Meet Mary of Bethany and imagine you are there at dinner with Jesus in her home.

John 12:1-11

My sister and I have been so busy with all the preparations for Passover. It’s only six days away and there is still so much to do. We should have been more prepared, but we’ve been a bit distracted with all that has happened with Lazarus. Our emotions have been up and down for so long now. We were held in the grip of deep fear and grief the whole time our brother was ill and then in a moment, all that held us bound was set free as we watched Lazarus step out of the tomb.

I still can’t grasp what happened. I saw Lazarus suffer and die. I helped Martha prepare his body for burial. I watched the men roll the stone across the opening of the tomb. Hot tears crawled down my face and I wondered where Jesus was. Why hadn’t he come? I thought he was the one; the promised one for which we’ve prayed.

I sat at his feet and heard his voice; the warm tones washing over me like a perfumed oil soaking into my skin and filling my every pore with a sweetness and healing balm I didn’t even know I needed. His teachings made me hopeful. His voice calmed my fears. His gaze, when he would look my way, held such kindness and love that I felt seen and cherished. I never wanted to leave his presence. Every time he would come back through Bethany as he traveled, he would stay with us and there was always such joy and laughter.

I remember one night, not that long ago when it was just the four of us. My brother and Jesus were laughing and joking at the table with me and Martha as we sipped wine and nibbled on the bread that my sister had baked that day. The crowd had left, and his followers were all asleep. There was just a small lamp on the table, the flame flickering gently in the shadows. His eyes that night had held such peace and joy and when he prayed with us, there seemed to be such an intimate relationship between him and our God. We were all reminded that there was something unique about Jesus and we knew we were in the presence of something greater than we had ever imagined.

But tonight is different. There is a weight on his shoulders as if he is carrying something heavy. He seems to be more focused and less carefree. Each word and movement seem more intentional. What is going on? I’ve heard the rumors. I know that not everyone understands who this is and why he is doing the miraculous things he’s doing. They don’t like his words and when he speaks, their hearts grow harder. It’s difficult for me to imagine, because his voice has always brought me peace. This can’t be easy for him. I know he understands that those in power are out to get him. I worry about his safety.

But, for tonight, he is with us. We are his family. Suddenly, I know what I can do. He has done so much for us and I want to remind him that we are here for him, and we know who he is. He deserves only the best. I quietly slip back to my room and open the simple carved wooden box that my father made years ago for my mom. I remove one of our most prized items. A jar of oil made from genuine aromatic nard. I hold it close to my heart as I head back into the room.

As I begin to walk towards Jesus, reclined at the table, the laughter in the room dies down. I can hear the whispers around me, but I only see him. His eyes lock with mine and I can’t look away. I stand in front of him, asking for permission with my eyes and he slightly smiles and give me nod. Just as I have done so many times, I fall at his feet, bowing before this miracle man that constantly gives to everyone.

This time though, instead of taking, I want to give. I want to be the one who shows love and helps him carry whatever is weighing him down. I open the jar and the fragrant aroma of the oil wafts all around the room leaving no one untouched. I look up one more time and see the look in his eyes. He knows something is coming. I sense it too. After watching Lazarus, I realize it feels the same. So, I let the warm oil spill over his feet. These feet that have carried my Jesus all over our country. They have walked on water. They have danced at weddings. They have supported him as he’s stood his ground with the Pharisees. Now, they are anointed.

I bow before him and pull my hair over my shoulder to dry his feet. I feel as if I am bowing before my king. Chills race up my spine as I realize what I’ve done. Everyone is silent and watching me. Judas starts to complain about what a waste I’ve made. The anger washes over me and I want to plead that this man deserves only the best, when I hear Jesus speak, "Leave her alone. Let her keep this for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me."

And with those words, I feel at once seen and cherished again. But something else rises to the surface. What does he mean the day of his burial? No! Is that what has his face so tense? Is that the shadow behind his smile tonight? I pray he is talking about some time far in the future. I just went through all this with my brother. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do this again. I look up at him, silently pleading with my gaze to explain what he means. But he just smiles at me and gently touches my cheek. I understand. I will again choose the better part and trust him.