Photo by Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash
Karen Hollis | April 6, 2025 Lent 5
John 12:1-8 Six days before the Passover celebration began, Jesus arrived in Bethany, the home of Lazarus—the man he had raised from the dead. A dinner was prepared in Jesus’ honour. Martha served, and Lazarus was among those who ate with him. Then Mary took a large jar of expensive perfume made from essence of nard, and she anointed Jesus’ feet with it, wiping his feet with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance. But Judas Iscariot, the disciple who would soon betray him, said, “That perfume was worth a year’s wages. It should have been sold and the money given to the poor.” Not that he cared for the poor—he was a thief, and since he was in charge of the disciples’ money, he often stole some for himself. Jesus replied, “Leave her alone. She did this in preparation for my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be reflections of your word to us today, in Christ’s name we pray. Amen
I’ve been inviting us to check in with our bodies this morning. The world is a lot right now, on top of the myriad of things we have going on in our own lives, relationships, and families. I hear from people in our community how challenging this time is, how it is impacting you and the people in your life. And I remember the long line of people last week who queued up to receive anointing for healing . . . I offered it because I figured we need it . . .
I’ve been inviting us to check in with our bodies this morning because we hold a lot in our bodies. Have you ever done a new exercise with a physio or stretched in a way you haven’t in a while and felt a wave of emotion release? Our bodies hold emotions, beliefs, memories both joyful and challenging. I love the quote from dancer Martha Graham: the body never lies. The body will always tell us when something needs to be addressed. I discovered recently with the help of a body worker that I’ve been walking differently since I twisted my ankle just before covid. That change in my gate created an issue with my hip. Now that I’ve been intentionally walking differently, thoughts and emotions bubble to the surface. The body never lies. Our bodies are always talking to us about what they need.
Our bodies want to be loved and cared for and touched. I think about babies who need to be held, they need skin to skin time, and interaction. They need a close connection with those who care for them. We all need connection with other humans, we all need a hand to hold, a warm embrace, a pat on the back, a hand of support.
For generations in the church, the body has been labeled as corrupt and weak, supported by several passages of scripture that surely reflect the thinking of the time . . . or a personal difficulty of the particular author. In recent decades, our culture and faith tradition have begun to reclaim the sacredness of the body. This morning’s text is a real gift to that effort. Notice all of the senses it includes . . . the aromas in the air and tastes on the palate as they recline together and share a meal. They hear voices of loved ones – not strangers or adversaries. The conversation is easy and familiar with laughter and delight. Mary approaches Jesus with the jar of pure, perfumed nard.
She removes the cork, allowing another aroma to escape into the room, pouring the contents over Jesus feet, making the smell more and more powerful in the air, so much so that the entire house was filled. Mary uses her long hair to wipe the perfume over his skin.
The vignette is a feast for the senses. This is no ordinary dinner among friends. Before Jesus hosts a dinner with his disciples, before he washes their feet, Jesus is hosted by his 3 closest friends, this household of hospitality, where he doesn’t have to be in his role, he can let everything go and be human among friends . . . in his earthly and sacred body. He is preparing for what is now inevitable . . . he knows it, they know it, and so they feast together, savour the vibrations of laughter reverberating in the air. Mary anoints this moment of preparation, she showers him with love . . . while the darkness that comes is unstoppable, Mary meets it with her outpouring of love that permeates every corner of the house.
This space, held by a small group of friends, connects to several aspects of Christian ritual and practice that invite us to consider lowering our defenses. In a space with healthy boundaries and consent, the practices handed down to us invite us to set down our roles, lower our masks, and be seen in our humanity, in our vulnerability, in our frailty, in our messiness. Mary anointing Jesus’ feet, may remind us of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. This is one Christian practice that comes to mind.
When I was in seminary, I attended a Maundy Thursday service that offered foot washing. It was a huge church with stone pillars along the sides. They had set up a circle of chairs between each pillar. We had a basin, pitchers of water, lots of towels. And there in that little alcove, the 8 of us held the space and washed each other’s feet around in a circle. The priest was sitting next to me, and as I watched the pattern of who was washing the feet of whom, I worked out that I would be washing his feet. I got really nervous, though in the end, what an honour it was to witness him and meet him in his humanity, to wash his feet that had been reshaped with age, to offer him the gift of presence and care.
I know this ritual in particular is scary to people and uncomfortable. You want me to let someone I don’t know see my feet? You want me to touch someone else’s feet? Yeah. I don’t think it’s meant to be scary, but I do think it means to invite into a space of vulnerability. We resist vulnerability, and I think vulnerability is the point of the practice. Jesus remains at the table and receives Mary’s anointing as he prepares to do one of the most difficult things a human can do. As difficult as it may be on some level for him to receive, he even articulates how important it is to do this at this moment. Comfortable or uncomfortable, our tradition marks particular moments as important and invites us to enter in – invites us to be real. For us, in these times where so much is on the line on the world stage, so much is up for us and in our families, the practices of the church invite us to melt some of those protective layers and welcome in an affirmation of our sacredness, of our worth . . . we are worthy of such attention and care, you are worthy of such care.
(breath)
After all that, I don’t even want to talk about Judas. His entry into the narrative is jarring. I’ll give him just a mention, because Judas is part of the reality of this moment in Jesus’ story. In the midst of this outpouring of love and care . . . as he receives this tender blessing . . . as Jesus fills himself up before pouring himself out . . . Judas resists this vulnerability with rules and bottom lines . . . this is part of the complexity of the moment. Together are the beauty and the pain, trust and betrayal, embracing and distancing, the beauty and the ache of Lent, as we walk toward the conclusion of this season and a new beginning yet to be seen.