Pure and Costly Nard

(Or "pure and costly nardus", as Coverdale puts it; "and the house was full of the savoure of the oyntment.")

As sometimes happens, I found today's Gospel reading to be interesting. John's account of the woman with the alabaster box — we presume it is the same story as that related by the synoptics (Matthew 26:6-13 and Mark 14:3-9; Luke has an account of a sinful woman anointing Jesus, but it takes place in a Pharisee's house, so I will leave discussion of that story for another time) — adds some notable details. John identifies the woman as Mary, whom we take from the context to be the sister of Martha and Lazarus. Rather than merely pour the ointment on Jesus' head, the woman in John's account anoints his feet, wiping them with her hair (a messy detail that always stuck in my mind; how does one get nard-and-foot-dust out of one's hair?). In all three accounts, disciples protest the extravagance of spending 300 denarii (nearly a year's wages) on perfume, but in John the complainer is none other than Judas (who is said to be embezzling from the apostolic purse). Now, on the face of it, this seems a rather reasonable objection, given Scripture's emphasis on providing for the poor (and orphans and widows and whatnot). But Jesus dismisses the idea: leave her alone, as she anointing me for my burial. In Matthew and Mark he foretells that the (here unnamed) woman will be known the world over for her act. In all three versions the scene ends rather abruptly. In the synoptics it is followed by Judas going to the chief priests to agree to hand over Jesus. (And yet Judas, in relation to the ointment-incident, is only mentioned in John. But it is tempting to connect his rebuke and his decision to betray Jesus, isn't it?) In John it is immediately followed by the Palm Sunday account.

What are we to make of the woman with the alabaster box? She is, like the Magi, a saint whose offering to the Lord appears unnecessary. Such saints offer a measure of hope to those of us whose profession is, ultimately, quite useless. The world needs its Marthas, to be sure: they are the people who accomplish the real and quite necessary work that needs to be done. But it is also acceptable to God — apparently — that we should, from time to time, sit at his feet. The Benedictine ethos sums it up quite nicely: we are to work, yes, but also to pray. Devotion — expressed in its various useless guises of art, music, verse; the bow before the altar, the incense arising, the overpriced perfume anointing the Lord's feet — is no less necessary.