Mark 14:3-9
We had an interesting lesson on this passage of scripture at our Leisurely Lectionary Bible study group on Thursday. (Well, I thought it was an interesting lesson. The rest of the group may have just humored me!) I found it fascinating because this story is told in all four gospels, though with significant differences.
In the Gospel of Luke, the event occurs in the home of a Pharisee, and the woman who anoints Jesus is identified as “a sinner.” The Pharisee gets upset because Jesus should have known what kind of woman he was allowing to touch him. In the Gospel of John, the event occurs in the home of Lazarus, Mary, and Martha, and the woman who anoints Jesus is not “a sinner,” but Jesus’ friend, Mary. In Matthew and Mark, the event occurs in the house of Simon the leper, and the woman is not identified in any way. There is no indication that the woman is sinful, that she has a reputation of any kind; nor do we know whether Jesus already knew her, or if she was an anonymous follower. We also don’t know if she was wealthy, or if this was a treasured possession. Both Matthew and Mark also quote Jesus as saying, “Wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.” But they never give her a name.
As a feminist, this bothers me. Are we supposed to remember her actions, what she did in service to Jesus, but not her, as a person? Was she not important enough to even warrant a name? Jewish scholars suggest that “Perhaps the omission of her name is ironic: the unnamed ‘everywoman’ understands him, while the named disciples … do not.”[1]
Named or unnamed, her actions were surprising—perhaps even shocking. Women were not supposed to touch men to whom they were not related. And the gift was extravagant, exorbitant, excessive—nearly a year’s wage for a laborer. Some of the people complained. Of course they did. Think of all the poor who could be helped, all the hungry children fed, if only it were sold. What a waste. Is such extravagance ever worth it?
I read a story recently about the Saint John’s Bible, an illustrated version of the Bible with hand calligraphy, the first of its kind in the modern age. “The Saint John’s Bible is divided into seven volumes and is two feet tall by three feet wide when open. The Bible is made of vellum, with 160 illuminations.”[2] A minister decided to teach Sunday school class on the project. She writes, “I showed the class a video about how the project came together, and the class was spellbound, as I knew they’d be. The illuminations make you want to lean into the scripture. The Saint John’s Bible fosters awe and wonder toward the God who gives us not only the sacred story but also the artists who make it come alive. Near the end of the video, the narrator shares the cost of this tremendous project—which numbered in the millions of dollars. And in an instant, the mood in the room shifted, from awe at the holiness of the gift to alarm at the extravagant price tag. Why was the money wasted in this way? This money could have been given to the poor. It was as profound a case of spiritual whiplash as one’s likely to see, outside of [Simon’s] house all those hundreds of years ago.”[3]
Was it worth the money, or would that money have been better spent in charity?
In response to the woman’s extravagant act, Jesus said, “She has performed a good service for me,” or in some translations, “She has done a beautiful thing to me” (NIV). But what good is beauty? “To a practical mind, beauty is not useful. For the economist, beauty does not balance the numbers. For the activist, beauty does not advance the cause. For the strategist, beauty does not give the upper hand.”[4]
We’re all for beauty … until it costs too much. Then again, we’re all for justice … until it costs us our privilege. We’re all for peace … until it costs us our illusion of safety. We’re all for mercy … until it costs us our right to vengeance.
Those of you on Facebook have probably seen the video. It features an elderly French, Jewish woman named Francine Christophe. She was born the year Hitler came to power. When she was eight years old, she was sent to the Bergen-Belsen POW camp. She says that as the children of prisoners of war, they were “privileged.” They were allowed to bring something with them from France—a little bag, with two or three small items. One woman brought sugar, and another a handful of rice. This is how Francine tells the story:
My mom had packed two little pieces of chocolate. She said to me, “We’ll keep this for a day when I see you’ve collapsed completely, and really need help. I’ll give you this chocolate, and you’ll feel better.” One of the women imprisoned with us was pregnant. You couldn’t tell, she was so skinny. But the day came, and she went into labor. She went to the camp hospital with my mom, the barracks chief.
Before they left, my mom said, “Remember that chocolate I was saving for you?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“How do you feel?”
“Fine, mama. I’ll be okay.”
“Well, then, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to bring your chocolate to this lady, our friend Helene. Giving birth here will be hard. She may die. If I give her the chocolate, it may help her.”
“Yes, Mama. Go ahead.”
Helene gave birth to the baby—a tiny, little, feeble thing. [Helene] ate the chocolate. She did not die. She came back to the barracks. The baby never cried. Never! Didn’t even wail. Six months later, the camp was liberated. They unwrapped the baby’s rags, and the baby screamed. That was when [the baby] was [truly] born.
A few years ago, my daughter asked me, “Mama, if you deportees had had psychologists or psychiatrists when you returned, maybe it would have been easier for you.” I replied, “Undoubtedly, but we didn’t have them. No one thought of mental illness. But you gave me a good idea. We’ll have a lecture on that topic.” I organized a lecture on the theme: If the survivors of concentration camps had had counseling in 1945, what would have happened? The lecture drew a crowd: elderly survivors, historians, and many psychologists, psychiatrists, psychotherapists. Very interesting. Many ideas emerged. It was excellent.
