Sermons
Lavish Acts of Love
The Rev. Bonnie A. Perry
March 25, 2007
John 12:1-8
May the God who creates us, redeems us and sustain us—be with us now and always; Amen.
Good Morning!
That could in fact, be
the Lazarus of Bethany family motto.
Lazarus, Mary, Martha,
essential players in John’s Gospel.
People who understand first-hand—
what it means to feel God’s love.
Not long before,
in just the preceeding chapter,
Now there’s an intimate gathering.
What do you say to a man
who has pulled your brother
from the grave
violating all rules of nature?
In the end—
is there really anything—
any word that a reasonable person
will rely upon
to embody her extreme gratitude?
Lazarus was, cold, dead, gone.
Now
—he is dipping his bread in the olive oil,
periodically making
that slurping contended sound
as he wipes the bowl
with the heal of the loaf.
What to do?
Jesus is here—at the dinner table.
Return
one lavish act of love with another.
Mary takes the nard,
the costly perfume,
the pure ointment
she has saved for years,
reduced and clarified from pistasios.
Glistening ointment costing about a year’s wages
—and extravagantly rubs it
on Jesus feet
and wipes them down
with her hair.
The nard,
it’s scent
--so intense, so pure,
so concentrated,
saturates the room
and rides the breeze throughout the house.
Her hair drips,
his feet shine,
the crowd breathes in with sweet smell—
so very different
from the last time
an odor was flowing from Lazarus.
The memory of his decaying flesh
is permanently replaced
with a fragrant essence.
Lavish love.
Are we called to love lavishly?
Are you called to love lavishly?
Judas Iscariot would say,
“No—not this time,
not this place,
and not this way.”
Judas Iscariot immanently the practical one,
the sensible one,
the “save it for a rainy day” one,
says,
“Now, what will you do
when it’s all gone?
There are poor people to feed.
I could have helped you use that ointment
more wisely—
gotten you a much better return for your investment.
You could have parceled that ‘puppy’ out—
and no telling how long it would have lasted.”
Now it’s easy to ridicule Judas.
Easy to assign motives to his actions
—given what we know of his future path.
And that’s exactly what the author of John’s gospel does.
But for a moment—
picture yourself in his place—
not as the betrayer—but as the conserver.
The wise one with the long-term view.
Picture those moments
when you’ve questioned someone else’s
lavish attention—when you thought
—nice gesture—
but you would have been a bunch smarter
—far wiser
if you’d reigned in your emotions
—conserved your resources
and given out your love and your resources
in small discrete doses.
Ever been that person?
Ever been the one feeling smug and righteous
about another person’s outlandish lavish behavior?
There’s certainly—
something to---
prudent fiscal behavior—
but seriously
—is that what our sometimes smug—
sometimes conserving nature is all about?
Might we also live
with an abiding sense
of limited resources,
limited time,
and as a result limited love?
Might we deep down inside
like the prodigal son’s
older brother
believe that love,
passion and compassion
are finite goods—
with limited quantities
and set shelf lives?
Have we ever hidden behind
a shield of practicality
because we’ve never felt,
never experienced lavish love—
never allowed ourselves
to be so vulnerable
either to give or receive
on such an intimate a level.
Do we, like Judas,
sometimes strive
to limit lavish acts of love
simply because cannot imagine
ever blowing it all,
giving it all,
loving with all that we have.
Because ultimately
we’re convinced we’ll have nothing left.
I have good news and bad
—because God
in the person of Jesus Christ,
calls us to do just that.
God calls us (that’s the good news)
—to love deeply,
passionately and extravagantly.
God calls us—(here’s the bad news)
to embrace our vulnerabilities
and love with all we have—
to go for broke in our relationships.
To pour the nard,
spread the anointment,
offer our hearts and our souls.
So often we hang back
—thinking I only have so much to give—
I better ration it out—
While that may be true for petroleum.
It’s not with love.
The more love we offer
—the more we have for ourselves—
the more we offer
—the more vulnerable and prepared we are
to receive love ourselves.
Jesus played this out over and over again—
most certainly
in his crucifixion on the cross.
His ultimate gift,
his extreme vulnerability
—his lavish act of love on that good Friday
is the moment that has changed
this our world the most.
God calls us to love lavishly—
to pour the nard
and go for broke.
The day Elizabeth Edwards
announced that her breast cancer had returned
was actually the fifth anniversary of
my own diagnosis of breast cancer.
Hearing her words, hearing her announcement
took my breath away.
I was struck by two things—
one the visceral terror of realizing
that we do not control
the intimate inner workings of our bodies
and secondly
—by her decision
to carry on with her husband’s campaign for President.
I thought wow, stage IV
metastatic breast cancer
—I wouldn’t want to spend my finite days
on the campaign bus.
What is she thinking?
How could she fritter her days away,
sharing her husband
with political operatives, nameless crowds,
and political ambition.
Then my partner Susan
said something about Elizabeth Edward’s decision.
She said,
“Makes sense to me,
why wouldn’t she want
to continue living her life as it is,
being with the one she loves,
living out a hope they’ve longed for.”
That’s when it came to me.
What did I know about her lavish act of love?
What do I know about her life
that isn’t tempered by my own fears and vulnerabilities.
Elizabeth Edwards is loving lavishly
—giving it all she has.
Our presiding bishop, Katharine Jefferts Schori said,
“All it takes is all we have.”
So why not my friends?
Break out the nard,
smear the anointment and embrace Christ’s gift,
of lavish love.
Amen.