The Broken Vessel

Mark 14:1-11

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, New Jersey

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of our hearts be acceptable to you, O Lord, our rock and our redeemer. Amen.

A few years ago, I attended a church service somewhere in a remote fishing village in New Brunswick, Canada. It started off as expected: a few songs, a scripture reading or two, and some announcements. But in no time, the people erupted: there was weeping; there was dancing and singing; tongues were being spoken; for some reason, shoes came off; many people rushed the pulpit for healing; blankets were draped across those who lay shaking on the floor; and shouts filled whatever gaps were left in the cacophony. Such a tradition was quite foreign to mine. Where was the structure in all of this? Where was the religion? Where was the Divine?

I left the sanctuary, because I rejected the ways in which these believers praised Jesus. From the safety of my car, I scolded their devotion and faith. I prayed that the falsity found in that place would be ripped from the hearts and minds of phony believers. And with a resounding Amen, I was struck, not by the intensity of their praise, but with the shallowness of my own heart. I was the phony believer. I was one seated at the table with Jesus. For I had chosen to rebuke the unnamed people for their offering up of everything.

On the surface, one might think that the disciples have a point: shouldn’t we give everything to the poor? I mean, as it says in Proverbs, “The one who is gracious to the poor lends to the Lord.” But Jesus sees through this. He sees the disciples’ greed behind their façade of generosity; they are more interested in receiving praise than in praising the Divine. And as Jesus says to the rich man in Luke, “You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. The things you have prepared, whose will they be?” Jesus does not dismiss the call to help the poor; he is simply calling to attention the disciple’s shortage of faith as foiled by the unnamed woman’s standard of faith.

It is her act of anointment that is remembered well forever, not that the disciples shared a table with Christ. While the Twelve are known as doubters, deniers, and betrayers, this woman is known as the believer. She chooses what is good, and the Twelve choose what is evil: they place self-righteousness above real righteousness. In doing so, it isn’t too far of a stretch to say that all Twelve go to the chief priests at the end of this passage. Judas is simply the one most willing to follow his heart, no matter its darkness. And if all Twelve choose evil in this moment, then so too can we betray the Messiah.

By leaving that church service in New Brunswick, I left the body of Christ. The prodigal son, the lost sheep, the fallen man—I became one of the Twelve. I followed the shallowness in my heart and became the Judas of that fishing village. I went to the courts of my car and, as the betraying disciple, sacrificed Christ. I rejected to worship the Divine. My false religion masked my failure to treat Jesus with the respect he deserved. Shameful are we who scoff what is good and praiseworthy in our avarice and arrogance.

What does this lesson teach us proud seminarians in Princeton? I truly believe that we all run a great risk in being like the disciples in Bethany. With all of this training, we come to know a lot of religion about Jesus. But the academy is not the threshold that brings us into communion with Christ. Seminary cannot teach us how to have faith, for only the Spirit can do that. For “by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of the Divine.” While Jesus commands us to have the faith and devotion of the unnamed woman, we—the body of Christ—are also called to take upon ourselves our crosses of Christ. Fortunately, his yoke is easy and his burden is light. With that, we become the nard upon his brow.

Notice that Christ permits this woman to anoint his head, which we cannot forget is to her a sign of rejoicing and to him an indication of the sublimity of his deity. He fully intends to fulfill the prophecies that the King of Kings will lay down his life. So, Jesus’ anointing is the humblest of acts, because it is a resolution to suffer the passion. It is in this moment that Christ dies to himself. It is, likewise, in our baptism that we die to ourselves.

Are you willing to be the nard? Smash your own alabaster jars so that nothing of your being may be left within. Pour all you have as an offering at the altar over the head of Christ. Never forget that, as Jerome said, “The broken vessel was a reminder that the destruction of death precedes resurrection of life,” that this breaking will grant salvation to the world. Choose the joyful way of the unnamed woman and the humble way of Christ and become for the disciples an example of beloved belief.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.