Then a [psychiatrist] took the podium and said, “Before I deliver my talk, I have something for Francine Christophe.” … She reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of chocolate. She gave it to me and she said, “I’m the baby.”[5]
That piece of chocolate was a generous gift—extravagant even, considering it was all she possessed. We don’t know, of course, if that piece of chocolate made a different in terms of saving the woman’s life. But the memory of it may have. The story must have fed her, for she told the story to her daughter. That act of love—generous, extravagant love—was part of her daughter’s birth story, part of her life story.
That’s what it means when we have compassion. We share. We give. Out of our abundance or out of our scarcity. We break open our hearts.
In 1992 a woman named Lucy Borja headed up an HIV/AIDS prevention program for youth in Lima, Peru. Her team organized awareness programs in the schools and detention centers. It was at juvenile hall that she first learned about the subculture of street kids in Lima. Parents sometimes abandon these children—in some cases selling them into servitude—while other young boys and girls flee abuse at home. Once displaced, they become vulnerable to predators of every kind. Pimps set traps to ensnare them, the police treat them like outlaws, and decent folk consider them dangerous. The children recounted tales of rape and brutality, even at the hands of those who were supposed to keep them safe. So when Lucy encountered two young boys who were afraid to spend the night on the streets, she invited them to use her office as a safe haven. She told them to extend the invitation to any other child who shared their concerns.
Since Lucy already had plans to attend a family party that evening, she informed the office custodian to give entry to any child who arrived in search of refuge. After the party, Lucy decided to check in with her young guests. She hoped that the custodian hadn’t balked at her instructions. She half expected to find the boys sitting on the curb in front of her office, locked out. Lucy had a puzzle awaiting her that evening at the office. The key unlocked the front door but, try as she might, she could not shove it open. It felt like someone had lodged a rolled-up carpet behind the door to block the entry. With the help of her sons, Lucy finally moved the door to create enough space to squeeze through and turn on the light. Lucy looked down at her feet and discovered several young kids curled up on the floor, sleeping with their bodies jammed against the door. She then cast her vision around the room, though it was hard to register at first what she saw. Every nook and cranny of the office was covered with sleeping children. “I even found young kids snuggled inside the cupboards where we stored our office supplies,” Lucy reported. Lucy counted more than 600 children who slept in her office that night. The word had spread like wildfire on the streets of Lima. Found: a shelter from the storm.
At that moment, Lucy clearly sensed that her life would never be the same. “Those children, stacked one against the other asleep on the floor of my office, looked so defenseless and vulnerable,” Lucy said. “They had no one to be their advocate, to defend their rights. I knew then what path I had to take.” Today Lucy serves as the executive director of Generación, a project that helps street kids and women rescued from exploitation in the sex trade in Lima, Peru.[6]
Lucy started out only intending to help two young boys, instead she poured out her life, and has helped countless thousands.
When the unnamed woman in our scripture went to Jesus with her alabaster jar, she couldn’t open it and pour a little bit out. It had to be broken—that was the only way for the costly perfume to be poured out. She could not give the gift and keep it whole. When she broke the alabaster jar and poured the rich ointment on him, immediately the house was filled with the scent—the scent of mourning, of burial; but also the scent of hope reborn, the scent of love resurrected.
That’s the way it is when you love. You don’t hold back. You can’t count the cost. You give your heart’s treasure.
Do you know what I mean? Do you know what it means to be so filled with gratitude that you want to give everything you have in thanksgiving? Do you know how it feels to be so moved by love, that you just overflow, and love in return without reservation?
If you understand this, if you know this, then you know why the woman’s name was never given . . . because it’s not just her story. It’s your story, too.
Your life is your alabaster jar. The question for you is: what do you have to give? How can you break open and pour yourself out as a gift of love?
Today is the last week I’m going to ask you to write on these little slips of colored paper you received as you walked in. I want you to write down what gift you have, what you will pour out as your gift of love, and how you will do it. But first listen to this song about the woman who did not count the cost.
[Song]
The woman who came to pour the ointment on Jesus’ feet did not count the cost. Whether she was rich or poor, whether she was a stranger or a friend … none of it mattered. What mattered was breaking herself open and pouring out her gift until the room was filled with the scent of love. A few days after that event, Jesus proved that he didn’t count the cost, either.
[1] Jewish Annotated New Testament, p. 89.
[2] Wikipedia.
[3] MaryAnn McKibben Dana, http://www.christiancentury.org/blogs/archive/2016-03/beautiful-service
[4] Nordquist, Elizabeth. “Shouting Stones: The Woman Anointer.” www.patheos.com.
[5] http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=francine+christophe+video&qpvt=francine+christophe+video& view=detail&mid=EFE8B294064978A68268EFE8B294064978A68268&FORM=VRDGAR
[6] by David Batstone in SojoMail, 07-06-06