Jesus and his disciples are celebrating, eating; it’s a joyful occasion: the one who brought life is with them.  Lazarus who was dead is alive, through Jesus.  Passover was near: that ancient observance of deliverance, of the promise and power of God.  Those gathered were mindful that they were in the company of one in whom was the power of God.  Jesus had shown that power, had given that deliverance to Lazarus in a way none of them could deny.

Clouds are gathering.  The chief priests arrange to have Lazarus killed (Jn 12:10).  The ones who most ought to be celebrating the power, deliverance, and promise of God are the very ones most eager to silence that glory.  Jesus distracts the people from the plans and projects of the chief priests.  They’re not about to have Jesus saying what God wants, who God is.  They’re not about to let Jesus say what is the way to God.  All that is for the chief priests to say.  The religious authorities, arranging to have Lazarus murdered, also plan to deal with Jesus.

Beloved, our Presbyterian way took root and bore fruit in deep suspicion of human religious authority, whether of the pope and his bishops, or of the king’s bishops in the Anglican church.  All the turmoil this denomination went through over the last ten years arose out of the confirmation of those suspicions in our own religious authorities—stated clerks, seminary professors, pastors: those who ought to have guided us in God’s righteousness led us by the world’s righteousness; they couldn’t even tell the difference.  They didn’t want to.

There at Bethany, at the home of Lazarus, the chief priests’ plans are in the background.  Martha has prepared a meal and serves it—of course she has!  Where is Mary?  Martha wonders, too, but she’s resolved not to complain anymore.  Jesus was right: Mary had her calling and gifts, and so did Martha.  Martha wasn’t going to be angry that her sister wasn’t another Martha.

It’s a sumptuous meal for the time and place: savory lentil soup, cheese, dried figs and dates, walnuts, and some special things Martha had gotten for this occasion, to honor Jesus, whom she loved so greatly, who had shown such power to her and given her such blessings: Martha had splurged a bit and gotten some eggs and some rice.  To round out the meal there was, as always, an abundance of bread and wine.  All was prepared.

Still, Martha wondered where Mary had gotten off to.  She had been a little secretive ever since she learned that Jesus and his disciples would be dining with them.  Really, Mary had been different not just since Jesus gave Lazarus back to them (Martha got teary-eyed every time she thought about it): Mary had been a bit different since that visit when she just sat there, listening to Jesus.  Martha had resented this, at first, and what Jesus said to her when she complained had stung, deeply, at first, but as Martha thought upon it, as she prayed about it, and as she, also, stopped to listen to Jesus, her thinking began to change.  There were times when she wished she was more like Mary.

Seated around the table, everyone was talking, laughing, eating, passing bowls and plates, pouring wine.  There Jesus sat, radiant, somehow, and quiet, smiling but quiet.  And then there was Mary, in the doorway, trembling, her hair loose, flowing down, uncovered.  She was holding an elegant little jar.  Where had she gotten that?

The guests became silent.  She looked around at them, then at Jesus.  It was as if someone pushed her into the room, though there was no one.  She went directly over to Jesus, who sat there, watching, quiet.  She knelt at his feet—oh, that Mary!  What was she thinking?  What was she doing, now?

Mary was getting ready to do something for which she had been preparing most of her life, though she hadn’t realized it until now.  Over years she had worked, saved, allowing herself very little.  She had gathered together a sum that would have astounded Martha and Lazarus, had they known the full amount.  She had spent nearly none of it, not even for Lazarus when he died.  When Jesus raised her brother, she could hardly think.  She had hoped, she had wanted to believe, but her faith had been weak.  She had been hurt and angry with Jesus.  And she felt guilty.  She couldn’t say why, but Lazarus’ death had made her feel guilty.  And Jesus came, and Jesus spoke, and the dead lived.

Mary wanted to do something, give something, something to say how she felt, what she felt, to show Jesus, to give him . . . She hadn’t felt love like this: not for her brother or sister, not even for her parents.  Like the way she loved God, but not remote like that, not from the head, not from the surface of the heart, but from a depth there that Jesus had revealed to her.

