A new kind of worship

25 October 2020

The markets in Jerusalem are a nightmare when the Festival is coming.  And that year there was tension in the air, you could feel it.  But still I loved the excitement, the bowls of spices, ochres and reds in their earthenware jars and the chatter of foreign tongues as the merchants put up their stalls.  I wandered through the crowds, intent on my purpose, though I was getting increasingly worried about the time.  Then I found it, on the stall with spices and perfumes from India, harvested in the Himalayas and brought by wagon train to make gifts for the rulers and the Temple, the most expensive perfume that money could buy.  I had my leather savings in the leather purse inside my cloak.  I spent them all and walked the six miles home with the alabaster jar swaddled in a protective cloth, like a babe in arms.

I don’t much like parties, but he had asked me to be there, so naturally I went back.  The meal was nearly over by the time I got there. They had moved on to the sweeter wine, and with the figs and honey the talk had turned to politics, specifically the tensions in Jerusalem as the Festival approached.

Walking briskly to the house along the dark street, the jar held tight against my ribs under the folds of my cloak, I had got it pretty well sorted out, what I wanted to say.  “Teacher”, I would begin, “I know you are the One, the King who is to be expected.” Then I would add, quietly, “Jesus: remember this when they attack you and call you names.  This is how great your Father’s love is and it is the same love that will heal the world, just when we think we have failed”. I knew he would understand and be comforted.  I had listened to him, and what he had said had entered my heart.

But when I came in and saw all those men laughing and arguing together and smelt the smoke, I knew I would never be able to make myself heard.  So I came up to Jesus, broke the jar and poured it over his head.  The amber liquid ran down over his face and he smiled then and rubbed it down his arms and over his chest.  Nard is soothing for skin like his that had been toughened and dried by the sun.  It happened then, a glorious moment of worship as the musty perfume invaded all our senses and spread through the house. This was how we could respond to the extravagant love he had offered us - with reckless joy and uninhibited kindness. I felt my worship sing out and sensed that, in this kingdom, I too was a priest.

And in that moment I felt sure that a door had opened and nothing would ever be the same again. I left grief and anxiety behind and knew that there would be no more need for spices to anoint the dead.  From now on, everything that happened would be about the living. 

I’m not sure how much he understood. Certainly he appreciated what I had done, but I think he saw it mainly as an act of devotion.  His mind was on other things, I could see.  But it seemed to bring him a few minutes of comfort and calm.  He defended me against those who could only think about the money, as if that mattered now.  He’d imbibed rather well by then.  I could have done without the hyperbole of “her story will be told for ever, ” etc.  But by then he was addressing his audience again, once a storyteller… I’d like to think, though, that he sensed the meaning of my act, even if it would never occur to him to see me, the quiet, selfless Mary as herald of his kingdom.   Did he recognise the change that had happened in me? I was no longer the clever clogs Mary, the one who knew it all or even the gentle follower who wanted to heal everyone else’s hurts.  I was stronger now. I was out. My public ministry had begun.

And afterwards in all our grief and uncomprehending confusion, when we bathed his battered body in spices and wrapped the grave cloths around him, somehow we knew it could not be the end.  In the early morning light as we ran towards the tomb, we already knew that something had changed.  We smelt the truth in the fresh morning air.  No more the aroma of spices, but the sharp tang of fresh linen and new birth. How can a departure be like coming home? How can joy shatter fear like an earthenware pot hitting a stone and scattering the shards never to be put back in the same shape again? We knew what had happened. It was us who had been chosen to see and to understand.  We had to make up the angel of course.  The men would never have taken our word for it. But our hearts, like our senses, could not lie.  We had story to tell to a world that was waiting for the sweet smell of grace.