Reading, John 11:17-40
Image, Resurrection of Lazarus, 12th century.  St. Katherine's Monastery, Sinai
 
When I was first studying the gospels at college, much was made of the scene where Jesus asks his disciples, who do you say that I am? And Peter’s answer: You are the Messiah, is the first great Christological confession made by one of Jesus’ followers. Jesus is rightly identified, his significance emphatically observed. In Matthew’s account, Jesus even remarks that the profundity of Peter’s response was only possible because the Father revealed it to him. The scene is the great payoff of the first half of the gospel. Jesus’ wonders have brought the reader to the question: who is this man? And Peter gives them the answer.
 
This scene, however, essential as it is to Matthew, Mark, and Luke, is not in John. To be sure Peter makes an essential confession in John 6 when – after the difficulty of Jesus’ words turn many away – Peter responds to Jesus’ question do you also wish to go away? With, Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God. Despite this, today’s scene with Martha feels a more proper equivalent of the scene where one of Jesus’ followers reveals him as the Messiah.
 
But before proceeding with that scene, let us consider another appearance of Martha’s. Last week’s sermon on Mary of Bethany included Martha’s scolding of her sister. And while we noted Jesus’ defence of Mary’s choice of the better part, what we did not observe, which must be attended now, is how Martha addresses Jesus. For even if her request was misguided, her recognition of who was before her was just as accurate as Mary’s.
 
Lord, do you not care… begins Martha’s petition. And that “Lord” is important. For since so very few so grasp the identity of Jesus during his lifetime, very few use this term of address. Alongside Martha we find, Elizabeth, John the Baptist, Peter, a leper, a Centurion, James and John. And just because Martha errs in her request, doesn’t diminish the significance of her right naming of Christ (indeed, James and John name Jesus Lord, as part of their request he rain down fire on a village that didn’t receive them).
 
Martha’s ability to recognise and rightly name Jesus is carried into the story we heard in John’s gospel. In grief (and grief is overwhelmingly the emotion that shrouds this whole scene) she comes before Jesus and says, Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died. Again we note her use of the term Lord, and with it a recognition of Jesus’ power to heal. But, as she continues, she reveals further understanding of Jesus’ unique relation to God. But even now I know that God will give whatever you ask him. Martha recognises Jesus’ intimacy with the Father, from whom he was sent.
 
What is important to realise is the way these this qualification follows quickly on the heels of Martha’s lament. If in one breath she confronts Jesus with her grievance, with the next she affirms his capacity to give them a new future. This stands in contrast with her sister, who comes to Jesus with the same lament, Lord if you had been here my brother would not have died, but then falls silent. It is not that her lack of speech brings condemnation on her, by contrast Jesus is moved by her weeping to his own, however, it is because Martha’s speech continues, that space is opened for a richer dialogue between her and Jesus.
 
Jesus responds, Your brother will rise again. Martha, displaying her faith, affirms what she believes Jesus is saying, I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day. But at this point, Jesus clarifies his meaning, and reveals to Martha more of who he is, and has come to do: I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?
 
Do you believe this is but another shade of who do you say that I am or do you also wish to go away. Fundamentally each ask: from what you have seen and heard, what are you willing to confess. And Martha confesses, Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world. Like Peter she makes the profound confession, and recognises the significance of Jesus beyond anything heretofore confessed. Just as in the other gospels this moment proves a turning point, a hinge on which the narrative shifts its attention toward Christ’s entry in Jerusalem and the cross which awaits him.
 
There’s a terrific line in the Stephen Sondheim musical, Merrily We Roll Along. The show’s protagonists, having just performed a song at a party, are asked by their host to sing it again. One seeks to decline, while the other insists that they sing, saying “Charlie they loved it, they thought we were great.” “You want to know what true greatness is?” Charlie retorts, “knowing when to get off!”
 
Pessimistic as it might sound, usually the longer things go on the more chances there are for missteps. The exuberant glory Peter experiences through the commendation of his Christological confession is short lived. For when Jesus teaches that what it means for him to be the Messiah is to be handed over to suffer and die, Peter rebukes Jesus. For this act, Peter (who moments ago apparently received direct revelation from God) is identified by Jesus as Satan, tempting Jesus from the path of God. Peter has to leave that scene thinking to himself (as we all have at one time or another) why didn’t I just stop talking!
 
The scene with Martha also continues on long enough for her to misspeak. Despite her confession that Jesus is the Messiah, and her hearing Jesus say your brother shall live, when Jesus asks the crowds to remove the stone from Lazarus’ tomb, Martha interjects: Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days. Like Peter not comprehending that Christ’s Messiahship will lead to his death, Martha does not grasp that since Jesus is the resurrection and the life, her brother will rise today. Understanding that Jesus is the Messiah doesn’t necessitate comprehending all that this implies.
 
What do we learn then, from Martha? The first is we can get it wrong. Like Martha, each Christian is able to speak one sentence filled with wise and profound reflections on the nature and significance of God, and then speak a second which completely misses the mark. We are all of us theologians (in that we think and reflect on God and the world in relation to God) and all of us are prone to misspeaking (often in a way common to Peter and Martha, by downplaying or dismissing the surprising and mysterious character of our God).
 
