April 3, 2022 – Lent 5
St. John’s United Church of Christ, Union, Illinois
Isaiah 43:16-21; John 12:1-8[1]
They were
having dinner in the home of Lazarus. Just a few verses earlier in John’s
gospel, Lazarus was raised from the dead. I imagine there was conversation
around the table that night about death. The chief priests and Pharisees
planned to put Jesus to death, and the word was out that they were looking for
him. The writing was on the wall, and Mary knew that her time with the Lord was
running short. So in an extravagant act of love and devotion, she anoints the
feet of Jesus.
We are not
given to such startling displays of emotion. We are much more reserved,
especially in church. We are more likely to respond to such an outburst with
embarrassment. We’re more likely to think, like Judas, about the waste of such
a precious resource, and of a better use for it. It is much easier for us to
push away the thought of death and say to each other “You’ll be fine.” Even
when death is inevitable, even when we know it is coming, we find it difficult
to cope with.
Mary
understood. Mary knew that life is fragile, even the life of Jesus, and that
there is a time to really show how much we love someone. There are often
flowers at the funeral, but they are perhaps more fitting in the hospital room.
“The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume” (v. 3). The ambiance
shifted as love was poured out. Was the scent of the perfume still with him at
the end of that week? The memory of her act was surely still with him when he
washed the feet of the disciples. Mary understood, she expressed her love and
devotion, and in her actions revealed a glimpse of the extravagant love that
God pours out on us.
Then Judas, the
cynic, critiques the wasteful display. The mood shifts again to tension. And in
response Jesus says: “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always
have me” (v. 8). Jesus is not saying that poverty is inevitable, that there
will always be poor people. Rather, Jesus is telling them that you will always
have people in your life who need your love and care. You will always have work
to do to relieve suffering, heal sickness and brokenness, to bring hope and joy
and peace. Even after Jesus is gone, the work of the disciples will go on.
The work will
go on, and sometimes, you will not have Jesus with you. Sometimes you will get
lost on the way, and there won’t be a guide, or a map, or GPS, or starlight,
and you will have to carry on anyway. Sometimes your faith will leave you, even
though your responsibilities don’t. Sometimes you will have a dark night of the
soul, but you will still have to get up in the morning to feed the children.
Sometimes we
lose touch with the meaning in our lives. Sometimes we’re doing good things,
and other people appreciate us for what we are doing, yet we don’t feel it. We
don’t feel inspired, connected, or engaged. Sometimes we just go through the
motions.
There are times
when we will have it all together. We will feel the meaning and importance of
what we’re doing. We’ll know where we’re going, and why, and we’re ready.
Sometimes all of the signs are in sight, we’re on the right track, and things
are going great!
But then the
wheels come off, and we get derailed. There might be something specific that
throws us off our groove, some great loss or unexpected change, and what was
all good and right yesterday is missing today. The job, or the relationship, or
the class-work is still there, the obligations and tasks are still there, but
it no longer feels the same. I’ve got a lot to do, but why am I doing it?
Jesus tells the
disciples “you will not always have me” (v. 8). You will know darkness and
despair. You will feel alone and unprepared. You will look for me and you will
not find me. On that Saturday, so long ago, the disciples were faced with
unbearable loss, and felt pain as they never had before. And we have, or we
will, feel it too. It is the crashing wave of emptiness that washes over you
when, instead of the beloved soldier, it is the officer, and the chaplain, who
knock at the door. It is the dust falling over the city when you watched the
towers fall, and those who rushed in did not come back out. It is the stabbing
pain that causes you to fall when you arrive at the school only to be carefully
escorted by the police officer toward the counselors. It is the silence of the
watch in the night when the boat does not return to the harbor.
But take
courage; you can survive this night. If you feel as if you’re lost and the way
is no longer clear; if you feel like the Way, the Truth, and the Life have
blown away on the wind; if you seek for Christ, for a sign that God is there,
for the whisper of the Spirit and you find nothing; do not despair. It doesn’t
mean that there is something wrong with you. It doesn’t mean that you haven’t
been faithful. It means that you are living through a part of the journey of
faith that we all experience. We all get lost on the way. Even Jesus, on the
cross, felt forsaken.
The exile began
in 587 bce, when, after Jerusalem
and its temple were conquered and destroyed by Babylon, some of the survivors
were marched into exile in Babylon some 800 miles away. There they lived as
refugees, far from home and oppressed. There was sadness, loneliness, and
grief. The people yearned for home and a place where they belonged. Many lost
their sense of meaning and purpose. Fifty years later, in 539 bce, the Babylonian Empire was conquered
by the Persians, who allowed them to return to their homeland.
The life of
faith is about love and joy, hope and peace, and the deep connection with God
that feels as close as Mary wiping the feet of Jesus with her hair. The journey
of faith is also about loss, separation, loneliness, exile, and the vast
distance between us and God. And faith is about the journey home, the renewal,
rekindling, and rebirth of life, and love, and hope. In the depths of your
darkness, take heart my friends. We are survivors, and we can return from
exile. We are a resurrection people, and today, tomorrow, and the next day, the
tomb is empty.
Elissa Johnk, a
Pastor in Vermont, tells this story:
There once was a man who made beautiful things with trees. His
hands, dirty and calloused, seemed to meld into the rich, rough bark with which
he labored. He chose his materials carefully, looking for things that others
considered flaws: here was the year of heavy rain. There, it had suffered - the
black tattoo of a fire scarring the yearly rings. In his hands, those
disfigurements were beautiful.
Indeed, they were the focal points of the tree’s new creation - signs that it
had seen hardship, and survived.
And when he was done transforming trees, he moved on to
people. In the same way, he looked for what others considered flaws - sins and
scars. And, in his hands, people found their wounds became beauty marks - signs
that they had seen hardship, and survived. Many, however, didn’t want their
wounds exposed, and so they sent him back to the trees.
The trees greeted him lovingly, the darkness of his skin once
again melding with the wood. As he had once done for them, they stretched him
into a new form - one where his wounds were the centerpieces of new life. Our new life.
You see, we tell this story not out of guilt, but hope. Hope
that, in its telling, we might feel our wounds exposed. That we might feel our
sins, our scars – our very selves – melded to the cross. That we might feel
ourselves being carved, stretched by the Master Carpenter into a new form – one
that allows us to proclaim not simply “He is risen!” But, “I am risen!” too.
Amen.
[1] The
scripture quotations contained herein are from the New Revised Standard Version
Bible, copyright © 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the
National Council of the Churches of Christ in the U.S.A. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
