Bethany
They have been expecting him, anticipating his arrival for Passover. Martha has readied their home in her usual efficient way. And their friend, Simon, who had been miraculously healed of the dreaded leprosy by the Lord himself during a visit months earlier, has invited them all to dinner at his home after Jesus’ arrival with his disciples.
Now, on this beautiful spring day, everyone has gathered at Simon’s large, spacious home. Mary stands at the side of the dining hall listening to the loud conversation and laughter that fill the room. The guests, all men, recline at the long table. Lazarus sits next to Jesus, radiating good health, his face alight with pleasure. Servants begin bringing in the food on large platters. Martha, she notes absently, is tending to the Lord herself, setting dishes before him, her own pleasure evident on her face.
But Mary is disturbed. The hours she has spent with the Lord during his visits are vivid in her mind. And his words, those words. He had, during his last visit, spoken clearly to her of his death—and resurrection to follow. Why hadn’t she heard his disciples speak more openly about these things, these shocking things? What was not being understood here? She had puzzled over this, lost sleep, cast about in her mind for some glimmer of understanding. Standing there in that room of conviviality and good fellowship, she feels a a growing sense of dread. She stares at Jesus, relaxed, strong, healthy, that smile on his face that seems to dispense a divine glow over the scene. Her mind is struggling for something she is missing, some connection, some . . .
Suddenly, as if a match has been struck and illuminated a latent truth, she understands. Passover. Passover. The passover lamb. Sin. Redemption. Death. Burial. Resurrection. Life. O, Lord God. O, no.
She leaves the room, running out of the house, down the road, finally reaching their own beloved home. She races inside, into her own room. In a corner stands a wooden box. Quickly, she reaches inside, lifting out a bundle wrapped in lambskin. From it she removes a white alabaster flask, its long, graceful neck sealed at the top. Clutching it to herself with both hands, she hurries back to Simon’s house.
Tears are on her face as she enters the room, but her mind is clear, her heart feeling as though it will break. As she approaches the table, Jesus turns and looks at Mary, a small, knowing smile on his face. He rises and stands quietly, bowing his head. The room grows silent at the scene before them. With fumbling fingers, she peels away the wax seal on the neck of the flask. Reaching up, she pours the amber liquid over the bowed head of her Savior. It begins to course down his cheeks, his neck, under his tunic, slowly appearing on his feet. The room fills with the sweet, earthy fragrance of spikenard. Undoing her long hair, Mary kneels and begins to wipe the oil from his feet.
She hears the voice of Simon’s son, Judas, complaining of the cost. Then, the voice of Jesus, gentle, but with an edge, in response:
Leave her alone. She has kept this for the day of my burial.
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In all of the Gospel accounts, and of all the people Jesus spoke to directly about his death, burial, and resurrection, Mary of Bethany seems to have been the only one who both understood and believed what he said. That she would, in that day, that culture, and in a room full of men, anoint Jesus as she did is remarkable. In this season of preparation for Resurrection Sunday, it would be good for us to pay close attention to what the Lord would reveal to us as we contemplate his sacrifice. There is nothing more personal in life than acknowledging what Christ has done for each of us because of our sin—then living a life of love that honors that sacrifice.
May you be very conscious of the Lord’s presence in this season. As Psalm 73:28 says:
The nearness of God is my good (NASB).
Indeed.