3/30/25 Sermon

Before we dive into today's reading, it helps to understand the deeper context behind it. The scene takes place in Bethany, a small village near Jerusalem, at the home of Lazarus—yes, that Lazarus, the man Jesus had famously raised from the dead not long before. At this point, Jesus’s reputation has grown dramatically, sparking both devotion and hostility. The religious leaders have become increasingly threatened by Jesus’s popularity and miraculous acts, especially Lazarus’s resurrection, which pushed them closer to plotting Jesus’s death.

As you listen, keep in mind that Passover, the great festival of liberation, is just days away. Tensions are running high, as everyone—including the disciples—feels that something dramatic is about to happen. Mary's extravagant gesture of anointing Jesus with costly perfume isn't just an emotional act of gratitude. In ancient times, anointing had significant symbolic meanings—used for honoring kings, preparing bodies for burial, or marking something sacred. Her action, therefore, points forward to Jesus’s upcoming crucifixion and burial, signaling something his followers don't yet fully grasp. Judas’s reaction also carries deeper significance. His criticism opens up important questions about what true devotion looks like and what it really means to honor Jesus.

With that background, let's hear the story from John’s Gospel:

John 12:1–8 (CEB)

Six days before Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, home of Lazarus, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. Lazarus and his sisters hosted a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was among those who joined him at the table. Then Mary took an extraordinary amount, almost three-quarters of a pound, of very expensive perfume made of pure nard. She anointed Jesus’ feet with it, then wiped his feet dry with her hair. The house was filled with the aroma of the perfume.

Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), complained, "This perfume was worth a year’s wages! Why wasn’t it sold and the money given to the poor?" (He said this not because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief. He carried the money bag and would take what was in it.)

Then Jesus said, "Leave her alone. This perfume was to be used in preparation for my burial, and this is how she has used it. You will always have the poor among you, but you won’t always have me."

WORD OF LORD

Six days before Passover, a dead man threw a dinner party. Just days earlier, Lazarus had been dead—wrapped in grave clothes and sealed inside a tomb. Now, here he was, casually passing around bread, pouring wine, laughing, chatting, acting as if nothing unusual had happened. Can you imagine the conversations at that table? Every glance at Lazarus was a reminder that death didn't get the final word—because Jesus was right there, sitting among them.

Martha is there too, and she's exactly where you'd expect to find her—in the kitchen, cooking, serving, quietly keeping everything running smoothly. Martha is the embodiment of steady faithfulness, quietly working behind the scenes without seeking attention, finding fulfillment in care and hospitality. Many of us relate to Martha, content with supportive roles, holding communities and families together without fanfare.

But then Mary walks into the room, and suddenly everything changes.

Mary walks into the room, carrying a jar — but not just any jar. This is pure nard, precious perfume imported from distant lands, expensive enough to represent a year’s worth of security, comfort, and even dreams for the future. This jar represents everything Mary has, her entire financial safety net.

Yet Mary doesn't hesitate. Without explanation, she kneels at Jesus’s feet, breaks open the jar, and pours out its contents — all of it. The room falls silent. Conversations stop. The only sound is the breaking jar, followed by the overpowering fragrance of what I think we can only describe as extravagant devotion.

Imagine how this fragrance filled every corner of the house, sweet, thick, intoxicating. It's the scent of uncalculated love, devotion without reservation.

But not everyone appreciates it. Judas watches, arms crossed, visibly disturbed. He frowns deeply, breaks the silence with a sharp question: “Why wasn't this perfume sold and the money given to the poor?”

On the surface, Judas sounds logical and practical even noble. He sounds responsible and morally upright. In fact, almost every time I read this passage, I have a hard time not agreeing with him.  Yet John doesn't leave us guessing about Judas’s intentions. John quickly tells us that Judas isn’t actually concerned for the poor. Judas was a thief. He regularly stole from the common purse.

Yet let's look at Judas a bit more closely. He's complicated. He’s not just the antagonist or a bad guy. Judas wasn’t simply a greedy man counting coins and twirling his mustache in the shadows. He walked beside Jesus, seen miracles, shared meals, witnessed healings. Judas, like the other disciples, had left home, security, and family to follow Jesus. Somewhere along the journey, though, disillusionment crept in. Maybe he saw Jesus’s path shifting in ways that made him uneasy. Maybe he felt increasingly out of control, anxious about their uncertain future. J Judas’s betrayal wasn’t spontaneous; it grew slowly, rooted in genuine doubts, unmet expectations, and unresolved inner struggles.

As I was preparing for this morning's sermon, I spent time studying the theological insights of Rudolf Bultmann and Karl Barth, two of the most influential theologians of the 20th century. It's fascinating how these two scholars, despite vastly different approaches to scripture, arrive at profound and complementary understandings of our text today. Rudolf Bultmann, a German theologian famous for his efforts to demythologize scripture, urged the church to move beyond surface-level religious rituals and seek authentic, transformative encounters with Christ.

In contrast, Karl Barth, a Swiss theologian who dramatically reshaped Protestant theology, emphasized the radical and unconditional nature of God's grace as an extravagant, unearned gift. When we apply their insights to today's passage, Bultmann directs our attention to Mary's authentic act of devotion, highlighting genuine faith over empty gestures, while Barth helps us see in her actions the extravagant response appropriate to God's lavish grace. Both theologians also offer striking insights about Judas: Bultmann sees Judas as representative of superficial and self-centered religiosity, incapable of encountering the transformative reality of Christ, while Barth views Judas as one who tragically misunderstands the radical nature of grace, thus choosing betrayal over faithful reception.

