Risky Love

Text: John 12:1-8

This story we just heard in John appears in all four Gospels, which is unusual. There are variations, of course. But the plot is mostly the same.

In all four, a woman—Mary in our case—anoints Jesus. She uses a jar—alabaster, except in John—of very expensive perfume. She pours the whole thing on Jesus—his head according to Mark and Matthew, his feet according to Luke and John. In all versions, there is someone in the crowd who finds the whole thing offensive and complains to Jesus. And in every case, Jesus defends what the woman has done.

In John, the version we just heard, the story appears right after Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead, which is the last of the so-called “signs” of Jesus (the first was when Jesus turned the water to wine at Cana). This puts the story at the exact center of the Gospel. It is on the hinge of the story of Jesus. It connects the miraculous work of Jesus in the world with the events of his trial and execution—the Passion of Christ.

This pivot in the story is especially clear today, where the scene is shared by Lazarus, whom Jesus just raised from the dead, with Judas, who is just about to hand Jesus over to his fate. Before this moment, Jesus is (mostly) active in the world. After this moment, Jesus is (mostly) acted upon by the world. He goes from here to his death: the anointing is, Jesus says, for his burial.

It is possible to look at this story as a lesson in extreme generosity. The perfume is costly. At 300 denarii, it cost about a typical year’s salary, or in our terms about $30,000 [median income per capita in the US]. Who do you know who gives gifts worth $30,000? Who gives them for something that vanishes in an instant? Imagine your best friend taking you out to a restaurant and spending $30,000 on a meal. In many ways, it is absurd.

At least that is how the bystanders feel about it. In this version in John, it is Judas who complains. In the other stories, it is the Pharisees, or the disciples, or those present. Their suggestion that the woman should have sold the perfume and given the proceeds to the poor sounds like hypocritical whining. What is the chance that they themselves gave to the poor the day before, or will the day after?

Nonetheless, their shock is understandable. It does seem like a waste, like the $30,000 meal. Even hypocrites and thieves—as John calls Judas—are sometimes right: that money could have been used to feed the poor. Perhaps you would have been as offended as Judas was.

This story seems larger than life. It is exaggerated. A nice domestic scene—friends at a meal—turns bizarre. Why the huge expense? Why now? Why the juxtaposition of Lazarus and Judas? It occupies a strategic position in John. It seems therefore less like an historical episode and more like a parable. And like all parables, strange on purpose.

There is a conflict in the parable that teaches us something. There is a conflict between Mary and Judas. But the costly perfume distracts us. The conflict is not between generosity and stinginess. Rather, it is between risk and prudence.

Judas, and the Pharisees in the other Gospels, are no doubt trying to speak reasonably. Judas does not argue that spending the money is bad in itself, but only bad in its use. They are not denouncing—or praising—generosity. They do not dispute the generosity of Mary, only her wisdom. They think that Mary is foolish. But Jesus says she is not. Jesus is taking sides here. And the side he takes is Mary’s.

The crabbiness of Judas and the others is a condemnation of Mary. So Jesus tells them to stop it. When Jesus says: Leave her alone!, he uses the word usually translated as “forgive.” Give her a break, Jesus says. Mary knows she is being extravagant. It is deliberate. Her crazy generosity is only possible because she is not intimidated.

There is a certain amount—probably a lot—of risk in loving someone. I do not mean romantic or sentimental love, though I know it applies there, too. But rather agape—Christian love, or unearned love for all people, love-your-neighbor kind of love. Loving someone requires slack. Room for error and mistake-making, even big mistakes. It requires a willingness to be embarrassed and to seem foolish. To appear idiotic.

When we refuse to take risks in love then we hold back, keep things in reserve, try to control things we have no right—and usually no ability—to control.

It is forgiveness that lets us take risks. In this way, love and forgiveness are inseparable partners. Without forgiveness there is no room for love. If we are afraid that we will not be forgiven, we are paralyzed. If we are unwilling to forgive, we are captive.

Judas argues for a sensible and careful approach. He no doubt thinks practically, plans things out, considers the consequences. All good and necessary things to do.

But Mary has what someone called a “sumptuousness of spirit,” a quality that she shares with all saints—that is, people we admire because they seem to have an excessive store of compassion and generosity. And are eager to spend it rashly. There is room for more Marys.

The Gospel of John is known for its proclaiming the gift of abundant life that comes through Christ. Meaning life not only after death but in the here and now. Jesus creates abundance. He changes water to an abundance of wine. He feeds 5000 people with an abundance of bread and fish. He promises an end to thirst and hunger.

When Mary’s critics worry about waste of resources, they are speaking from scarcity. They see what they do not have, or what they fear they might not have, or what they may lose.

Though we may fret about scarcity, we long for a life of abundance. But what is the measure of an abundant life? Will we know when we have achieved it? How will we know when we have enough? More than enough? To what do we compare our lives? When do we stop worrying about scarcity, about having too little?

Is it when we feel satisfied? When we feel safe and secure? Is it when we have a sufficient surplus, a sufficient cushion against unexpected hardship? Will there ever be such a time?

Or is abundant life rather when we can joyfully be risky in our generosity? When we are satisfied with our daily bread? When we do not worry whether someone else has more than we? And perhaps when instead we can worry that someone else does not have enough?

Leave her alone! says Jesus. This is as much a command as the Maundy Thursday command to love one another. As much as Jesus’ command to Peter: “feed my sheep!”

There are a lot of voices commanding us to be prudent, restrained, and effective. But the voice of Jesus is not one of them.