Leaning into Grief Preached on April 3rd, 2022 At Wollaston Congregational Church Scripture: John 12:1-8 This week we leave Luke’s gospel for a moment and hear a story from the gospel of John. The transition is a little jarring: these are very different gospels. Still, it is traditional to read from John’s gospel – whether or not we are following it – on this fifth Sunday in Lent. On this day, as we continue our “Good Enough” sermon series, Mary of Bethany reminds us that life is fragile. Nothing in this world is forever. The two stories that are often told on this day, concern the raising of Lazarus and, as we heard today, the anointing of Jesus by Mary. Because of the way that the lectionary is arranged, it has been two full years since we heard about the raising of Lazarus. And yet, these two stories are inseparable. Also these stories cannot be separated from what is going on in greater Jerusalem in these days leading up to the feast of the Passover. Jesus is summoned to Bethany, just outside Jerusalem, because his friend, Lazarus is ill. Lazarus’s sisters, Martha and Mary are also close friends of Jesus. They want Jesus to come, perhaps to heal Lazarus, or perhaps to simply be with them during this difficult time. As you may remember, Jesus arrives too late. Lazarus has already been dead for several days. And yet, Jesus insists on opening the tomb and calling “Lazarus, come out!” Low and behold, still wrapped in grave clothes, Lazarus comes staggering out of the tomb. Mary, Martha and Lazarus are incredibly grateful to Jesus. They are good hosts and so they plan to put on a dinner in his honor. This party is the scene of our story for today. Meanwhile, the religious authorities are monitoring Jesus’s activity closely. They are worried because he is gathering a huge following. The priests and Pharisees want to keep the Passover celebrations under control. An act like raising Lazarus from the dead shows how much power Jesus has at his disposal. The crowd following Jesus is bound to grow larger. This unpredictable Rabbi could soon create chaos, even insurrection. And so, they plan to put Jesus to death. Back at the dinner party, we can imagine that Jesus’s friends a followers caught up in the swirl of things. Perhaps they are anxious about the authorities surveillance of their activities. Perhaps they are eagerly anticipating Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem, hoping for an uprising against the Roman occupiers. Or perhaps they have noticed that Jesus is becoming more thoughtful, more introverted. Perhaps they have noticed him withdrawing to pray more often over these past days. Whatever the thoughts and feelings of the guests, this is a joyful celebration: Lazarus has been raised. Martha, true to herself, prepares the food and is busy in the kitchen, sending servants back and forth with heaping platters of food, and pitchers of water and wine. The other disciples are reclining at the table talking, laughing, and indulging. This is a welcome break for the followers who have been traveling the countryside, sleeping rough and existing on whatever the poor villagers could spare. Then, the conversation ends abruptly, as Mary comes in with a large jar and kneels by Jesus. The guests are astonished, as she opens the lid and begins to pour out the contents onto Jesus’s feet. The aroma is un-mistakable, this is pure nard! How did Mary come by this quantity? She must have given her life savings to purchase it. And why is she wasting it all now? Isn’t this the perfume used to anoint the bodies of the dead? The whole house is filled with the aroma. Jesus’s weary feet soak in the oils. Then Mary shocks them all again, as she loosens her hair and begins to wipe the feet of Jesus. As she massages in the oils, her hair takes up the perfume. She and Jesus are bound together in this act of anointing. She will carry the scent of him and the nard for months to come. This intense act of passion is too much for one of the disciples to bear. Judas snaps, breaking the spell of the moment. He’s like the family member who always has to make a joke, when things get too tender. Only this is not a joke. "Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?" he demands. But we know he isn’t truly concerned about the poor. Perhaps he is trying to distract the others from discovering that he is stealing from the disciples’ common purse. Jesus will have none of it, even though he is deeply concerned for the poor. “Leave her alone” he responds, "She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me." You may know that last week I was back home in the UK. I participated in a Thanksgiving Service for my father. My mom insisted that the invitations should go out with the words “no black clothing.” She didn’t want people to come looking as though they were in mourning. This would not be a funeral, it would be a celebration. Earlier on the day of the service my cousin Richard, who is a funeral director, had arrived at the house with a car to drive the family to a private cremation. My mom had not expected him to bring the hearse with the casket