Six days before the Passover, Jesus comes to the town of Bethany, situated on the eastern side of the Mount of Olives (John 12:1-8). Here, just weeks ago, he raised his friend Lazarus to life, publicly demonstrating a power greater than death, and incurring the wrath of the nation’s chief priests. Now, the Sanhedrin have prophesied Jesus’s death. Not only that—they are seeking it. Dark clouds are rising. His hour draws near. “The theme of death [in John’s Gospel] deepens and broadens,” writes David F. Ford.¹ Jesus has turned toward the cross. He makes his way to Jerusalem, his steps heavy. But tonight, he rests in the company of friends.
A feast is prepared. Jesus reclines at the table, held in the love and gratitude of a family who have witnessed his power over death. They bless him with their best food and wine. Martha floats to and from the kitchen, serving the guests. Lazarus leans forward and eats, his once-cold fingers breaking warm bread. The room bustles, a blur of colour and light, savour and sweetness, whispers of wonder, the hope of a coming victory and a new dawn. And in the centre, Jesus, his great heart holding more sorrow than anyone but his Father could know.
Something stirs on the far side of the room. Jesus lifts his eyes. Mary steps into their midst. She approaches Jesus and kneels at his feet. She holds a jar containing a pint of ointment made of pure spikenard—an ingredient of great price, used for making the incense offered to God on the altar of the Temple.² She takes Jesus’s feet in her hands. She pours out the ointment; the entire jar of it, so precious it is normally stored by the ounce, all of it, flowing over his feet, spilling onto the hard floor.³ It is an extraordinary act, a sign of his immeasurable worth.4 Then, she wipes his feet with her hair. He who has numbered the hairs of her head now receives her care. The sequence of Mary’s loving actions cascades through John’s writing, culminating in a sense of the sheer magnitude of the event. “The house was filled [plēroō] with the fragrance of the perfume” (John 12:3), a word signifying something like a flood. Indeed, Origen, Cyril, Augustine, and other church fathers pictured the fragrance of this offering filling the whole world.5
A stunned silence. Never have those present witnessed anything like this. Never have they been awash, simply saturated, in a fragrance like the one which now fills this room, and likely they never will be again. Questions start to stir. What is happening, here? A good host will provide water, not ointment, for the washing of feet.6 Is Mary anointing Jesus—as a King? But that would involve marking his head with oil, as would an anointing for healing.7 No, there is something in what Mary has done that rather evokes the anointing of a body with perfumes during the process of embalming.8 But how could that be? Jesus is alive. What does it mean, Jesus? What will you do now?
The silence is broken by Judas, coldly asking: “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred [silver pieces] and the money given to the poor?” Jesus answers: “Leave her alone.” And then, for the sake of Judas and the others, and for us, he interprets what Mary has done. “She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you [see Deuteronomy 15:11], but you do not always have me” (John 12:7). Jesus is defending Mary, who has remained silent. He is framing her act as something that was intended by God. And he is calling—calling anyone who is listening—to the vocation of a true disciple. I hear the weight of his reply, in this hushed room, falling on the final word, “me”—as if to say, Stop. Pay attention. Look at me, Judas. The time is so near, now. I am leaving. Do you still not understand? Look at me.
