Lent 5C
John 12:1-11
This
past week, our bishop, Bishop Marie Jerge, came to our monthly gathering of
Lutheran pastors – she does this every year, as a chance to connect with each
conference, or each area of the Upstate NY Synod, and hear how people are
doing. After we’d gotten out of the way some business matters, she asked us to
share something with her: when was a time recently, she asked, when we had
experienced Sabbath? She defined Sabbath as a time when we had felt a
connection to God, a time we had found rest in God, a time when we had been
rejuvenated by the Spirit. Several people shared experiences – some had to do
with exercise, others with conversations… Mine was recalling working on a
recent project: a friend and I are working together to create an Advent stole
for another friend of ours who is about to graduate from seminary. The friend
who is to receive the stole just had a surgery about which she was feeling
pretty scared. So on the eve of her surgery, I worked on her stole, and I
prayed for her and her health and her ministry, stitching my prayers into the
stole she will wear during the time of the church year that we focus on hope.
It truly was a God moment, a time when I felt a peaceful presence, a
connection.
Ours
is a world that is full of connection – particularly through the explosion of
social media. Millions of people around the world are only a phone call, a
text, a tweet, or a post away. I have nearly 700 Facebook friends, with almost
all of whom I have also shared some personal connection, and I constantly get
notifications throughout the day that one of them has posted something I might
be interested in. We are a connected culture, to be sure.
And
yet… are we? In terms of social media and technology, sure! Personal
connections – the kind where you actually sit down and talk face-to-face with
someone – are fewer, but still present. Even as technology has allowed for more
and faster connections, one symptom of that is that those connections are often
more trivial and less intimate. But even so, many of us do still get together
to quilt or scrapbook, to prepare a meal, to have a cup of coffee, to work on a
project, to come to church, and we make more personal connections that way. If
I asked you when was the last time you had a conversation with someone, it
would probably not have been all that long ago.
But
what if I posed the same question to you that the bishop posed to us pastors:
when was the last time you felt a connection with God? When was the last time
you had an experience with God that left you feeling satisfied, content, or at
peace? My guess is that this sort of connection is less prevalent in our lives,
maybe even because we have fooled
ourselves into thinking we are connected by other means. And so the result is
that even though we live in an enormously connected world, I would guess that
many of us still hunger for connection – for genuine, meaningful connection, whether that is to God, or to the
people around you.
Why
is that, I wonder? I think part of it is that we think we should behave
ourselves, and in doing so, we keep ourselves hidden from the possibility of
deep connection. I was just talking to someone about children’s sermons. One of
my favorite parts of doing children’s sermons is that I can ask the kids
questions and ask them to do silly stuff, and they respond, even though a room
full of adults are watching! A few weeks ago I taught the children Father
Abraham and had them being silly, dancing around, sticking their tongues out,
and everyone had a great time. Would you have so willingly done that, if I
asked you to stand up here in front of everyone? Maybe some of you, but probably
not all, because adults are just so much more careful. We don’t want to look
foolish, or sound stupid, or embarrass ourselves, or offend someone else, or
most of all, we don’t want to do anything that is outside of the rules that
society has told us are appropriate behavior.
This
has always been the case. And that is one of the things that is so striking
about our Gospel lesson today. Mary is a loving, devout woman, a dear friend of
Jesus – and she breaks all the rules. Check this out: They are having a nice
dinner party, and then Mary comes up with this jar of expensive and very
fragrant oil. Then it gets weird: first of all, she lets down her hair, which
is a big no-no in the presence of all those men who aren’t her husband. In
Judaism, a woman’s hair is seen as evocative, so it would be today’s equivalent
or her, say, taking off her shirt in front of everyone. Then she takes this
perfume, which cost as much as a full year’s wages, and uses the entire jar of
it on Jesus. And she doesn’t do it in the normal way, anointing his head – no
instead, she anoints his feet. And to top off the weirdness and rule-breaking,
she uses her own hair, this part of her that is so private and personal that
only her husband is supposed to see it, to wipe Jesus’ feet.
Whoa. Talk about an intimate connection with God. Talk
about scandalous! She doesn’t follow any of the social norms, and really puts
herself in a position to be embarrassed and ashamed. I can just hear the
stunned silence in the room as this is happening: “Is she really doing this??”
Until finally Judas speaks up: “What a waste. We could have sold that perfume
and given the money to the poor.” That was the right answer. It was a good
answer (especially if it had been genuinely offered). But it was Mary and her
rule-breaking that was applauded. Mary, who risked embarrassment and scandal in
order to seek that personal and intimate connection with her Lord. Not a waste
at all.
Is that sort of wasteful extravagance what it takes to
fulfill our hunger for connection? No, not necessarily. But it may take the
same gumption and guts as Mary had, the same willingness to take risks and
break the rules imposed upon us my societal norms. Because one of our biggest
barriers to finding that deep, genuine connection – whether with God or with
others – is our fear or unwillingness of being vulnerable. We say we’re fine
when we’re not, we pretend things are going well when they aren’t, and even
when we come to church, we feel it necessary to leave at the door whatever is
weighing on our hearts. We aren’t honest about the doubts and questions we
have, or about some time in our lives that we regret, and we’re afraid that
someone will find out about it and then not allow us back to church. The
acceptable answer, we know, is to do the right thing – to sell the expensive
perfume and give the money to the poor. But the one in this story who makes a
connection with Christ is the one who put aside the possibility of being
embarrassed or ashamed, risked it all in order to find that deep connection.
Before our conversation with the bishop this week, we
all had the chance to worship together. As a part of worship, we took
communion, and the bishop presided. At one point, her voice wavered a little.
Later, she said, “During communion today, I was so moved, that I almost lost
it!” One of my colleagues gently suggested, “No, I think you almost found it.”
It was in that moment of weakness and vulnerability, see, that moment when she
almost cried in public, at a time when she should have been the strong leader
among us, that she almost found that deep connection, that deep communion with God.
Have you ever been there? Have you been on the verge
of finding it, of letting down your guard and being willing to spend an entire
pound of expensive perfume on someone’s feet, and wipe it up with your hair?
Have you been willing to speak so honestly with someone that they are able to
see you for all your insecurities? Sometimes when I have very serious
conversations with people, in which I really bare my soul, I find myself
shaking, not because I’m cold, but because I’m exposed, as if I have been
striped bare of all protection. Have you ever felt so bare, and so intimate?
Mary has. And Jesus certainly has – striped, mocked,
beaten and hung on a cross so that we might have a closer relationship with
God. Risen from the dead so that we might also have a taste of victory over the
fear of death, and a whiff of God’s extravagant love.
Have you ever noticed the posture we take when we
receive communion – we put our hands out like this [hands outstretched]. It is
practical, ready to receive, but it is also a gesture of offering. It is as if
we come forward, offering to God our fears, our questions, our mistakes, our
regrets, our opinions, our values – all those things that make us who we are,
those people that God loves so much, those people with whom God, too, hungers
to connect. And God takes them from us, and in their place offers us
extravagant grace, Christ’s body and blood, feeding us in body, mind, and spirit,
and offering us the most intimate and genuine communion.
Please pray with me. Extravagant God, we want to
keep ourselves safe from embarrassment and judgment from others, but in doing
that, we also prevent ourselves from finding the connection with you that we
crave. Help us to put aside all barriers, and be ready to receive your grace.
In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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