I came to a standstill last spring as I walked along the sidewalk. Floral perfume filled my nostrils, and I smiled. I knew the scent, but I couldn’t remember it. I looked at the yards and pictured my mom’s flowers, but nothing matched. Then the wind sighed, and I remembered my grandpa’s arbor, an arbor coated with wisteria. Me, a little kid, drenched in that scent. Surrounded by all that pale, lilac-colored beauty.
The perfume cloud stilled my mind. The scent stilled the questions. Caught them off guard. Tranquilized them. . . if only for a moment. The questions? “Did he really call you? Does he really want you to write? Or is that just you? How’s that sustainable? Steady? Is he steady? So much fog.” I thought there’d be less fog at the end of seminary. It’d be clear. But the fog hadn’t left. It still hasn’t left. And I don’t think it ever really goes away. Fog creeps. It rolls along the ground. Builds. Then evaporates. Thick. Or thickening. Fog lurks. Elements waiting for the right conditions. Blurring shapes. Masking truth. Cloaking beauty. Unknowns materializing. Dematerializing. Materializing. Unknowns that whisper, “Is all this really worth it? Is he worth it?” I know the answer. Yes. But, sometimes, the fog makes me question my answer. That day the wind wrapped me up in wisteria, a comfort—a reassuring scent—unseen yet known. And again, and not for the last time, the Lord reminded me he’s worthy.
Does the extravagance of Jesus and his sacrifice compel you to worship? To sacrificial worship? Is he worth it when you’re struggling to pay your bills? When you’ve poured hours upon hours into a class you’re barely passing? When you’re not sure where you’ll live next? When life isn’t what you expected? Do you ever question if he’s worth it?
Mark asks the same question in his gospel.
It was now two days before the Passover and the Feast of Unleavened Bread. And the chief priests and the scribes were seeking how to arrest him by stealth and kill him, for they said, “Not during the feast, lest there be an uproar from the people.” And while he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he was reclining at table, a woman came with an alabaster flask of ointment of pure nard, very costly, and she broke the flask and poured it over his head. There were some who said to themselves indignantly, “Why was the ointment wasted like that? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii and given to the poor.” And they scolded her. But Jesus said, “Leave her alone. Why do you trouble her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them. But you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for burial. And truly, I say to you, wherever the gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her.” Then Judas Iscariot, who was one of the twelve, went to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. And when they heard it, they were glad and promised to give him money. And he sought an opportunity to betray him.
Mark 14:1–11, ESV
It’s two days before Passover. Crowds line Jerusalem’s streets, and amid all this anticipation, the chief priests and scribes seek to murder Jesus. The only thing keeping them from immediately setting their plot in motion is their desire to avoid an uproar.
Outside the city, Jesus reclines at his friend’s table, the table of Simon the leper—a man formerly unclean, separated from society and especially the temple. This party pictures contentment. All the guys delighting in food and fellowship. Until the unexpected happens. A woman walks into the room, and she’s not serving food. All eyes are on this unnamed woman as she approaches Jesus. Whispers fade, and the room grows silent. An alabaster flask rests in her hands. A seal preserves the precious contents, pure nard, a perfume crafted from plant oils all the way from India. This perfume isn’t fake or diluted. It’s the real deal. It’s super costly, likely an heirloom intended for her wedding night. The unnamed woman draws even closer to Jesus. Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s silent. Then, the silence breaks. Her hands shatter the alabaster flask—an irrevocable surrender of extravagant, sacrificial worship. The aroma saturates the space, and in a scene reminiscent of the anointing of Old Testament prophets, priests, and kings, perfume trickles down the head of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. The word modifying nard reveals that the perfume is faithful or genuine—an appropriate sacrifice for a faithful and genuine disciple.
But indignant whispers intrude upon this beautiful scene. Rather than allowing the abundance of this extravagant sacrifice to seep through their senses into their hearts, the onlookers recoil. They mock this woman’s sacrifice and endorse the censure of her worship. They label her sacrifice a waste, identifying the poor as more worthy than Jesus. It was customary to provide for the poor during Passover, but perhaps these men’ve been shown up by the devotion of this unnamed woman, and they’re looking for a way to morally one-up her. Regardless of their motives, the onlookers label her sacrifice a waste—too much for Jesus. The onlookers scold the woman. Despite the precious scent filling their noses, they’re so mad that their nostrils flare as they rebuke this woman. Beauty Incarnate sits before them, bathed in this act of extravagant worship, and they’re saying he isn’t worthy.
