This is the sermon I preached at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., on Saturday and Sunday, March 20–21, 2010, for the Fifth Sunday in Lent.

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Readings

Isaiah 43:16–21
Psalm 126 (antiphon v.5)
Philippians 3:4b–14
John 12:1–8

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Prayer

You call us to return to you, Lord God, and to leave behind all things that keep us from giving ourselves fully to serve you. Speak to us through your Word, so that we may turn to face you and to give you glory; through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

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Message

Close your eyes for a few seconds
and picture all of the clocks in your home. (Pause)
If you are like many people,
you’ll find it hard to remember
just how many clocks lie scattered around your house.

While we’re on the go, wristwatches, cell phones, iPods, and cars
all offer features to show us the time.
At home, ovens, microwaves,
coffee makers, thermostats, televisions, DVD players,
computers, printers, gaming systems, and so on
bear little glowing numbers to remind us
what time it is here and now.

What we gain in precision and accuracy
we, most likely, have more than surrendered
in freedom and time for reflection
and the simple sense of the organic ebb and flow
of days and seasons.

Our watches tell us it might be 6:20 p.m. CDT or 9:25 a.m. CDT,
but now is also the time of the vernal equinox,
the first days of Spring,
after a long and cold and grey winter.
And without watches, the snow geese know it is time to migrate,
and so they gather and travel in gigantic flocks
that trail like ribbons across the sky.

They have no sense of time getting diced into digits
that flash upon a screen.
We can learn from them
that when we turn our gaze to the sky—
whether in wonder or in silent prayer to God—
we find that time is more relaxed, fluid, supple.

It has a way of speeding up and slowing down
to match the moment and its import in our lives.
That’s why we find those fleeting times of ecstasy—
when we realize how amazing this world is
and what a gift from God it is to be alive in it—
that time hovers and flutters over that moment,
helping us to preserve a mystical memory of it.

But then, that’s what happens too when we encounter
those times that lurk in the depths of our despair.
We find the passing of an instant strangely elongated,
as if the moment stretches and thins itself
so it can fit through the tight crack that breaks open in us
when we learn of a spouse’s disease,
when we face the scorn of relative we have hurt,
when we balance the checkbook and find it doesn’t,
when we hear those leaden words that end a job,
when we catch the images of towers tumbling into dust.

With these reminders of time’s elasticity fresh in our minds,
we easily can sympathize with Mary of Bethany
in St. John’s account of a dinner gathering
at the home of her brother, Lazarus.

She had mourned his death
and had shared her sorrow with Jesus.
He too, wept, over the death of his friend.
But then Jesus had called Lazarus forth from the tomb,
granting him a return to this life,
a reprieve from death,
and new beginning.

No doubt this miracle,
this episode of the power of God
at work in her family’s life,
had been, for Mary,
one of those moments when time slowed to a crawl.

And now again, as the forces arrayed against Jesus
made their moves, rehearsed their plans,
sealed their deals, made their traps,
the pall of foreboding would have settled once again
upon Mary and Martha and Lazarus,
and upon Jesus and his disciples.

And in the midst of that thickening of plots,
Mary found within herself
the capacity to pour out her love for her Lord,
just as she poured upon his feet
a pound of costly perfume.

Judas Iscariot, the disciple who soon would betray Jesus,
made a comment that judged Mary thoughtless and wasteful.
He pointed out she had frittered away a worker’s yearly wage
on the impractical waste of this perfume.

He was clearheaded, rational, precise, measuring the value of the gesture.
But Mary, caught in the swirl of events slipping away from her,
acted out of devotion and generosity,
showing her care and commitment to Jesus.

He, in turn, told Judas to back off, in so many words,
reminding him that Mary had bought the perfume
“so that she might keep it for the day of [his] burial.” (John 12:7, NRSV)

And then, Jesus made an observation
that seems a little callous and somewhat troubling.
“You always have the poor with you,
but you do not always have me.” (John 12:8, NRSV)

When we hear Jesus’ comment,
it sounds to our ears a little selfish,
somewhat dismissive of the needs of people who are poor.
How can it be a good thing
to lavish a year’s work on some perfume for anointing Jesus’ feet?

One commentary notes that the rabbis of Jesus’ time—
and he was one himself—
debated among themselves
which was the greater act of mercy, of charity,
to give alms to the poor,
or to properly bury the dead.

And among those who sided with burial
the belief was that the dead must be properly buried
in order that they might share in the resurrection.

Jesus knew he had to die
in order that death would be vanquished by his Father’s triumph
and so that he might fulfill the promise we know so well,
“… that everyone who believes in him
may not perish but may have eternal life.” (John 3:16b, NRSV)

So it seems that because of the eternal good
that would come from his resurrection,
Jesus defended Mary’s act of thoughtful extravagance,
preparing him for a proper burial,
even if it meant that some poor people
did not receive alms from Mary’s charity.

And so, as the moment pressed down upon her,
as the sense of impending death drew near,
she lowered her head, dropping her tresses,
pouring out the perfume,
rubbing it into Jesus’ dusty and calloused feet,
wiping the excess with her hair,
as the room’s air grew heady with the sweetness
of the pound of perfume of nard.

We know in our gut what it’s like to feel those moments
when all we know is that our loved one is right here before us
—and we can trust that we have this moment—
but when it ends, we don’t know what will come next.

And so, we give all we have to show our love
in the instant of time we have to share
with our husband, our wife, our son, our daughter.
We know how to do this,
how to practice thoughtful extravagance
when those moments come,
and we ache with the knowledge that this time is priceless
because this person is precious to us.

And it is no different when we stand before our Lord.
There is no moment more dear to us
than the instant in which
the oil and the hands and the cross and the words of healing join together
and we hear afresh that our Lord
fills us with his grace and heals us by his gift of love.

There is no time more memorable
than when we realize
that we cradle our Lord
in the bread that rests in the palms of our hands,
that his blood passes our lips and satisfies our thirst
as we drink the wine from the cup.

These are the moments
when clocks do not matter,
when time stands still,
not as a way to torment us,
but as a gift of grace to enable us
to turn our attention fully, totally
to the one we love who stands before us.

These are the moments
when we find ourselves in fellowship
with Mary and Martha and Lazarus,
when we receive the grace and love of our Lord
so that we may face the times
of joy and pain that come to us—inevitably—
in our lives with one another. Amen.