John 12:1-19
“Rise or Fall”
March 25, 2018 – Palm Sunday
Let us watch Jesus enter Jerusalem through the eyes of two of His followers. As we just heard, these two were with him the day before. They must have been in the crowd on Sunday. And they watched with very different eyes and very different thoughts.
First, this voice, a man’s:
Mary is looking at me. She sees me staring at her. She notices I am not shouting like the rest, that I am frowning and rigid. So her brown eyes are puzzled. She lowers the palm branch. Her hair is up and covered today, modestly hiding yesterday’s wantonness. She takes a step toward me. “No,” I shake my head. I wave my empty hand and point at the palm. She raises it up again and I offer a forced smile. Now, she hesitantly smiles at me, and I quickly turn to hide my true expression, a grimace of disgust.
Then the other voice, a woman’s:
He is looking at me. Why does he stare? Is he still upset over what I did for the Master yesterday? He looks at me with anger, yet he looks past also, as though his fury is directed somewhere else as well. He is lost in his thoughts. He does not shout praise with the rest of us. How can his heart not rise with the rest of us?
Oh! He sees that I have seen him. I should go to him. Jesus would not want us to stay at odds. He called us to be at peace with one another. If I need to beg forgiveness of Judas Iscariot, I shall go and do that now. God forbid that on the day of my Lord’s triumph I should not honor the way in which He taught us to walk.
Yet as I move toward him, Judas shakes his head. Across the crowd he waves his arm at me, as though to say he would wave a branch if he had it. He nods toward my palm and I raise it for him to see. Perhaps he could not find one. All the trees on this side of Jerusalem are stripped bare. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with him after all. He smiles as if a mood has passed. He looks toward our Teacher riding so triumphantly.
Judas continues his reflections:
Jesus looks like a fool, sitting on that donkey! Why does He not listen to me? The city is ripe. With a little care, a little concern for appearance, it would drop into our hands like a soft fig. People would do anything for Him. They would gather behind Him and drive the pagan dogs back to Rome to lick their emperor’s feet. He could ask for anything. They would give it and more. They would rise up and rebel at His command! Yet He does this.
Everyone heard. Everyone talked. Raise a man dead three days and people talk. They talk and they talk. I am sick to death of their babble. Now the babblers have become a mob, and a simple walk into the city has become a procession, and my naïve master is being hailed as their king.
Fie! A king on the back of an ass, He is. I asked Him not to ride it, you know. He knew I was right. I understand these things. They came out to Him with palms, as they came out for my namesake two hundred years ago. Now there was a leader. Judas the Hammer would have known how to handle this crowd. If the Maccabees were here now, it would be different. That Judas would have ridden a horse, a war horse. He would not perch side-saddle on a beast of burden like a poor man, with his feet dragging in the dust.
Mary of Bethany has her own thoughts about Jesus and the poor:
Our Lord loves the poor people. They come to Him in droves and He always rises to help them. He feeds and heals them and speaks to them of the Father’s love. He gives so much it seems to drain away His very life. Perhaps it would have been better to give my gift to the poor. Then they might leave Him alone a little. Then He would not have to give so much of Himself.
I doubt, though, He would ever stop giving Himself away. Look at Him there, riding a poor man’s beast of burden. He loves the humble people so much that He lives like them. His giving goes on and on. His life is being poured out every day because He rises to give Himself to everyone around Him.
I pause and glance away to see where the donkey has carried Jesus now. When I turn back, Judas is gone, lost somewhere in the crowd. Well, no matter, we will all gather again in Bethany soon.
Judas expresses his frustration with Jesus:
He has no pride. He is not rising among people that matter. He is sinking. He rides a donkey and allows children and rabble from the streets to praise Him. They hail Him as King of Israel, as if He really could overthrow the Romans and establish our nation again. They are even shouting “Hosanna!” “Come, save us!” in the language of our fathers. Can they really imagine this poor itinerant preacher is going to save them from Rome? Hardly.
No, the man I have followed for three years is not going to overthrow the empire or anything else, except perhaps a few more tables in the Temple. He has wasted every opportunity. He wastes everything. That is what consumes me, you see, the waste. He could have had so much. And He has thrown it all away.
