weight of the story for Mark.

 

Like many of his teachings, the words of Jesus in this passage catch us by surprise.  It’s hard to imagine his criticizing the disciples for their concern for the poor.  Throughout his ministry, he has shown concern and kindness to all who lived on the margins of society.  But this story is not about caring for the poor; it is about compassion – compassion for Jesus.

 

As Jesus sits with his 12 disciples, and hears them criticize this woman for her wastefulness, he realizes that they still don’t understand him.  For three years, they have heard him preach and watched him heal; for three years, he has tried to explain his mission.  And three times in Mark’s gospel leading up to this passage, he has told them that he going to suffer and die, and then rise again on the third day.  But how do they react?  Peter rebukes Jesus for saying such a thing [9:31], and James and John ignore his words altogether, instead asking to be seated next to Jesus, to his right and his left, in glory [10:37].  In other words, Jesus’ closest circle of friends simply don’t understand what’s going to happen.  They just don’t get it.

 

And then along comes this woman, who does understand.  She is the first of Jesus’ followers to get the message.  She sees Jesus for who he is, and she anoints his head, just as the priests in Israel anointed the head of a king at his inauguration, as a sign that he had been chosen by God.  Her actions are her way of saying to Jesus:  “You are God’s Chosen One.  You are the Messiah.”

 

And she also anoints him in understanding of what he is about to do: suffer and die for the sake of a broken world.  Anointing with oil was a burial practice among the Hebrews.  It was a tender ritual, usually performed by family members.  When someone beloved died, they would lay out the body, wash it carefully, anoint it with perfumed oil, and then wrap it in linen cloths for burial.  The woman realizes that if Jesus dies and then rises on the third day, she is not going to have the opportunity to anoint him.  So she decides to it there at the dinner banquet, before his death.

 

This woman’s gesture is not only a priestly act, but a prophetic one.  She anoints him because she truly believes he is the Messiah – believes him even before the resurrection, believes him because he has said so.  By her actions, she says to Jesus: “I know who you are and what you are going through.  You are the Lord, and you are getting ready to die, for us.  And so, let me do this final thing for you.”

 

In the Gospels, this woman is the first believer – the first “Christian,” if you will.  And in all the Gospels, this is the only account of anyone saying goodbye to Jesus, and she says it with an act of incredible love.  She knows she cannot stop the forces that will lead to Jesus’ death.  She knows she cannot prevent his pain or ease his loneliness as he begins his journey toward Golgotha.  But there is something she can do.  She has an alabaster jar of expensive ointment with which she can anoint this king, this one who is about to die.  Her gift is expensive, but the love behind it is priceless.

 

Jesus knows that what the woman pours out on him, ultimately, isn’t perfume, however costly; it is love she pours out on him, and gratitude.  A woman’s poured-out perfume, poured-out tears, poured-out heart tells Jesus how much she cares, how grateful she is, and how much she loves him.

 

Her gift is abundant, abundant as God’s grace. 

 

It is excessive, as excessive as God’s mercy.

 

It is lavish, as lavish as the love God pours out on humanity

 

Her gift is extravagant, as extravagant as a life opened and offered for us.

Priceless jar, broken, poured out for him.  No thought of cost.  No thought of cost.

Priceless life, broken, poured out for us.  No thought of cost.  No thought of cost.

 

Amen.