How Will You Greet Him?

As a child, I loved Palm Sunday. I loved having a palm branch and waving it. I loved the loud organ leading us in “All Glory, Laud, and Honor.” From my point of view, waving my palm branch, marching around, singing on the chorus, it seemed like everyone in the congregation was waving and singing.

It was hard for me to imagine how the crowd that had gathered to praise him as he entered Jerusalem didn’t defend Jesus as charges were brought and sentencing handed down, as lots were cast for his clothes and nails were driven into his hands and feet.
It is easier now, for me to understand. It is easier as I experience the constraint of proper decorum as we enter worship with my palm branch. The kids wave them, but the rest of us hold them, or “leave them for the kids.” But as Jesus rode into Jerusalem, there was no restraint in the crowd. “Hosanna!” they shouted, “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord!”
 
Suddenly the shouts turn to whispers. All four Gospels tell this story, in each a woman approaches Jesus at the dinner table and breaks open an expensive jar of perfumed oil, and lavishly anoints Jesus. It is embodied, sensuous, the whisperers were shocked at the scandal of it. The details are a bit foggy, as each Gospel has received the story through a different pedigree of murmurings. When, exactly, did it happen? Who was the woman? Where was the meal? Who objected and why?

As John tells it, 6 days before the Passover Jesus was in Bethany, the town’s name literally means “the house of the poor,” Mary and Martha and their brother Lazarus, whom Jesus had raised from the dead, were hosting a dinner in Jesus’ honor. Martha served. Lazarus was reclining at the table with Jesus and the disciples. And Mary, the one who had sat at his feet drinking in his teaching, knelt at his feet again.

I just imagine she was nervous, not because she wasn’t sure that this was what she should do, but because she was So sure that this was what she HAD to do, and it didn’t make any rational sense. Her eyes locked in Jesus’ gaze, she reached up and undid her hair, letting it tumble down freely. The trust between them shut out all the others in the room. She broke the seal on the jar in her hands, filled with spikenard, and poured the whole pint on Jesus’ feet, wiping and rubbing the oil in with her hair. There are not words to describe the moment. There were not words needed in the moment.

Spikenard comes from the root of a plant native to the Himalayan Mountains, some 3,000 miles away from Bethany. Spikenard is a thick oil with a strong woodsy aroma, with hints of cedar and sandalwood. The scent is distinctive, and is mentioned in Song of Solomon in reference to the love at the wedding feast. The bride puts it on, the very best, to express her love for her groom. Worth a year’s wages, it was likely her most expensive possession and either her dowry or her inheritance.

As the smell fills the house, you can imagine the reactions. Private moments like this are had on wedding nights in private. I just imagine Martha, intentionally overhearing from the kitchen, wants to say something, but having been corrected by Jesus last time, just continues to whip the meringue for dessert. Lazarus is shocked. She has never acted this way before. She is usually so devout, dedicated to listening and understanding the teachings of Jesus. He audibly gasped as she shook out her beautiful long hair. And now this, how could his sister so freely pour her future out like money down the drain?

Judas speaks what they are all thinking. “Woah! That’s too much! If you were willing to give away your perfume, why didn’t you sell it so we could give the money to the poor?” Matthew tells us that Judas wasn’t the only disciple disapproving. They all were angry, brooding that the money could have been better spent feeding the poor. Rev. Dr. J. Ellsworth Kalas reflects on this passage, “I think Jesus saw this complaint for what it was. The disciples were not at this moment so moved by concern for the poor as they were upset by the woman’s conduct. I don’t think the disciples were unfeeling for the poor, but neither do I hear them expressing such a concern at any other time. To be honest with you, in my years as a pastor I heard people criticize almost every kind of gift by suggesting ‘better ways’ to use the money…At times there is something in us that refuses to rejoice in an act of kindness or generosity; we feel instead a necessity to diminish it.”

Everyone present was awed, and a little jealous, of her unreasonable, unrestrained, extravagant expression of love. Jesus knew her heart. “Leave her alone, it was intended that she should save this perfume for the day of my burial.” But more than that, Jesus understood that the house was filled with more than the scent of perfume. Mary had allowed herself to be overwhelmed – to be filled with the presence of God. And unbeknownst to her, God used her as a prophet, confirming for Jesus the path ahead.

From here, it is clear that we are to follow Mary’s example. Serving Christ is extravagant! When we sense a nudge, we should respond in ways that are unreasonable. I asked a multimillionaire one time, a person who taught Sunday school and never missed worship, whether he tithed. His response? It would be embarrassing if I gave that much. Most of us are not multi-millionaires, but we have all had nudges, thoughts that we should do or give more, and thought “no, that’s too much.”

And perhaps we have used Jesus’s next words as our justification. “You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.” What is Jesus saying? He is quoting Deuteronomy 15:11 and using it to admonish the disciples.

Deuteronomy 15 outlines how God’s people are to live their whole lives as worship to God. They are to observe every 7th year as a Sabbath, and in that year debts are to all be forgiven. They are to open their hearts and hands to those in need and provide whatever is needed without reservation or stipulation. The Scripture promises, “If only you listen obediently to the voice of the Lord your God, to observe carefully all this commandment which I am commanding you today, there will be no poor among you, since the Lord will surely bless you in the land which the Lord your God is giving you.” But, God knows our hearts. “There will always be poor among you,” you are not going to follow my commands. God knows our brokenness.

And Jesus saw it and called it out. “You are always going to have the poor among you,” because you worship half-heartedly. You count the cost of discipleship. You capitulate to the status quo. You calculate what is reasonable to give God. Jesus didn’t quote it, but the disciples knew by heart the remedy God offers God’s people, “There will always be poor people in the land. Therefore, I command you to be openhanded toward your brothers and sisters who are poor and needy in your land.”

As we remember Jesus’s final week, may we consider our own response. Will we be measured, careful? If so, we will always have the poor with us. Or will we allow ourselves to be so overwhelmed by the lavish pouring out of our Lord’s very life that we respond with ours? If we are silent, if we are stoic, all is not lost. God doesn’t need our worship. God invites our worship. God doesn’t need our praise, God deserves our praise. God doesn’t turn to us as a last resort, for if we are silent, Jesus affirms, even the rocks will cry out.

I wanted to share with you this morning a poem, as an invitation to prayerfully contemplate your own response. The poem is titled “Lessons from a Winter Rose” and was written by Presbyterian minister, Sarah Are Speed. May we hear these words as our own prayer:

I am dumbfounded
by the sheer persistence
of a winter rose
that blooms
on the coldest of days—
when the rest of the world
has turned dim and gray,
when the rest of the world is sleeping.

The audacity
to stand so tall,
to decorate the world with color,
to be the only one
brave enough
to bloom.
I wonder what that’s like.

Maybe it’s similar
to pouring perfume
on the feet of Jesus—
shocking and beautiful
at the same time.

On winter morning walks
I pass a bed of roses.
I dare not pick one.
Instead I say thank you.
Thank you for the beauty.
Thank you for the reminder.
Thank you for the bloom.
And I walk home and pray—
God, if you can,
make me that brave.