Based on John 12:1-8
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| Pastor Erin |
Jesus was here. He came with his disciples and we welcomed
them all with great joy. The man who
restored my brother would always be welcomed in our home—and anyone who came in
his name.
Martha was busily
bustling about, preparing food, drawing water, and clucking over everyone as
she does.
Lazarus reclined with
the men, mostly silently listening and watching. When he spoke it was slow and deliberate,
softer than he had spoken before. When
he spoke, everyone stopped whatever they were doing to listen. Perhaps they thought back some special wisdom
from the place he had been when he left us.
As his sister, I found him no wiser than before. Unless the wisdom was that he spoke less and spoke
softly. The fact that even Martha could
be stilled for one moment by our brother made me consider if he did know
something new.
What Lazarus said was,
“The only mystery I have ever known before you, you soon will know, too.” He said this directly to Jesus, their eyes
locked on each other’s where a second, unspoken part of the conversation took
place. Martha knew what Lazarus was
getting at as well as I did but she hurried away to check a cooking pot or
ready a tray. She refused to believe
what our brother had been telling us.
She refused to believe our friend, Jesus, whom we both so loved, would
soon die.
Although I grieved
deeply for it, I saw the truth in what Lazarus was telling us. I heard it in the winds at night. I felt in deep in my body, in my soul. Jesus was going to leave us. Jesus could not live much longer—not this
way. In truth, I think I knew this even
before my brother.
I knew the things that
Jesus was doing were not wanted and welcomed by everyone. How could they be? Each story that came to us of Jesus’
teachings and works; how he had cast out demons, cured the sick and the lame,
touched and been touched by women and the unclean…all of this…all of these
things which made my heart sing and my spirit long for this new thing he was
doing—they sparked fear in me: Not fear
of Jesus, fear for him.
I knew if I, a woman,
someone cast so low, could feel hope in all that he was doing, then certainly
others felt threatened. If someone like
he could see the worth in one like me, how frightened must the powerful be to
think they might not be so very special after all. I knew many men would fear him for the same
reasons I loved him.
Sometimes I felt I even
saw this in the eyes of his disciples.
When I would sit at his feet and listen, when I was there among the men,
I felt their eyes upon me. My skin
itched beneath their gaze. There may
have been one or another who felt something like desire for me, something I
could never return. But what I felt more
from them was jealousy and contempt. If
I dared, for even the briefest of moments to look at their faces, there was
anger. Why was I, a woman, permitted to
listen and to learn from the Master? Why
was I allowed so near? I knew when
Martha complained at my place among them that many of the men agreed. I should have been working and serving and
silent and obedient. Yet Jesus, who
surely knew my heart better than I, he let me stay.
If he had told me to
go, I would have gone.
I know that his letting
me stay is just one more reason for them to condemn him. I feel guilty for my part in his coming
trial. And Lazarus. Oh, Lazarus.
Surely if nothing that had come before had made a target of Jesus,
Martha and I weeping, begging, sobbing to our friend for the life of our
brother…Perhaps if Lazarus had been left to rot Jesus would not be in such
terrible danger. Could my sister and I
have stayed silent? Could we have
stilled our grief? How is one to choose
between the love of a brother and the love of so dear a friend?
God forgive me, how I
sometimes wish Jesus had left him dead there in the tomb! Sometimes I still smell it coming off my
brother’s skin, in the sweat from his pores, lingering about him. Death’s terrible stench. Decay like rotten goats’ milk and overripened
fruit. I think in those moments, maybe
my brother did not come back wiser, maybe my brother did not come back at
all. In these moments, I sneak away from
Martha and Lazarus and I open the jar of perfume and inhale deeply of its sweet
spicy scent and try to forgive myself my thoughts.
My grief and my longing
clash in my heart as I watch these men, all these men, those whom I love, and
those whom I envy, and I am certain that all Lazarus and I fear will soon come
to pass.
I go then and I
retrieve my jar. I hold it close to my
breast—praying over it and telling it goodbye.
I kneel at the feet of
my Jesus. I fear. I know this is the last time I will do so in
this lifetime. I want to thank him for
all he has taught me. I want to ask him
his forgiveness for how I, too, have condemned him. I want to tell him, though I know it makes no
difference in the path before him, that I love him—that I always will.
I pour the jar out on
his feet—all of it. The oil glides
across the tops of these feet that have carried him so far and so long to this
place and shall not carry him much further.
It is all I have.
It is not enough.
It cannot be enough to
show him, to tell him, to give him.
I pull the scarf from
my head. I unbind my hair from its
leather thong. My hair cascading over my
face I am hidden behind the black veil and I weep upon his feet and the
oil. I wipe them with my hair.
Someone speaks though I
do not hear them. I am not here.
Jesus speaks, I hear
only: “You always have the poor with you but you do not always have me.” I weep all the more.
I hear you, Lord. I hear your command. You must leave and I must stay. But you do not leave me with nothing. You leave me your people. You leave me your poor. They will be in need and I must care for them
in your stead. Yes, Lord, I will. Yes, Lord, I can. I will love them. I will love them because I love you.
It is over. They are gone. He is gone. The house is filled with a mixture of scents,
Martha’s food, Lazarus’s odor, my perfume.
Bright and new and old and fading things among three grieving
people. I ache. Yet I am content. I held nothing back. I gave all that I had to offer. And though I know it was still not enough,
could never be enough, for him it was enough.
He asks for nothing but
gives everything. And now that I have
nothing left to give I am free to give all that I am.
Thank you, dear God.
Thank you, my dear
Jesus.
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