Lent 5 C - April 3, 2022

Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY

Br. Robert Sevenksy, OHC

Lent 5 C - April 3, 2022

Isaiah 43:16-21

Philippians 3:4b-14

John 12:1-8

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Last week we heard Jesus’ parable of the Prodigal Son, so called. It is a remarkably moving and profound reflection on the human condition, and it was so lovingly explored with us by Brother Aidan. But what does ‘prodigal’ mean? It wasn't until well into adulthood that I discovered that the word had more nuances of meaning then I realized. On the one hand of course, it refers to being recklessly wasteful or extravagant, such as in disposing of goods or money. And that is probably the meaning that most of us associate with the parable of the Lost Son that we heard last week. But there is a second, related meaning of prodigal understood as lavish in giving or yielding, generous, openhanded. It is this meaning that we need to hold in mind this morning as we listen to the gospel story of the anointing of Jesus.

We hear today of a woman, in this case Mary of Bethany, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, anointing Jesus in preparation for his burial. This story is, in one form or another, told in all four canonical gospels, though as usual John's gospel gives it a particular spin or emphasis. It is placed right at the outset of the beginning of the passion narrative, just six days before the Passover and Jesus’ betrayal, arrest, and death. And ready or not, we are catapulted into Passiontide. What makes this a prodigal act? Well obviously, the expense of the ointment. The gospel narrative tells us that it is worth 300 denarii or about a year's wages. Can that be true? And if it is true, we might find ourselves asking, with the disciples or (in John’s gospel with Judas) the question, “Why this waste? This ointment could have been sold and the money given to the poor.” It does seem, rationally speaking, to be a rather extravagant and over the top action. Yet Jesus immediately intervenes to stop any criticism of Mary. He says, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” Indeed, in the gospels of Matthew and Mark, Jesus goes on to say of her action: “…wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her.” (Mark 14:9) Following the model of an Ignatian meditation, I'd like to share three points about this event and John’s take on it. First, and I regret that I need to say it, but it must be said: Jesus’ response to Mary’s critics, that the poor are always with us, is no excuse for not caring for those who are poor or in need. Jesus is here alluding to a passage from the book of Deuteronomy, and anybody in that circle would have known the whole quote and we should as well. Let me read it: “Since there will never cease to be some in need on the earth, I therefore command you, ‘Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.’” (15:11) There is a continuing obligation on our part to open our hands and our hearts to the poor. Our Lord’s saying this serves as a reminder to us all. This is part of the ordinary obligation of Christian living. But, let it also be said that amid ongoing obligations and ordinary life, extraordinary events can and do call out extraordinary responses from one or another of us. And Mary of Bethany was one who was called out. Second, the writer of John's gospel places this event not in the household of Simon of Bethany, as the do the authors of Matthew and Mark, but in the household of Jesus’ friends Mary, Martha and Lazarus. And unlike the woman in the other gospel accounts, this woman is not anonymous. She has a name, she has a family—though admittedly a rather nontraditional family—and she has a relationship with Jesus. Yes, we'd like to know more about all these family members, but what we do know is that they are people with a respected place in their community and culture, people with shared dreams and hopes, and people with complex and life-giving relationships with each other and with our Lord. They are friends of our Lord, and it is in the womb of their friendship that Jesus finds comfort and rest. I find it not only interesting but encouraging that this event, so tender and prophetic and yes, shocking, happens within the intimacy of discipleship understood as friendship and in a place where Jesus can find a home. Third, let’s be frank. This is a pretty wild act on Mary’s part, isn't it? And we're not just talking about the cost of the ointment, its value. There's also the issue of the hair. I'm not sure how the culture of Jesus’ day might have viewed the anointing of the head or feet of a man by a woman, especially in quasi-public setting, but I can't help but imagine that the wiping of the feet with her hair made some of the onlookers just a little bit nervous, kind of the way I get nervous when I see public displays of affection or intimacy. What got into her that she was moved to do this? There is of course something spontaneous about it. The gospel says that she bought the perfume or ointment so that she might keep it for the day of Jesus’ burial. But somehow, she recognized that this was the moment. Suddenly she realized that she needed to act without, I imagine, thinking too much about it or agonizing over it but just doing it, period. Her knowing was that kind of knowing where we realize only later the magnanimity and enormity and consequences of what we had done. Perhaps that's part of what falling in love is like. It's seldom moderate, at least at the outset. There's an insistence, and indeed even a madness, about it which gives it much of its meaning and lasting power. I think of the Friar Laurence in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet saying to Romeo as he awaits the arrival of his beloved: “Love moderately. Long love doth so.” Of course, as they meet, they throw themselves into each other’s arms, at least in the Zeffirelli movie version; they're having none of that. Their love is immoderate and spontaneous and ultimately tragic. But I wonder if falling in love with God doesn't elicit and need something of that immoderate character, that kind of energy and abandon where we're all in or we're not in at all. Two decades ago, we were blessed for seven years here at Holy Cross with the presence of Mary Klock, a Catholic Religious Sister of Mercy who shared in our life and taught many of us profound lessons in holy living. Mary was of strong Irish Catholic heritage and one day quoted a poem to me which captured my imagination. It was The Fool by Patrick Pearse. Pearse was an Irish political leader and revolutionary, one of the architects of the Easter Rebellion of 1916. Many see him as a patriot, others as a terrorist. That’s the inherent ambiguity of political revolution. In his poem Pearse urges us, as he urged the Irish people, to be all in. It's a dangerous poem, one which can be read as advocating violence. But at the heart of it, I believe, is also encouragement to live prodigally, with abandoned and with trust. I quote a portion: I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil. Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God. I have squandered the splendid years: Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again, Aye, fling them from me! For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard, Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen, Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word? The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces, And said, `This man is a fool,’ and others have said, `He blasphemeth;’ And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things, To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could hold. O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?

What if the dream come true? What if, after all, the ointment was not wasted? What if the love was immoderate, even embarrassing, maybe even tragic? I am reminded of Mary Oliver’s question: “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” No matter how old we may be, that question lives.

This has been a season of prodigals: the Lost Son, prodigal in his wastefulness, and his father, prodigal yet more in his loving forgiveness and welcome. There is the prodigal Mary of Bethany, whose wildly spontaneous generosity filled her house with fragrance, covering over the odor of her brother Lazarus’ death even while preparing the Lord for his own entombment. And of course, there is the greatest prodigal of all, our wildly generous Lord Jesus Christ who gives himself freely for us and for our sake and out of love for us and out of all proportion. With this anointing, he begins his journey to the cross and it is to that cross to that we now turn our faces. This is the same Lord who teaches his disciples and us that there is no greater love than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends.

O, brothers and sisters, what a Friend we have in Jesus. Amen.