When I was young and got curious about something, I had to go to the bookshelves in our living room, drag a stool over and climb up to reach the colorful row of matching books set side by side in alphabetical order. Thinking back on it, I wonder where mom came up with the money to purchase those books? In those days, they were sold door to door, like vacuums and cleaning supplies were. I imagine it took her months to pay off the set of Encyclopedia Britannica. It's likely that by the time the publication was paid off the information therein was already outdated.
Nowadays all those pages and pages of information are easily accessed and updated online. It's literally at our fingertips in a never ending flow, pictures and sounds and everything but the charmed scent of printer's ink on musty old pages.
If I were a child today, my small arms would have reached up for the first book in the set, starting with the letter A for Anointing. I've been pondering, for days now, the ritual of anointing: what it means, its history, its practice, and where it fits in the part of me that tries to decipher truth.
This whole patch of pondering started last week when I was studying the events of the Holy Week for a church lesson. I was intrigued, once again, by the fact that Mary, the sister to Martha and Lazarus, believed by many to also be Mary Magdalene, anointed Jesus with oil. I am a sucker for symbolism, so I often need to pause and ask the Holy Spirit within me to help me know what's true and what isn't, as well as what matters and what doesn't. I am still learning how the Holy Spirit communicates with me, so I rarely draw absolute conclusions. But I do find myself traveling on very long trains of thought if the landscape is interesting.
I've recounted for years the tender act of Mary falling at the feet of Jesus during his final days, her tears bathing his feet. She wipes his feet with her hair, and anoints him with fragrant and expensive oil. But for some reason this year, in the recounting, I fixed my mind on the fact that the writers of the Gospels made note of her wiping his feet with her hair. Why would that even be noteworthy, that she used her hair and not a towel? Why would they even make the effort to give us that detail? And why did it matter what oil it was that she poured on him, or how much she used, or what it might have cost?
Luke 7:38
[Mary] stood at his feet behind him weeping,
and began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them
with the hairs of her head, and kissed his feet,
and anointed them with the ointment
.
The idea of Mary's hair being exposed was most compelling to me. Why was her head not covered in the company of anyone other than family? My fingertips searched repeatedly for information to come to me through the light of my laptop computer. There are natural conclusions that come from those thoughts.
From various sources it appears to be widely believed that Jewish women in those days covered their heads except in their homes in the presence of family. This was a token of their fidelity to their husbands and devotion to their Lord. If Mary was comfortably in the presence of Jesus with her hair uncovered, they must have been something more than casual acquaintances. At least that is what I keep thinking. And interestingly, the thought of it comforts me, for the sake of Jesus. I want him to have had some affectionate tenderness at this pivotal time. I want him to have had some kind of feminine compassion and genuine sorrow at the thought of losing him, not only because he would not be there to teach and lead, but that he would not be there to love.
It's pure conjecture on my part, but I imagine Jesus entering the home, embracing the people there, and whispering to Mary through their embrace:
"Mary, it's time. Do you have the oil?"
He refers to the alabaster vessel that contains Spikenard, or Nard as the scriptures call it, a very costly oil used for preparing the dead for burial. I imagine Mary looking in His eyes, reading words unspoken, and falling at his feet, crying,
"No, not yet. Please, not yet!"
And she weeps, her tears causing streaks in the dust on his feet. She wipes them with her hair, which has gathered on the floor around them. I imagine her getting the oil and, rather than waiting for the actuality of his death, she pours it over him, all of it, anointing him either symbolically, or possibly in an expressive use of the divine priesthood she may have shared with him. I imagine her begging him to save himself, because he had the power to do it. She had seen him raise her brother from the dead. She knew what power he had. I imagine the aroma of the woody, earthy oil filling the space of their home, covering everyone there, reminding them that all of us are buried, and will only be raised up by that singular Force of Power. I feel the emotion of the interchange. I feel the throbbing of my heart, pretending I am her. I feel her anger at Judas mocking her for wasting the oil, and I feel the comforting whisper of Jesus telling her she has done a good thing, this oil has filled the measure of its creation. I have an increased tenderness for the man Jesus, who loved as I try to love, and ached as I ache, and wept as I weep. If I knew I was dying, I would sorrow not only for myself, but for my David, and my children, my sisters and brothers. We share our pain because we love.