When I first met Jesus of Nazareth, I was completely captivated by His power. He taught like no one else. He had authority. He commanded the demons. He commanded the wind. He even commanded death. So I was glad for Him to command me. Here was someone to whom I could submit. He was worthy of my talents and my gifts. Like these fools crying “hosanna” now, I would have risen to give Him whatever He asked.
Yet He wasted what I had to give. Curses on Him! He wasted me! With my skills, my connections, my vision, I could have laid a kingdom at His feet. Those stupid sons of Zebedee imagined themselves sitting at His side in some heavenly kingdom. Hah! I would have stood by His side as He sat upon a real throne. If He had used me well, He would have risen in the world. He did not want it. He did not want what I had to give. He seemed to want something else from me, but I have never known what it was.
Whatever He wants, it is hopeless now. He squandered every gift that came His way. As He did yesterday. There she is again, that ridiculous woman Mary, caught up in the frenzy with the rest, waving a palm and shouting blessings she doesn’t comprehend. But today’s display is nothing compared to her pitiful performance yesterday evening.
Mary looks back on what she did:
I wanted to give Jesus something of myself, something costly, something I love. So I gave Him the one material gift I always wanted someone to give me. Since I was a girl, I have loved the perfumer’s corner of the market. While my mother shopped, I stood at the table filled with colored jars. I would lift each in turn, hold it near my face and close my eyes to savor the fragrance. The jar of nard, from somewhere far in the east, I held longest, lingering over the aroma until the seller would get annoyed and take it from my hands.
I have carried the dream from girlhood, a dream of receiving a precious jar filled with that sweet scent I loved. It was a romantic vision of marrying a wealthy man and living in a huge house and being waited upon by faithful servants. It was an imagining far beyond the means of my humble family.
Yesterday morning I awoke filled with the dream. The scent of nard seemed to be hanging in the air. And it came into my heart that though I would never come to the reality of that dream, I had been given something far better. For I, a mere woman, had been given a seat at the feet of the Lord. In return, I would give Him my dream. I would pour out on Him the extravagance I had always thought was my hope. The heavenly lotion would anoint the King of Heaven.
Lazarus and Martha, my brother and sister, agreed with what I proposed to do. Martha was reluctant. She thought of our household and the cost of spending in one day all we had saved. Yet she loves Jesus too. She has no patience for sitting still to hear Him teach, but her cooking and fussing over Him show well enough how devoted she is. So Martha consented. Lazarus of course would do anything for Him. He died and the Lord gave him back his life. No gift would be beyond the price of what my brother has received.
Judas recalls the scene in Bethany:
We were there to honor Him last night. In the home of a man He had raised from the dead, we gathered to extol His power. Martha, at least, knows her place. Like any decent woman, she served us well. The meat was spicy. The bread was crisp and warm from the oven. The wine was inexpensive, but well chosen. It was a fit meal for our leader, for a man who might someday rule our country.
That fine meal was interrupted. Martha’s sister should have been in the kitchen. She never stays where she belongs. Instead, she sits with the rest of us, as if she were a female disciple. Absurd. Her actions last night were absurdity incarnate. She came to the table with an alabaster jar. I recognized immediately what it was. My own wife has pointed out such luxuries in the market place, as though I might buy her such a treasure. Yet here was Mary, a husbandless woman follower of a rabbi, carrying the finest of perfumed lotions. Even as she approached, I calculated the price. That container of nard was worth a year’s wages. What a gift! Such an offering it would be for our cause.
I rose to accept the gift for our master, but the insane woman did the unthinkable. She broke the jar! She cracked it on a corner of the table and began to pour the lotion on His head and then His hands and His side and finally even upon His feet. Then in the most wanton, shameless deed I have ever seen, she knelt down before Him, undid her hair, and began to smooth the oil into His feet with long black strands from her head. The fragrance from the lotion rose into my nostrils like the stench of a dung pile.
Mary remembers her act of love:
I rose then, last night, carrying the alabaster jar in trembling hands. My eyes filled up as I stood over that precious head bent forward in conversation with His men. The jar almost fell as I brought the neck down sharply on the table. Then I raised it up again and began to pour that scented oil upon Jesus.
