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| John 12: 1-10 |
“Mary, get the oil.”
I have imagined this phrase being whispered into her ear when Jesus greeted her. It’s only my imagination, but it evokes a feeling that seals me to my Lord. I’ve been a pretender my whole life and I don’t feel like it has warped me or put me in a state of harmful denial. I am also a learner, and what I’ve learned does not leave me without foundation.
Today is Silent Wednesday, the day in the Holy Week where not much is said in the scriptures about what Jesus did. One thing we know is he visited a house in Bethany, where Mary lived. And one thing we know is that when he visited there Mary sat with him. Her sister Martha made herself useful and was likely at the hot stove sweating under the heat of preparing food for fourteen hungry men. Blessed Martha. She gets a bad rap for being irritated with her sister for sitting with Jesus when there was so much else to be done. I remind myself to thank Martha, in my imaginary realm, for her loving efforts to nurture and nourish.
Still, I can also hear Jesus teach Martha to let go of her busyness.
Jesus knew what the others didn’t know. Martha and the others had likely been through this before… gathering and eating and resting in Bethany, her brother Lazarus eating beside Jesus. What they didn’t know was that this would be the last time.
But Mary… perhaps she knew.
“Mary, get the oil.”
Up on the shelf, set apart from the goods of daily living, was an alabaster jar of costly Spikenard oil. Most well-to-do houses had them, special oils saved for special occasions. These oils were like the hope chest of our grandmothers. Spikenard was specifically set apart for two occasions: for a bride to wear on her wedding day, and for treating a body before its burial. Jews did not embalm. The sweet and powerful fragrance of Spikenard, pressed from an aromatic flower in India, could mask the smell of decay. This oil was incredibly expensive and was always used sparingly.
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| Later that night, after criticizing Mary for wasting expensive oil, would sell his soul for a pittance. |
I imagine the gentle, maybe even trembling voice of her lord whispering:
“Mary, get the oil.”
I imagine the pit in her stomach, the pounding of her heart. I imagine her turning from him, falling to her knees and weeping. I hear her whimper, “No, not yet.”
I imagine they had discussed this before. Maybe she had even worn the oil before, on her own flesh.
Mary reaches up in the sacred place, lifts the alabaster jar and blows the dust from the lid. She carries it hesitantly to her Lord. First one drop upon his head. Then more on his neck, his arms, his shoulders. A sacred initiation. Finally, at his feet, she impulsively empties the jar. The room is filled with fragrance. She prays the fragrance will linger.