Then Jesus intercedes. “Leave her alone.” Through the imperative, Jesus defends this woman who has no voice. “Why do you trouble her?” Jesus doesn’t allow any response time because there’s no good answer. He calls out their blindness to beauty, declaring, “She has done a beautiful thing to me.” The word translated beautiful, καλος, combines ideas of the good and the beautiful. Can you imagine Jesus affirming your sacrificial worship as a good and beautiful thing? He does. He thinks it’s good and beautiful that you’ve laid things down. He thinks it’s good and beautiful when you surrender yourself in worship. He sees and finds it beautiful. The onlookers said, “She’s done a wasteful thing.” Jesus said, “No. No, she’s done a good and beautiful thing.”
Jesus affirms the beauty of this woman’s extravagant worship in three ways.
Firstly, Jesus emphasizes the priority of his presence. His statement in verse seven sounds harsh: “You always have the poor.” But we know Jesus. The Gospels, especially Mark, showcase his service to the poor. Jesus contrasts the constancy of expected sacrificial love for the poor with the limited window of opportunity to worship the Incarnate Son. If a fellow human being said, “Y’all’ve always got the poor,” we’d be like, “Hold the phone.” But Jesus, he’s the God-Man. He took on a poverty we’ll never grasp. He became poor for us and our salvation.
Secondly, Jesus affirms the beauty of her sacrifice by revealing the extent of her sacrifice and the scope of her insight into his death. Somehow, this woman recognizes that Jesus will pour himself out to the very end, and she’s compelled to pour her everything out onto Jesus. She knows he’s worthy—worthy of extravagant worship.
Thirdly, Jesus promises the perpetual remembrance of this woman’s extravagant sacrifice. Wherever the gospel is proclaimed, so too is this story. This unnamed woman shattered the seal of her perfume bottle, and Jesus forever seals her extravagant worship in his Word.
This act of extravagant worship is immediately followed by the ultimate act of betrayal. Judas betrays Jesus. It’s like Judas can’t handle being in the midst of so much beauty and such extravagant sacrifice. Disciples are called to lives of extravagant worship. Judas didn’t sign up for that. He’s disappointed with Jesus, and his heart turns to other things. He doesn’t believe that Jesus is worthy. The unnamed woman is compelled by the extravagance of Jesus. The extravagance of Jesus and the call of the disciple revolts the named disciple, one of the twelve. The unnamed woman sacrifices what she can, a year’s wages. Judas sells Jesus for an unspecified sum. The chief priests rejoice over the betrayal, and the same seeking that consumes Jerusalem’s leaders in verse one consumes Judas. Judas falls prey to that inward-bent, dominating desire and actively seeks and craves to betray Jesus.
Disciples are compelled by the extravagance of Jesus and his sacrifice to lives of extravagant worship. Despite repeated passion predictions, his disciples didn’t get it. Yet, somehow, to some degree, this unnamed woman gained a glimpse into the extravagance of Jesus and his sacrifice. In Philippians 2:5–8, Paul calls disciples to lives of sacrifice, saying, “Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” In light of Jesus’s extravagant sacrifice, disciples are compelled to lives of extravagant worship. When you gaze on the extravagance of Jesus, do you pull away? Or does the extravagance of Jesus and his sacrifice compel you toward a life of sacrificial worship? Is he worth it? The unnamed woman answered “Yes.” What’s your answer?
Allow the extravagance of Jesus and his sacrifice to compel you to extravagant worship. In a crazy paradox, the extravagance of Jesus and his sacrifice leads to extravagant hope. That abundance of hope overflows and runs back onto Christ, carrying us and others to his feet. Those washed in extravagant sacrifice answer, “He’s worthy.” I hope you’ve been washed in his extravagant sacrifice, but have you forgotten? Do you live as if you’re unsure of the depth of his love or the extravagance of his sacrifice? Do you ever wonder if he asks too much? This Holy Week sit with the extravagance of his sacrifice. Don’t pull the escape hatch to Sunday morning. Sit in the darkness. Wait for the dawn. Christ separated himself from the Father to bind us to himself. B.B. Warfield wrote, “A life of self-sacrificing unselfishness is the most divinely beautiful life that man can lead. . . It means not that we should live one life, but a thousand lives—binding ourselves to a thousand souls by the filaments of so loving a sympathy that their lives become ours.” In our turn, we worship and take up the self-sacrifice modeled by Christ, binding ourselves to others so that their lives become ours. Make space for the seemingly unproductive or non-essential. Make space for those around you. Serve them. Listen to them. Be present. Make space for the seemingly frivolous yet truly beautiful.
One spring, when I was really little, my grandparents took me to the Dallas Arboretum. My grandpa held my hand beneath their wisteria arbor weighed down with thousands of flowering, lavender cords. My four-year-old self couldn’t imagine such extravagant beauty. Let the beauty of Jesus and the depths of his sacrifice wash over you. Allow the extravagance of Jesus and his sacrifice to compel you to extravagant worship.