inside, and yet that is what he did. Richard wore full regalia, including top hat and baton, and ceremoniously led the procession on foot until we had left the small neighborhood. My parents always insisted that a lifeless body is no longer the person who once lived. But as I saw the hearse arrive at the house carrying my dad’s body, I could not help but whisper to myself “he’s here.” The wicker coffin, chosen by my mom, with the arrangement of spring flowers on top was beautiful. My dad was frail and thin when he died and the pall-bearers were professionals, and still you could see the weight of their burden wobble a little as they lifted it. In the crematorium chapel we were so close we could touch the basket-like container as we left and we did just that. It was one more way of saying good-bye. Afterwards, I was talking with my cousin’s family. They told me that “Celebration of Life” services are becoming more popular than traditional funerals. I’ve certainly noticed the trend among our own congregation. And yes, a life well-lived ought to be celebrated, we ought to give thanks. And at the same time, I worry a little. Do we do this so that we can avoid the truth of the grief and pain of loss? I’ve talked before about my experiences doing Clinical Pastor Education with the Hebrew Seniorlife organization. At this time, as both Passover and Easter come around, I’m reminded of what I learned at HSL about the Jewish traditions of death and dying. In the Jewish tradition it is very important to care for the body of someone who has died before their burial. The body must not be left alone, and so someone always “sits with the dead.” When a Jewish resident died in the facility where I worked and the family members were unable to attend, a volunteer chaplain would remain with them until the time of preparation and burial. One of my fellow students shared that a close female friend at her temple had died. She had felt honored to be invited to serve as part of the Chevra Kadisha (the Holy Society) who would prepare the body for burial. The women of the Chevra Kadisha worked quietly and respectfully, ritually cleansing the body while praying psalms. For some Christians, these Jewish customs may seem too tactile. We would prefer to leave this work to the professionals and skip ahead to a celebration of life. And yet, care for the body – even a lifeless body - allows loved ones to begin the grieving process. This is one last thing they can do, as they begin to face into the reality of life without their beloved. And so, in the world of dinner parties put on in celebration of life, are we a Mary or are we a Judas? Are we the one to remind the gathering of our need to tend the body and grieve, or are we the one to crack a joke to break the tension? Mary anticipates the reality that Jesus will be crucified the very week of the dinner. She leans into this reality deeply, opening her heart, making herself vulnerable. She is not afraid to make a spectacle of herself in her act of deep love and care for Jesus. Jesus truly appreciates and honors her because of this. On the other hand, Judas resists. He keeps his mind busy with “concerns for the poor.” Perhaps he is disappointed by the turn Jesus’s mission has taken. Perhaps he had hoped for something different: taking Jerusalem for Jesus and restoring the hopes of the people of Israel. Perhaps it is Judas’s resistance to grief and disappointment in the movement that leads him to betray Jesus to the authorities. The chances are that we are not either Mary or Judas, but a little of both or somewhere in-between. When we are faced with loss the reality can be unbearable, we resist grief. And yet, under certain circumstances, we are drawn back in to love. Love compels us to pick up the jar of precious nard, and use it to anoint the beloved body that may soon be taken from us. This is the reason we travel this road with Jesus, these weeks of Lent. This is the reason why we accept this peculiar “Good Enough” story that leads to the cross. In the end, it is not a story of power and might, but a story of grief and vulnerability. It is a story of leaning in and touching the very thing we fear. Excruciating as it is, Mary has shown us the way. In order to become more Mary and less Judas, we must rehearse it every year. May all God’s people say, Amen A Blessing for When You’re in Grief "Blessed are you, dear, dear one, doing this holy work of suffering what must be suffered. Of grieving what has been lost. Of knowing the unthinkable truth that must be known. This grief can make you feel on the other side of glass from the world around you, a force field of different realities separating you. Yet blessed are you in yours, for yours is the one most seen by God who breathes compassion upon you, even now. Who has walked this path, and who leans toward you, gathering you up into the arms of love. Rest now, dear one. You are not alone.” [1] [1] Kate Bowler and Jessica Richie, Good Enough: 40-ish Devotionals for a Life of Imperfection (New York: Convergent, 2022), 170
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