Last week, when I was preparing a church lesson on the events of the Holy Week, I wanted to have something tactile for my students, to stand as a little witness of the power of these consecrated events. I made large plastic eggs with small reminder tokens in them, things like a piece of palm for Palm Sunday and a coin for Judas' betrayal and a cross for Good Friday. I got it in my head to find some spikenard and tiny vials to put it in, so that the students could open it and actually smell what Jesus and Mary smelled at that pivotal moment. I found some online and ordered it. They guaranteed it would arrive early enough to use in my Sunday lesson. By Saturday it had not arrived, so I searched and called every store within 100 miles of here; every herbal and essential oil outlet, every health food store and even funky hippie-like establishments.To no avail. Most clerks answered, "What was the name of that oil? I've never heard of it. Could you spell it for me?" Finally, I saw online that Doterra made Spikenard, so I messaged two friends who sell that brand of essential oils. They both responded right away.
Kathy Kay said she wished she had some, but she didn't. Jana said the same, but added she would check with a friend. At that point I got online to see what Spikenard even smelled like, so that maybe I could find a close substitute. I came up with something that was not Spikenard, but perhaps similar. I really wanted the power of aroma in the experience I offered in my upcoming class. I mixed a combination of oils I had on hand. Two of my sisters and I tore small pieces off a cotton ball, pressed them into the tiny glass vials I had purchased, and prepared to drop a tiny bit of the oil into them. 80 of them. As we worked my friend Jana called.
"Are you home?"
"Yes."
"OK, I'm headed over to you. I have some Spikenard, and I am giving it to you."
I objected, knowing that the cost of Spikenard, at least the quality that Doterra produces, is roughly $50 an ounce.
Within minutes the doorbell rang, and there stood Jana. I embraced her and welcomed her in.
You'd have to know what's going on in Jana's life right now to see why Jana's presence deeply moved me.
As I added drops of spikenard to our tiny vials after Jana left, I thought of her. Well into the wee dark hours of the night I thought of her, of her quiet resolve, of her nobility, but also of her tenderness. Jana was packing up her house for the move when I had messaged her about the Spikenard oil. I had not been aware of this at the time. Something in her caused her to pause from this immensely focused labor, and from her own shaken vantage point. I imagine her, like Mary, stopping to find the Nard oil. I imagine her telling herself to ignore the cost, to ignore the other labors pulling at her, to put herself and her offering of oil into motion and deliver it for holy use.
Jana would not know how deeply her offering touches me. The emotion of what she brought to me, knowing I would pass it on to so many other women, grew as the night progressed. As I dipped my small dropper into the ancient oil, I offered prayers for Jana, in her new home, in her new love as it sits beside her old love, in her new community. I offered prayers that she would know the love of her village here will remain wherever she is.
I inhale this spikenard oil, brought to me with complete purity of heart from a faithful woman. It is a powerful witness to me that our Lord uses women for his most divine purposes. He knows how pure a well-pressed heart can be. Pressed, like the oil that came from the Spikenard plant. Patiently and painfully earned.
ANOINTING
John 12:1-13 / Mathew 26:1-16 / Mark 14: 1-11. Three different accounts of Christ being anointed by a woman. John says it occurred the day before the Triumphal entry. Mark and Mathew say it was the day before the Last Supper. All accounts indicate a woman did the anointing, that she used costly oil, and that there was discussion about the monetary value of the oil. Judas, in John, complains that the oil was worth 300 denari, or 300 days wages. Ironically, Judas would sell off Jesus for one tenth of that, 30 pieces of silver.
Mary’s head was uncovered, against Hebrew law. Unless in a home with family.
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| Judas reprimands Mary for wasting oil. |
The contrast could not be more pronounced: Mary is generous; Judas is greedy. Mary is humble; Judas is arrogant. Mary is selfless; Judas is self-centered. Judas stands aloof; Mary kneels in humble adoration. Together, they serve as vivid contrasting illustrations of Jesus’ own teaching: “where your treasure is, there will your heart be also” (Matt. 6:21).
One day pure knowledge will come to me, not through the blue light of my computer, but from the true light in my Master's eyes.
