Lent 5 C + The story of Mary, sister of Martha and Lazarus + 4.3.22

 

M. Campbell-Langdell

All Santos, Oxnard

(Isaiah 43:16–21; Ps. 126; Philippians 3:4b–14; St. John 12:1–8)

 

I remember how it happened. Later, they said all sorts of things. About how I did this crazy thing with my hair and tears and anointing oil as if I was just some kind of nutter. And of course, the only reason I could have done something so dramatic is because I was such a big sinner, so I needed to repent like crazy. There couldn’t be another reason for anointing Jesus in that way, a reason like love.

Am I a sinful woman? Sure. Which one of us doesn’t have a day or a moment we regret? That we would do over if given the chance? But am I a bigger sinner than the next person? Not hardly.
But I do know that at that time I had been swimming through grief. Unless you have lost a really close family member unexpectedly, you don’t understand. I could hardly breathe for missing him. Lazarus was the glue that kept Martha and me together- we are like oil and water otherwise, but somehow, he is the fragrant lemon juice that, mixed together helps make oil and water work together. Dynamic. And an illness took him. So quick. He was here and he was gone.

And then Jesus came, and Martha had more hope than I had. She said “even now, God will give you whatever you will ask of him.” I just said “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Because I knew it. I knew in my bones that our Great Healer would not have let that illness take Lazarus.

And it was so miraculous, because Jesus just went up to the tomb and called him out. Our Lazarus. As if he was not dead and cold as we had left him, but instead had only been sleeping. Praise God! I couldn’t believe it. And so, my mourning turned into rejoicing. The words of the Psalmist echoed through my head: “Those who sowed with tears will reap with songs of joy.” Praise God! Nothing else mattered.

So that evening a little later, as we were preparing for the week of the Passover, we were still riding on the high of having our sibling back. Of having the rhythm of our family back. And when Jesus came, we all just knew what to do. Lazarus, the friendliest of us, kept Jesus and the other disciples company while Martha, cook extraordinaire, was in her element serving her best dishes to Jesus. And at first, I just wanted to remain at Jesus’ feet and listen. Because that is what I do, I listen to people. But the more I thought about it, I just had a feeling. Raising Lazarus was not an action that just affected our little family, but others would have heard about it and become concerned. Jesus was already in danger for some of the things he had said. But here he was, having just done something that no human being should be able to do. Women are often shrewder than men when it comes to politics, more realistic. I knew that this kind of blessing might come with a curse as others misunderstood Jesus or understood too well and felt threatened by him.
I somehow knew we didn’t have a lot of time left with Jesus. And I remembered my father had many years hence procured a whole pound of nard from a traveling merchant. He traded his most prized lapis lazuli ring from Egypt for that gorgeous, aromatic block kept safe in our cupboards. He told us children, “I don’t have much of my father’s fortune left to give you, but this I give you. That when you send one of us off to the land of the dead, you do it in regal style. Everyone will know that this is a family that honors the traditions, and honors its heritage.” And we did just that when he passed beyond the veil some years back. But we used very little of the pound of ointment, saving it for the other family members in future years. When Lazarus went, it was all so quick we feared contagion and just prepared him as speedily as possible, hoping his soul would forgive us skipping the anointing. And now I took out that ointment meant to embalm my brother. And something told me it was more important to honor this living person than to focus only on honoring the dead. And I felt led to anoint Jesus’ feet, rubbing around that nard with a flourish. And as I thought about all that Jesus had done for us, and our family, and all he meant to me, the tears began to flow. Embarrassingly fast. I was overcome by all that had happened in recent days. And in my joy and sorrow and gratitude, all I could think to dry the tears with that fell so fast to his feet was my hair. I know it sounds strange now, but it was my way for caring for the one who cared for us all.

Of course, not everyone understood. Judas could not have known that block worth so much money was a family heirloom, carefully tended to care for our dead. And the others who had not been through what Martha, Lazarus and I had lived, could not understand my actions. But later, they knew. They cared for his body as tenderly later on. They loved him too.

Despite their misunderstandings, I will always treasure the memory of that evening. My brother talking and laughing, my sister filling bellies with food for body and soul, and me doing my little part to serve the Servant Messiah, our other brother, Jesus. The oil and water mixed with lemon, the heady scent of nard sniffed between shed tears of joy and loss. One of those nights that holds the moon and the stars.

So, I’ve shared my story. Now, I’ll ask you:

What will you do to share a little tenderness today? To thank Jesus for what he has done for you? Without him physically here, sometimes the only way is for us to care for each other, and to care especially for the poor.

Amen.