Monday of Holy Week
Mar 29, 2010
Josephine Robertson
The wonder worker from Galilee turns his face toward Jerusalem. The clouds are gathering, the time is coming, the passover draws near. There is no stopping it now. Since the day Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, death has been stalking him, as if to snatch life for life. The men eating with him today look nervous. They talk too loudly, promise too boldly. Mary knows, watching them, that they will run, all of those huddled around this table with him. They will promise to fight, they will deny their own fear. But in the end they will flee. They will save their own lives for another hour.
Mary has no strong words, no promises of loyalty to the end. She has no sword or shield to protect and destroy. She has no power to delay what is coming. She has only a heart set on fire by this strange rabbi who opened her brother's tomb, and opened her eyes, and opened her heart. And so she feeds him and all who came with him. Those who will betray him, those who will abandon him, those who will forget her as soon as they have swallowed the last of her good food, and drunk the last of her wine, and perhaps those who will remember and give as well, waiting at the foot of the cross.
She, more than any of them knows the pain that is coming. She has tasted the myrrh-bitter loss. She knows well the sorrow and tragedy of Jesus' absence, Lord if you had been here... She sees his future, but she does not protest. Instead she witnesses to the overflowing love of God, to the abundance Jesus has brought into her life, to the love that binds her to him as friend, as sister. She will not wait until his eyes have closed, she knows the futility of holding a gift for the dead. She becomes disciple, and apostle, and rabbi. Kneeling on the floor in that close hot room, the meal's hostess takes the place of a servant to serve the one who came to serve her. She pours the precious scent of love over feet that have known miles of hard dusty roads - over feet that will know the pain of nails and torture before the week has ended.
She overwhelms their conversation, their fear, their blindness, with the scent of joy and gladness. As she wipes away the oil with her hair its scent clings to her, it will follow her for days to come. It will be with her when the news comes, the horrible news that she already knew. And it will be with her when the second messenger arrives, fear and wonder written on his face. These men who laugh too loudly tonight cannot see. Judas speaks for all the hearts that cling to the narrow practicality, and propriety of a fallen world. Mary witnesses for her God, who knows no such bounds, who is extravagant gift.
I want to be Mary, not necessarily a prophet,
but a woman who listened to the stirring,
and saw what was needful on that night.
I want to be Mary, not sitting anymore, listening
not thinking, just doing, breathing the intoxicating
perfume of my own love, massaging it into
the feet, the legs, the hands, the arms
caressing the sun burned neck, the wind chapped
cheeks. I want to be Mary, blind to a room
full of faces; deaf to a world full of whispers.
I want to be Mary, heart so full it breaks
and pours forth love as perfume without fear,
without shame, without restraint.
I want to be Mary, alone for that one brief moment
in a crowded room drunk on the fragrance
of adoration, freed by the intoxicating
power of it. I want to be Mary, looking up
as she massages tired feet with miles yet to go,
and see that beloved face ease; the care go
for a moment. I want to love so freely,
give so tenderly, to pillage the larder of my soul;
I want to be Mary.
Mary, disciple, apostle, teacher: not with words that can be ignored, or forgotten, but with the scent of her perfume that is her Gospel. It proclaims freedom to all those who lie trapped, prisoners held ransom by death. It promises light in the dark places of our hearts, sweetness where lies only bitter myrrh, sight for the blind, a song of joy for the stopped tongue, overflowing baskets of bread for the hungry, a hundred gallons of wine for those who thirst. As we race toward the cross, helpless to stop what is coming the sweet triumphant scent of nard goes before us. It declares to all who will stop, and breathe, that God is acting. God is doing a new thing, the wonder worker from Galilee is anointed King on his way to die, servant on his way to reign. She pours out blessings and truth in a room full of the blind and deaf, can you smell it?
Breathe deep, let the new thing God is doing fill you, let it wash away the fear, the weariness, the pride, the certainty. See what is coming, see it and tremble, and choose to pour out your own heart. Choose to stoop and mingle the scent of blessing into your being. Pour out the oil of gladness, that the blind may see, that the deaf may hear, that the mute may shout: God is doing a new thing.