I had only meant to anoint His head, as they did the kings of old—as David was anointed king by Samuel. Yet my hands seemed to move of themselves to pour the fragrance over His hands. Then the jar slipped in my oil-soaked fingers and the lotion dripped down His side. His face grew very sad when that happened. All I could think to do was to kneel and humble myself in every way possible. I poured the last of it on His feet. Those precious feet had carried Him to our home to raise my brother from the grave. Thinking of His love for my brother, I wiped His feet with my own hair.
Judas remembers his anger:
I could not speak against her directly. The Master had once rebuked Martha herself when she dared to question her sister’s devotion to Him. Yet I could not be silent. I had to rise up and ask, “Why, why was this precious and beautiful gift wasted? Could we not have done much good with it? A poor man and his family might have lived a year on the price it would have brought in the market.”
He looked across the table at me. I felt as though He saw into my soul, though that is insanity. But He seemed to know that if the nard had been sold, not all the proceeds would have gone to the poor. His eyes spoke to me of each coin I had moved from our money bag to the old piece of pottery hidden in a lonely field. At least those bits of silver I stole would not be wasted on beggars, I thought.
Mary is troubled:
The encounter with Judas last night still troubles me. Was I wrong? The merchant took nearly all our family’s savings for that jar of nard. Perhaps Judas was right. All those around the table were stunned into silence. Even I could not quite comprehend that I had really done such a thing. Jesus rested His hand on my head gently. Then the voice of Judas shattered the moment. He was asking why. Why this absurd display? Couldn’t my generosity have been directed toward the poor? Why the waste?
Jesus silenced him. Then He spoke quietly. I am not sure all there heard Him, but He said that I had anointed Him for burial. I had no idea what He meant. He who raised my brother after being dead three days will never Himself be buried. More disturbing, He spoke of a time when we would still have the poor but not have Him. I refuse to believe it. Where would the poor be without Him? Where would we be without Him? Where would I be?
Judas hardens his resolution:
Yes, Jesus knew I was stealing, but He did not confront my theft. What He said was only, “Leave her alone.” Then He turned away from me as He spoke strange things about being anointed for a burial. He said Mary would be remembered and honored for that foolish, shameful thing she had done. And then He said the words that burn in my mind today, “You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”
No, Lord-upon-a-donkey, we will not have you. You have convinced me of that. It has entered into my heart that we must be rid of you. If everything we cherish is not to be poured out upon the ground like the nard was, you must leave us. Serving you is too costly. We cannot afford you anymore, Jesus.
So I shall hand you over, teacher I once worshipped. I shall give you to those who can teach you the true cost of what you do. You will pay a price for your wastefulness. You would not rise to take your power, and so they will show you with whips the expense of throwing it away. It is a shame to lose your miracles and your voice, but perhaps your blood is all that will be wasted now.
I walk away from the crowd and the noise and the man on the donkey. I go now to commit my own act of waste. We could have sold Mary’s lotion for three hundred pieces of silver. I will sell Jesus for a tenth of that. I refuse His extravagance. This wasteful king will command a frugal price. At thirty pieces of silver, the Sanhedrin is getting a bargain.
Mary rejoices in the moment:
All my tears and all the slights from Judas were last night. Today I am here, walking in the bright sunshine, and the Messiah is coming to His city. We have all come out to welcome Him with the praise He deserves. No, the nard was not too much. All the palm branches in Israel are not too much. The shouting of every child in Jerusalem is not too great a gift of praise for this King. Indeed, I feel the very stones of the earth should rise to honor Him.
We are walking now past a tight knot of Pharisees gathered watching in silence, like Judas was. As we pass, I hear one saying loudly, “See, nothing can be done. The whole world has gone after him!” Oh, that it would be true. May the whole world rise up to worship our Lord Jesus who came to save us. Hosanna!
You and I have heard the witnesses. All that remains is for each of us to fall or rise. One of the witnesses fell into his own ambition, greed, and bitterness. The other rose in faith to praise Jesus in every way she could. These two represent a basic choice. Will you sink into sin and despair like Judas, or will you rise for and with Jesus? Jesus came to be raised, raised first to die on the cross, then raised again to life forever. Will you be raised with Him? Will you rise and give Him your praise like Mary did?
Amen.
Valley Covenant Church
Eugene/Springfield, Oregon
Copyright © 2018 by Stephen S. Bilynskyj