Eating
a meal with my maternal grandmother was always an interesting affair. Grammy,
as my brother and I called her, was the daughter of an Army General. She had
been drilled through and through in what was right and proper. One morning, I
came down to breakfast, grabbed the Los Angeles Yellow pages that doubled as a
6 inch booster seat, and propped my elbows on the table as I got seated.
"Jed," came my Grammy's voice from behind the LA times, "would
you have your elbows on the table if you were having breakfast with the Queen
of England?" "If she was my Grammy, maybe," I replied. Grammy
reached a long arm out from behind the paper and popped me on the back of the
head. "No, you wouldn't," she continued, "because that is just
not done in polite company."
Polite
company. That might be a good description of the dinner that Jesus is attending
in today's gospel. Mary and Martha have pulled out all the stops for this
dinner. They are celebrating Jesus and his resurrection of Lazarus. The
sisters, but mostly Martha have dusted off the good china, picked up the
Straubs best beef cut, ironed the linen, and now the guest of honor is here,
sitting with his disciples and the very–recently–mostly–dead Lazarus. Its all
turning out so well, right and proper.
Mary’s
actions, in context, seem strange, outlandish and a little awkward. Mary’s
anointing of Jesus feet, on it's own, would have been a highly personal thing
to do. But when Mary unbinds her hair and uses it to wipe away the super
abundance of ointment that she has lavished on Jesus feet, she is doing something
of such intimacy - especially with someone who is not her husband, that she
brings the whole dinner to a screeching halt. As my grandmother would say, that
is just not done. Interestingly it is Judas who probably breaks the awkward
silence, chiding Mary, not for her intimacy with the teacher, not for this
lavish intimate worship she displays, but for her financial extravagance.
Judas,
what ever his other motives is trying to save the situation. Judas chides Mary
for not thinking of the poor. It’s not particularly surprising that one of
Jesus followers, even this one, might be focused on the plight of the poor.
Jesus does say a great deal about the poor and the identification of God with
the poor. Judas is trying to help out this silly, benighted woman whom he
thinks has missed the point of Jesus teaching. It’s about making the world a
nicer kinder place to live and redistributing the wealth. After all, Mary
should know better - she lives in Bethany, which literally means poor town. She
is surrounded by people who are poor because of the brokenness of creation.
Rather than saving up for this little bottle of odoriferous ointment, shouldn’t
she have found something better to do with the funds - a tax deductible donation
to the local food bank, or to Jesus own 501c3 for the poor? Judas is trying to
turn this from an awkward moment into a teachable one.
Jesus
makes use of this moment. He uses it to teach Judas and the disciples and anyone
else who will listen not about what is right, and proper but about what is meet
and right. He did not come to make things a little bit nicer, a bit more
bearable. Jesus has come to do, as Isaiah says, a new thing. Jesus has come grab
hold of sin and death by the scruff of the neck and throw them out on their ear.
He, the Word of God has come so that all people, rich, poor, and middle income
might have what it is that they are all lacking – an imperishable inheritance
of eternal life, their adoption by God as sons and daughters. Mary is the one
who gets it. Mary understands what’s going on, what being a part of this kingdom
is in a way that none of the other disciples seem to. And so she worships Jesus
as Lord and God. She makes herself totally reliant, totally devoted to Jesus.
She pours all of her self into her worship of her Lord, holding nothing in
reserve, relying totally on Jesus grace and mercy, mercy meant not to make the
world more bearable, kinder and gentler but to make it new.
Jesus praises Mary’s intimate vulnerable act of
anointing. At some level, she understands that in order for Jesus to do bring
this new thing, God’s kingdom to fulfillment, he has to die. Her outlandish,
unrestrained, super abundant devotion to her Good Shepherd has become a
prophetic act, acknowledging what Jesus is about to dive into in the upcoming
week, the Upper room, the passion the cross.
She displays prophetic gratitude for what her Lord is willing to do for
her, for all of them, for us.
For a
long time after my parents got divorced, I tried to get my fathers attentions
by showing him how together I had it. Of course to my father, I probably just
seemed cocky and far too sure of myself. the spring of 5th grade, my cub scout
troop was doing a pine would derby. I spent four days and used six kits trying
to make, not the fastest car, but just a car that could make it all the way
down the track without the wheels quite literally coming off. So, after I had
gotten my seventh kit from the store, I walked down to my father’s house. I
found my dad in the garage, putting away the lawn mower. “Dad, I need your
help.” “ Of course,” my father said. “I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted
holding up the little wooden car. “It’s OK,” my father said, “I do. ”
Mary
took a pound of costly perfume and anointed Jesus’ feet, and the house was
filled with the fragrance. Mary’s reckless, vulnerable, intimate worship of
Jesus certainly isn’t right and proper, but it is meet and right. When we kneel before the altar and hold out
our hands begging for Jesus to be with us, to fed on his body and his blood, to
know him that intimately, it isn’t particularly proper either. It’s not
dignified to kneel down, to take the place of servitude of vulnerability. It’s
not right and proper, but it is meet and right.
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