Martha, even Lazarus, chided her for being impulsive, extravagant.  She wasn’t good at hiding what she felt; she didn’t like hiding how she felt, but she hadn’t known how to show that, give that to Jesus.  She so deeply wanted to, to give him more than words.  Then, when Martha told her Jesus would be with them today, Mary knew what she was going to do.  She knew what all that money she had saved up over all those years, all that work, all that sacrifice, was for: it was so clear to her.  She would spend it all, the sum of her life.  She would give it all to Jesus, but not just hand it over to him, as if the thing were enough.

She bought costly perfume: spicy, sweet, rich, complex, like flowers on faraway hills, that grow at the edge of deep, cool forests rising to high, snow-capped mountains, fingers reaching up to heaven.  It cost her everything, all she had.  To you and me, three hundred silver coins may sound like a lot or maybe not so much: what is silver going for, an ounce, these days?  Is that like three hundred dollars, three thousand?  What if I were to tell you $19,000?  Could Mary ever have saved up so much?  Could we?  Mary took the $19,000 she had saved over years and used it all to buy this costly perfume—she gave it all: a costly gift.  Beloved, the cost wasn’t just the money.  What does money represent?  Life.  Hours.  Time.  Effort.  Dreams.  Hopes.  Self-denial.  We may not think of money representing love—how shallow!  It can, though.  Do you work for yourself alone?  Don’t you also work for your spouse, your children, your family, your God?  Aren’t the sacrifices you make for their sake made because of love?  Who would want to work a basically thankless job for years and years just for the money, just for yourself?  Who could put up for decades with the hazards, the demands, the long hours, the travel, the weeks, sometimes months away, not to mention the supervisors, just for the money?

What Mary did, what she gave, was costly.  Everyone knew it, staggeringly, as Mary took her costly gift and poured it out for Jesus: $19,000 running over his feet, onto the dust, and Mary, kneeling there before him, her face almost in that dust, wiping his feet with her lovely, long, dark hair, unbound.

The house was full of the fragrance.  Probably for days afterwards.  No one knew what to say, at first, except for one—Judas, you think?  No.  Jesus, who said nothing.  The rest were stunned, some for joy, some for anger.

Extravagance is a strange word.  It’s basically a negative word meaning wasteful, foolishly wasteful.  It also has the sense of something lavish, which isn’t necessarily bad, which may even be good: lavish and costly.  That’s it.  Costly.  I bet many of you have spent a lot of money at one time or another on something that never did measure up to your hopes, your expectations, your dreams.  Wasted.  Stupidly wasted.  What a disappointment!  I hope that experience reinforced for you the truth that money really can’t buy you happiness, fulfillment.  The sooner we learn that lesson, and live by what we have learned, the happier we will be.

Mary didn’t care about the money more than she cared about Jesus.  She didn’t love her money, or even the labor and life that sum represented, more than she loved Jesus.  She suddenly understood, as though by a revelation, a revelation of love, a revelation of God’s love, that she was willing to give it all for Jesus, surrender all.  One extravagant, costly act, giving Jesus the best she could give, giving herself in the giving.  How long was it until Mary washed her hair, after wiping that perfumed oil on the feet of Jesus?

Jesus knows Mary knows.  She doesn’t know the details or the date; she can’t put what she knows into words, but she makes this extravagant, lavish, costly gift to Jesus understanding that he has come from God to make a costly offering himself.

Gathered today before this table, bread and juice upon it, we remember this meal, we remember this costly gift, this love, we remember this power, we remember this promise.  Beloved of God, we remember the one who calls us into life.  Take.  Eat.  Drink.  Rejoice—knowing fully your utter unworthiness, knowing your sin, rejoice: Christ came, lived, died, and rose again for your sake, to claim you, forgive you, cleanse you, feed you, to raise you.

          Worthy is the lamb who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!