Mary of Bethany

Jesus arrives in Bethany for a dinner in his honor a few days before his arrest, trial, and crucifixion. Martha serves from the front of the table, couches on the other three sides, men comfortably propped on their elbows as they dip freshly baked bread into the fragrant lentil stew. She knows better than to let her sister enter the room—Mary might not return to the kitchen to replenish the bowls.

Mary, though, can’t help herself. Jesus! Jesus is out there. All evening, she has been thinking, what gift is there suitable for the Christ? The Healer, Jehovah-Raphah? She peers through the doorway and sees her brother Lazarus reclining next to Jesus, his friends asking, "Tell us again how it all happened. Lazarus, what was it like in there? Where were you for those four days?" "Jesus, exactly what happened after you called Lazarus to come out?" Lazarus, her brother—alive!

She had been hopeful when she and Martha sent for Jesus during Lazarus’s illness. She knew Jesus could save Lazarus, if he came quickly. But the days passed. Lazarus got sicker. His body grew hotter. Then still. Silent. Cooling. With her sister, Mary prepared her brother’s body for burial. Wrapped it in burial clothes. Friends and relatives flocked into the small town from Jerusalem, only about two miles to the east, carried Lazarus’s bound body to the tomb. They mourned.

Four more days passed. When Jesus finally came and asked to see Mary, she fell at his feet, saying, "Lord, if you had been here, you could have saved him!" Jesus cried when he heard the news, weeping with Mary for the loss of his friend.

What happened when Jesus got to the tomb, no one anticipated, not even those who believed Jesus was the Messiah. "Lazarus! Come out!"

And Lazarus did, still wrapped in strips of linen, a cloth around his face. In a final moment of release, Jesus commanded those standing around, "Take off the grave clothes and let him go."

Mary ran to her brother and removed the face cloth. "Lazarus?" She gasped as she saw her brother’s face, unmarred with decay or illness, his skin unblemished and warm. She started unwrapping the linens, still faintly fragrant with the smell of nard, and the air wafted heady scents as Mary loosed the linen strips. The sweet, sweet scent of resurrection.

Remembering that potent scent now, she steps back into the kitchen and reaches behind the jars of common household oils. With both hands, she lifts out the alabaster jar. Looks for a towel. A towel? They are all grimed with the dust of dinner guests’ feet. No matter. She quietly approaches Lazarus and Jesus, her eyes glistening.

"Teacher." She kneels at Jesus’ feet. Uncorks the jar. Pours the thick, oily perfume—pure nard—onto his feet. His skin, dry and calloused from miles of walking every day, soaks in the ointment. The aroma billows through the room. Mary looses her long hair from its simple knot and wipes the excess oil from Jesus’ skin. "You are the Messiah," she states. Jesus looks at her and smiles, then closes his eyes as he breathes the fragrance into his nose and lungs.

Several guests, though, are muttering. Inappropriate. Immodest. Forward. "Rabbi," Judas’s voice rises. "Rabbi, proceeds from that nard could have helped many poor people. A year’s wages, she wastes!"

Mary, overhearing, steps back. Her smile fades, eyes watering again. Wonders, "Did I do wrong?" But no. Jesus' words call her back. "Leave her alone. There will always be people around who need help, but I won’t always be around."

Although Mary of Bethany is most known today as the less practical sister of Martha, the gospel of John introduces her as the one who anoints Jesus (John 11:2). What expectations and criticisms did Mary have to release to consecrate God incarnate, Christ the Anointed One? She was a woman, expected to fade into the background modestly as men led. Expected to keep her hair covered. Expected to serve as others listened to Jesus. Expected to preserve the household wealth for more difficult times, or for those more needy. Yet gratitude and love for Lazarus's savior—her savior—loosed Mary from these expectations, and we still remember her radical act of worship as we prepare our own hearts to remember Christ’s sacrifice for us.

What expectation or criticism prevents us from loving God lavishly? Is it our identity, a picture of how others expect us to be or to behave? Are we overly tied to our things, or our things-to-do? Whatever it may be, let it be as wrapped and buried as was Lazarus.

"Take off the grave clothes and let it go!" May God resurrect our hearts for him in an adoration that is fresh, new, lavish--a sweet aroma that permeates the air this Easter season.

Dr. Jodi Grimes serves as Associate Professor of English and Chair of the English Department at Dallas Baptist University.