According to Bultmann, Judas represents a common danger in spiritual life—the temptation to hide behind appearances and rituals without allowing oneself to be truly changed. Judas knows how to speak eloquently about faith, justice, and charity. He understands how to appear righteous and deeply committed. Yet beneath these polished words is emptiness. Judas’s spirituality is carefully managed, avoiding any real vulnerability or genuine encounter with Christ.

Yet Judas wasn't simply a hypocrite. He likely believed in what he was saying. He may have genuinely convinced himself his intentions were noble—perhaps rationalizing that he was only taking what he deserved or that his plans for the money would ultimately serve a greater purpose. One of the most tragic things about Judas is that it may not have been outright malice or greed but a slow compromise and erosion of integrity until reality blurred.

Bultmann challenges us to recognize ourselves in Judas, reminding us that authentic faith isn't safe. Real faith demands an honest confrontation with ourselves — our fears, our doubts, our sins. It calls us into vulnerability, where we’re open to real transformation by God’s Spirit. Tragically, Judas preferred the illusion of control and respectability over true spiritual growth.

Karl Barth adds another powerful dimension, insisting that Judas fundamentally misunderstands grace. Barth constantly emphasized the radical nature of grace as something utterly beyond our control or merit. For Barth, grace is God's absolute initiative—unpredictable, lavish, and wholly undeserved. Judas misunderstands this at a fundamental level because he believes grace must somehow be accounted for, earned, or justified. Judas attempts to put conditions and boundaries around what God gives freely.

Yet consider what might be Judas's perspective again. Could Judas have feared grace precisely because it was so freely given, so unpredictable? Maybe Judas was scared of losing himself entirely in the overwhelming generosity of God. Maybe he sensed the revolutionary power of grace and, feeling vulnerable, tried desperately to hold onto control. And His bitterness toward Mary's lavish devotion may have stemmed from his own spiritual emptiness and longing for security in tangible things.

Mary, on the other hand, instinctively understood grace. Having witnessed her brother Lazarus’s resurrection, she had experienced grace in its rawest form. For Mary, grace wasn’t theoretical; it was personal, powerful, transformative. Her response mirrors the radical generosity of grace she received. She pours out her most valuable possession without hesitation, without thought for her safety or society’s expectations. Barth challenges us through Mary’s example, urging us to abandon illusions of control and receive grace fully in its overwhelming generosity.

But Judas only sees waste. Barth emphasizes that Judas’s inability to accept grace makes him resentful of Mary’s free and generous devotion. Judas thinks grace should be measurable, something to be earned, managed, carefully controlled. When Mary freely pours out her gift, Judas can only criticize and can only see waste and recklessness.

We can easily find ourselves in Judas’s shoes. Many of us genuinely believe in Jesus, speak confidently about faith, and champion important causes. Yet when confronted with the radical demands of grace — worship that costs dearly, devotion that risks everything — we hesitate. We calculate. We hold back. Afraid of losing control, we keep our hearts safely distant from full surrender.

Yet, incredibly, Jesus doesn’t reject Judas. He gently but firmly says, “Leave her alone.” Jesus defends Mary, affirming that she recognizes something profound — His impending death. Her actions are prophetic, preparing Jesus’s body for burial. Mary seems to truly understand that the cross looming ahead.

But what shocks me, what I find to be the most amazing thing about this story when I stop and think about it is that Jesus allows Judas to stay and remain close to him. He doesn’t strip Judas of responsibility, he doesn't expel him or kick him out, or blackball and excommunicate him. Judas continues handling their finances, sitting at the table, even ultimately betraying Jesus with a kiss. Jesus knows exactly who Judas is and what he will do,  and yet He still invites Judas into intimacy and friendship.

Karl Barth profoundly suggests Judas isn’t beyond grace’s reach. Judas’s great tragedy isn’t grace withheld, but grace rejected because he can't imagine it could ever apply to him. Judas’s failure isn't unforgivable sin.  His failure is his unwillingness to accept that grace just might be for him too.

I think if we’re honest with ourselves, as much as we don’t like to admit it, We share Judas’s struggle. We often fear grace — its unpredictability, its demands, its radical generosity. We worry grace might ask too much, require too great a sacrifice, or reveal uncomfortable truths about ourselves. We prefer safer, controlled spirituality rather than risking wholehearted surrender.

Friends, Lent brings us precisely into this tension. Lent asks us to honestly examine our hearts: What costly jar have we kept sealed out of fear? What have we withheld from Jesus, afraid that surrendering it might cost us too much?

Mary pours everything out freely; Judas anxiously clings to what he can control. Mary worships wholeheartedly, fearlessly; Judas calculates cautiously. Mary is remembered forever for her extravagant love; Judas is remembered as the great betrayer.

Yet Jesus loves both equally. He sees both clearly. He carries them both, their devotion and betrayal alike, with Him to the cross.

As Jesus moves toward Calvary, Mary’s perfume still clings to Him — a fragrance of devoted love. But He also carries Judas’s betrayal — the deep pain of rejection etched into His heart. Jesus takes everything, the beautiful and broken, the devoted and the betrayer, the fragrant offering and the bitter rejection - and willingly bears it all.

Today’s question isn't whether we've been Judas—we've all held back, hesitated, betrayed trust. Instead, the question is whether we'll allow Jesus’s gaze, full of compassion and love, to penetrate our fears and defenses.

Right now, the fragrance of grace is in this room, and the costly jar of your devotion is in your hands. What will you do with it?

Will you pour it out freely?

May your life become a fragrance filling every room. Let your worship be costly, your repentance be authentic, and your love be extravagant. Pour everything out and trust that Jesus, in His great love, will carry it—all of it—to the cross.

Amen.