Today's Gospel reading is of special importance for us, the people of St. Martha's. John
takes us into the house of Mary, Lazarus, and Martha herself. In today's reading, however, we
don't get to hear the story of the two sisters, of "active Martha and contemplative Mary", as
many interpreters of the Gospels have framed that episode, for better or for worse. Instead,
we hear of a highly dramatic, almost theatrical act of extravagant love: Mary takes a whole
pound of expensive perfume, anoints Jesus' feet with it, and wipes them dry with her hair.
We immediately hear of Judas complaining that all that money (three hundred denarii, to
be precise, which amounted to a full year of salary for a laborer) could have been given to
the poor.
Now, if there is one thing that is consistent throughout the four Gospels, is Jesus' concern
for the poor. Here, however, he fully supports Mary's act and commands Judas to "leave
her alone." He then goes on to explain that her act foreshadows what will happen at his
imminent burial. Jesus simply accepts and celebrates Mary's very physical act of pure love
towards him, and at the same time he shocks the audience with an eerie premonition of his
imminent death. So, what are we to make of this episode, especially in this season of Lent?
I find this story incredibly rich, for two main reasons: first of all, I see this episode in the
life of Jesus as a powerful affirmation of a woman disciple who is surrounded by male disciples that don’t always "get it". Second, it seems to me that Jesus is teaching us very clearly that to
love often entails getting our hearts broken. Allow me to unpack both points a bit more.
Our church and our society have made progress in allowing the voices of women to finally
be heard, and we are beginning to let go of the patriarchal mindset that has been the standard
for so long. However, a lot more work is needed. Here at St. Martha's we have pioneered (at
least with respect to our Diocese) the use of inclusive and expansive language in our liturgy.
I was thrilled to see how many times the use of inclusive and expansive language showed up
in the Holy Conversations and in the electronic feedback we collected. We aspire to be, after
all, the church where all are truly welcome and where all have a voice.
Perhaps, in this season of Lent, a season that calls for renewal and transformation, we can
ask ourselves what more work needs to be done before we can finally say that ALL voices
are given a chance to speak and to be heard. In the episode we just read Mary of Bethany is
silent. However, her action speaks a thousand words. She is anointing Jesus, an act that was
reserved to prophets in a position of authority. She is anointing a King. Let us notice the boundaries that limit the spread of the Good News, and let us notice what we are missing when voices are silenced.
If we think that things are being pushed too far, we only need to look at the example set by
Jesus time and again.
Second, what strikes a personal chord in today's reading are the words that Jesus uses to
refer to his imminent death. Whether he had supernatural knowledge of the future or not is
immaterial: any smart person proclaiming unconditional inclusion of oppressed minorities,
speaking truth to power would have known that this was not going to go down well with the
Romans. Jesus sensed that his end was near and reminded the disciples about it.
Being told by a person we love that they are not going to be around much longer is an
incredibly painful thing to hear. Over twenty years ago my girlfriend's dad took me aside
and told me he had terminal cancer and had less than a year to live. It's hard to describe
what one experiences in such circumstances: denial, fear, anger, and more. My girlfriend's
dad was a much loved physician who loved his family, his work, and his patients, who used
to make house calls well into the night, not worrying about compensation. "How could such a
person have less than a year to live?", I asked myself. I can only imagine that what Jesus said to the disciples and to Mary regarding his burial must have been just as painful to hear, if not more.
The day before my 20th birthday, twenty years ago, my girlfriend's dad passed away, and
my heart broke. I wish I could say it was the first and only time it did. I am quite sure that
many here have had their heart broken many times over. We have – at least theoretically –
the option not to love and not to have our hearts broken. But do we really want that? A
few weeks ago I visited St. Peter's Lutheran Church in the heart of Manhattan, a parish I
used to be part of when I was living in New York City. I would like to offer a poem by C.S.
Lewis that was used there for Vespers. I believe it fits well what I am trying to say.
"To love at all
is to be vulnerable.
Love anything,
and your heart will certainly be wrung
and possibly broken.
If you want to make sure of keeping it intact,
you must give your heart to no one, not even an animal.
Wrap it carefully round
with hobbies and little luxuries;
avoid all entanglements;
lock it up safe
in the casket of your selfishness.
But in that casket – safe, dark, motionless, airless –
it will change.
It will not be broken;
it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. "
In the end, Mary of Bethany did not lock her heart away, and neither do we. But why the
heartbreak? Why the pain? I wish I could give you a theologically elegant explanation for the mystery of suffering in this world. Many of us have been told that God only gives what we can handle.
Even though the people saying such things mean well, I personally don’t find it very helpful.
I have seen people that were given a whole lot more that they could handle, and who broke.
I don’t believe for moment in a God who doles out suffering in just the right amount. I have
no problem in accepting such belief in others if it helps, it’s just not for me. What I believe
in is a God who knows our suffering intimately, who has suffered and suffers with us.
Most of you are aware that I cherish and respect many traditions and different religious
paths, and I learned a great deal from other religions. Ultimately, I always come back to
Christianity as my home primarily because of the whole concept of God as co-suffering love. And it even goes beyond that. We will soon hear the words of Psalm 22 uttered by Jesus at the time of
his death on the cross: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?". Interestingly, Jesus
does not say this in the Gospel of John, where he is always in full control of the situation,
but he does in Mark, where the human nature of Jesus shines through very clearly. Part
of the pain that suffering causes in us is not understanding the reason for it. To me, in
the apparently hopeless cry of Psalm 22 there is great hope. Hope in that very psalm, if
you read further than that famous verse. Of course, hope in the resurrection. But more
importantly, hope and strength in knowing that Jesus himself was asking that very same
question: "Why?", "Why?"
If life looks at time like a long Good Friday, and if Easter Sunday seems so far away, and
if the only words that come out of mouths are "Why", we know that we are not alone. And
there is great hope in that knowledge. Good news indeed. Amen.
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