Like Mary... or Judas?

Sermon by Jamie Howison on Psalm 126 and John 12:1-8

Psalm 126 is, for many, one of the most beloved. I’d say that for those who have been really nurtured in the music of Steve Bell, that may be even more the case. His song, “The Lord has Done Great Things” from his 1989 debut solo album Comfort My People resonates for many of us, as we hear this psalm read aloud.

Both that song and this psalm carry the same force. Remember those days when our peoples’ fortunes were restored, against all odds. Remember what it was like when “our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy.” Recall the jubilation of being delivered from what looked only like loss, and rejoice.

And then pray, because we are again sowing in tears, weeping as we go, bearing only the seeds we hope to sow in the soil. This is the voice of a people who again know loss, and as they look back on being delivered in an earlier day, they dare to trust that that might happen yet again. We will “reap with shouts of joy,” and we will “come home with shouts of joy, carrying our sheaves.” It is, in a very real sense, a psalm proclaimed against the odds, for the people who sing it have known loss and restoration in the past, and now again know loss. Surely—surely—restoration will come again.

Who can dare to sing such stubborn hopefulness during days of trial, loss, and challenge? I believe it takes one whose mind and heart—whose imagination—has been touched by the grace of God. To sing such a song in the midst of difficult days is an act of stubborn and resilient faith.

We see something of this stubborn resilience in the gospel reading today. The story opens with a remarkably straightforward statement: “Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead.” “Six days before the Passover” that would also be the time of his death, Jesus comes to the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead as a sign that death was not going to have the final word. Oh, Lazarus would eventually die again—he has been raised or resuscitated, not resurrected—but still his life is a sign and a hope. It is also a source of great hostility to many in a place of power, as we’ll soon learn that “the chief priests planned to put Lazarus to death as well, since it was on account of him that many of the Jewish people were deserting and were believing in Jesus.”

Bethany, you see, was but a mile from ancient Jerusalem, so hardly a safe place for Jesus to be seen when so much turmoil was bubbling up regarding his ministry and his teaching. But he’s on his way to Jerusalem, and he well knows the hostility that is brewing for him there. This stop to see Lazarus and his sisters Mary and Martha is probably occasioned by the warmth of their shared friendship and the strength of their shared bonds. Perhaps Jesus needs this now more than ever before.

And so what happens? “Martha served”—which we know is her usual way, from a story that Luke tells—“and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair.”

Now pause for a moment. This story is familiar… so familiar that we can forget that there are some significant variations between what the various gospel writers have to say about this anointing of Jesus’ feet. In Matthew and Mark, the story takes place in the days right before Jesus shares the last supper with his disciples in the upper room, and it happens at the home of a man identified as Simon the leper. The woman who comes and anoints his feet is not Mary, but rather an unnamed woman. In Luke, on the other hand, the story comes considerably earlier in the gospel narrative, and is set in the home of Simon the Pharisee. In Luke’s account, the woman is clearly identified as a sinner from the city, and that city is not Bethany but rather a place way up in Galilee.

Now that’s interesting, isn’t it? And for some very modern readers who need things to all cohere in a very modern way, it can lead them to conclude that there are actually three different anointings; the one told by Luke, the one told by Matthew and Mark, and this one told by John. But that’s a very modern reaction to the world of ancient stories, so let me just remind us all of a few crucial things.

Firstly, Jesus was crucified sometime around 30AD. The first written materials we have from this Christian movement are from Paul, beginning in the late 40s. The first gospel we have is Mark, which comes from the early 60s, followed by Matthew and Luke in the early 70s and John from somewhere closer to 90. We’re talking about some distance between the actual events and when they were first written down in more or less finished form, which means we’re also talking about the transmission of teaching and stories in a strongly oral culture. The preservation of teaching in an oral tradition is remarkably good, because that was for many non-literate people the only way teaching could be held.

Secondly, though, is the matter of how a particular gospel writer might choose to tell or retell any particular story. Shifting the placement of a story as Luke does wouldn’t have been seen as a problem, because he is writing the Gospel according to Luke; he is telling you the truth about Jesus as he has come to understand it. That comes even more to the fore when we come to John, whose gospel is far more impressionistic when compared to the other three. He switches around the order of many things, includes a whole lot of material not present in the others, and is less interested in parables than he is in what he calls “signs” of who Jesus is, which are revealed largely in what he does in his interactions with people. Most striking is the fact that John never talks about a last supper, but rather about an upper room where Jesus teaches and then washes his disciples’ feet.

Modern sensibilities want to line up the facts; these ancient writers wanted to convey the truth; the truth that they had received and wanted to pass on to us. That’s different. So here what John wants to do is to recall the story of the anointing of Jesus’ feet, but also to say something about the figure of Judas. Oh, and of Mary as well, who is a significant voice in his understanding of the good news.

As John tells us his good news, Mary does something almost unimaginable. “[She] took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair.” She has let down her hair in the company of visitors, and done this almost inexplicable act of love for Jesus. As N.T. Wright puts it,

Had she no shame? What was she trying to say – to Jesus, and to the onlookers? All sorts of disturbing thoughts must have been flying round the room. There is a peculiar tension in the air, after all the things that Jesus has said and done and the warnings of violence being plotted against him. (Wright, Luke for Everyone)

Judas rises in indignation, saying “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” This same objection is raised in the other three gospels, though voiced by different people. Here it is Judas, who John comments, “said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief.” There is a pall of silence that descends over those two very different people, as Jesus pauses before he replies. “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” Her act is accepted, even as he says—doubtlessly with some regret—that the poor are always in our midst. And they are, and will be until this world as we know it is ultimately redeemed and remade through God’s ultimate action in our midst. For now, Jesus is saying, accept this act that she has done as a sign of what is coming next in my life, namely my death.

“But,” comments N.T. Wright,

there is no escaping the challenge posed by the stand-off between Mary and Judas. It is one of those scenes which positively shouts at the reader, ‘Where are you in this picture?’

Put aside your natural inclination to distance yourself from Judas. After all, even at the last moment none of the other disciples had suspected him of treachery. Can you see just a glimpse of him as you look in the mirror?

… cautious, prudent, reliable Judas… [and] shameless Mary… (Wright, Luke for Everyone)

Yet at the same time, her shamelessness is revealed as a gift, and his caution is exposed as a lie. John means to leave the reader with that extraordinary tension, asking us if we are more like Mary or—at least at our worst—like Judas?

Or, to return briefly to that psalm with which I opened, do we dare to sing alongside of Mary a song of audacious hope, even in the midst of difficult days? Is our faith as stubborn and resilient as hers? And—and this is the real edge of this story—have we ridded the Judas from our own hearts, or does his self-serving pragmatism lurk all too close when the chips are truly down?

Just as John did, we leave that question hanging right there, as we continue this journey through Lent.