Sermon: The smell of genuine connection (Mar. 13, 2016)

Lent 5C
March 13, 2016

John 12:1-8

            I have a love-hate relationship with social media. I love it because it is a great way to stay connected, however superficially, with my many loved ones who live all over the country. I hate it because it has this way of sucking me in and not letting go. I have so many interesting friends on Facebook, you see, who are always posting things I want to read. Before I know it, an embarrassing amount of time has passed, and especially after reading so many articles about our current political culture, I am left discouraged, disenchanted, or downright distraught by the time I can finally pull my head out.

Well, as one of my Lenten disciplines this year, I’m taking time to reflect on what was life-giving for me each day and what was not, and I realized that getting sucked into Facebook was not life-giving for me. Go figure. So one Friday, when I knew I could avoid my computer, I took a Facebook fast. I didn’t look at it all day. And you know what? I spent the day hanging out with Grace and working on the Easter dress I’m making for her, and I felt more connected than I had all week. And it felt great.

            We crave genuine connection, don’t we? There are so many ways to superficially connect with people – whether on social media or cursory conversations at the grocery store or whatever – that we might not notice how disconnected we actually feel. And sometimes the most profound disconnection we feel is the one we have with God. 

            Let me ask you: when was the last time you felt a real connection with God? I mean, not just going through the motions, I mean a real, deep and meaningful connection? When was the last time you had an experience with God that left you feeling satisfied, joyful, content, or at peace? What do you think it takes for us to find that connection?

            I wonder if it might take us not being quite so careful and measured in our faith, and instead taking some risks – like Mary in our Gospel lesson today. Mary is a loving, devout woman, a dear friend of Jesus – and she breaks all the rules. Here they are, having a nice dinner party, and then Mary comes up with this jar of expensive and very fragrant perfume. 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, see, 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 faithfully offered). And yet it was Mary and her rule-breaking who 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. Risky, yes. But not wasteful.

            So what sort of risks are we to make, in order to feel that intimacy with Christ? Perhaps the risks need not be quite so public, but more personal. I think the biggest risk we need to take in order to feel that connection is the risk of being vulnerable – with one another, and with God. One thing the Catholic tradition encourages that has fallen away in Lutheran practice is personal confession. Luther actually placed deep importance on personal confession, so I’m not sure why we don’t do it – instead, we do a communal confession at the beginning of worship, a time of silence when we are all to examine our hearts and confess silently to God. But I sort of wish we still had personal confession, because it is a time where you must not only face your sins and your shortcomings, but also speak them aloud to another person. In theory, that is what we should be doing during that silence at the beginning of worship. But for me, it feels insufficient, because what really requires vulnerability and coming to terms with my sins is actually speaking them aloud.

But we would rather hide our vulnerabilities in whatever way possible. And so, 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 and put herself on the line in order to find that deep connection.

            A few years ago at a clergy gathering, we had then-bishop, Marie Jerge, with us, and she presided over our celebration of communion. There was a moment during communion where her voice wavered a little bit, then she pulled herself together and kept going. Later, she reflected on it, saying, “I was so moved, I almost lost it up there.” One of my colleagues responded, “No, I think you almost found it.” What a beautiful way to spin that! Because it truly was in that moment of weakness and vulnerability, 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.

Frederich Beuchner has this to say about tears: “Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you

Wall Street Journal Photo of the Day:
http://blogs.wsj.com/photojournal/2011/11/17/photos-of-the-day-nov-17/

something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go to next.”

            Could our tears, our vulnerability, our seeking a genuine connection with God, be the very thing that propels us along on our pilgrimage? Could they be the very thing that leads us out of the wilderness and into the Promised Land? How, then, do we learn to follow those tears, and like Mary, to be so vulnerable with God?

Perhaps it starts when you walk in that door, by walking in as exactly who you are, and not feeling like you need to check your issues at the church door. By being honest about your doubts and fears. By being aware that you bring with you different ideas and perspectives on life, and that is okay. By trusting that the things that happen in our lives outside of church are okay to bring with you to church, where we can hold them up to God and say, “Here. Help me.”

And just as you bring those things to church with you, you can bring God’s grace out with you. You can bring the hope and promise that God provides in God’s Word and in the sacraments, and apply that to you lives. Church and worship and following Jesus is not and should not be separate from the rest of our lives, and does not happen a mere one hour a week.

Mary risked it all to be close to Jesus. Indeed, the whole house was filled with the fragrance of what should have or could have been her shame, but what was really her deep devotion. That smell – the smell of extravagant love, both Mary’s for Jesus and his for Mary – must have clung to the clothes of everyone there to witness it, following them out the door and into the world. They could not go anywhere that day without carrying with them the smell of that extravagant love. May we, as we leave this place today and every week, leave with the stench of God’s love and grace clinging to our clothes, reminding us at every moment that seeking a profound connection with God is worth every risk.

Let us pray… Extravagant God, we crave a connection with you, but are often unwilling to be vulnerable enough to find it. Make us brave in our vulnerability, and send us out with your love and grace clinging to us in all that we do. In the name of the Father and Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.