The second lesson is better, which is that the first lesson doesn’t matter all that much. Whether it is Peter trying to get in the way of Christ’s mission, Martha doubting the power of Jesus’ resurrection life, or Mary stopping short of asking Christ for anything, none of this changes who God is and what God is up to. Jesus’ response to Mary’s silence and Martha’s confusion is the same – he raises Lazarus from his tomb.
 
We do not have to get our speech right about God in order for God to move toward us in love and call us into the work of creation, restoration, and reconciliation. For God’s nature is love, and God’s call is undeterred by human folly. We give thanks that no human blunder can overcome the purposes of God. We can overstay our welcome, singing way too many songs and it won’t change God’s affection for us, nor our calling to follow in Christ’s stead.
 
Which means that learning to recognise and reflect on the nature of Christ, to enter into dialogue with Christ and seek to speak rightly of God is not a means toward an end. It is not that getting the right words in the right order unlocks God's affection or action. No, it is an end in itself. For theology, the sublime thought on God, is its own joy, comfort, and delight. To reflect on how to shape our lives as God’s ambassadors of reconciliation is its own way of entering deeper into the mystery of God. To learn how to proclaim, in our own idiom, Christ as Lord is to luxuriate in the wellspring of life. Martha demonstrates that even when we don’t get it perfect, recognising the significance of Christ, opens up wonders of dialogue and devotion that draw us nearer the resurrection and the life.

Readings, Luke 10: 38-42 and John 12:1-8
 
In 1973 the National Gallery of Australia purchased Jackson Pollock’s Blue Poles, for A$1.3 million dollars. At the time, this was the highest price paid for any American work of art, and the most spent by an Australian gallery on a single work. As you can see from the headline above, it wasn’t a universally celebrated purchase. Conservatives decried this as an out-of-touch extravagance – a small fortune for some drips and drops. While some progressives grumbled that the new gallery should prioritise purchases from Australian artists.
 
Over time, however, the purchase proved popular. It is the most viewed piece in the gallery, and is now valued at something like $500million. Interestingly, in 2016, when its worth was appraised at a mere $350M, Victorian Liberal Senator James Paterson suggested selling it to pay down the national debt. A call widely decried even by members of his own party, reflecting the paintings contemporary status as a national treasure. However, even if this shift in opinion were not the case, the controversy points to the tension that can emerge when efficiency is played against aesthetics, when an experience of beauty is asked to justify itself in economic categories. 
 
Twice a devotional act of Mary of Bethany is challenged by someone invoking the language of practicality and economy. Her decision to sit at Jesus’ feet, awash in his wisdom, is challenged by her sister Martha who insists that her presence would be more impactful in service and hospitality. Then, Mary’s decision to lavish Jesus’ feet with perfume is challenged by Judas, who insists that her present would be more impactful as charity to the poor.
 
Putting aside Judas’ intentions, which were not entirely philanthropic, what is interesting about these tensions is that they are not black and white, not clear cut good and bad. For the scene with Martha follows the parable of the Good Samaritan which contrasts the apathy of religious leaders, with the hospitality and care of the Samaritan. Martha is performing the very act of welcome that the disciples and Jesus rely upon in their mission. She is a forerunner to the diaconal ministry established in the book of Acts. In short, she is doing what has already and will continue to be celebrated as the proper posture of a follower of Jesus.
 
Similarly, across the teachings of Jesus his urging of the wealthy to give what they have to the poor are legion, the commendation of the widow’s offering is prominent, and the way into the kingdom of heaven for the rich is poetically narrow. So, the instinct to redistribute to the poor what is undoubtably a luxury is hardly unchristian. It is the very attitude which will mark the idyllic picture of the early church where all things are held in common.
 
And yet, in both scenes, Jesus defends Mary. Her acts of devotion are applauded for displaying proper understanding of what is before her; that is, a proper vision of Jesus. To Martha, Jesus commends Mary’s capacity to see the one amidst the many, the better among the good. To Judas, Jesus commends Mary’s capacity to see the end amidst the middle, to cling close while time remains. Mary of Bethany is exemplary in these scenes not because devotion is always preferrable to service, nor is lavish ritual always privileged over charity. All of these are Christian virtues. No, Mary is exemplary for her ability to see what is required; an ability all the more precious given the ire (then, as now) that can be poured out on those who choose the less efficient, measurable, or immediate of these Christian virtues.
 
For today, perhaps more than any other era in the church (or, to modify that a little… more than any recent era in the western church) the decision to pour resources on either quiet or lavish devotion will quickly draw detractors. The decision to sit and listen, ponder and wonder, reflect and consider without being able to demonstrate the utility and purpose of such an act is already suspect and often diagnosed as naval gazing or speculative distraction… how much more so when there are meals to prepare and guests to welcome? So too the direction of resources to lavish and extravagant ritual and worship is already quickly met with cries of decadence and irresponsibility… how much more so when there are the hungry to be fed and the unhoused to be sheltered?
 
And yet as so profoundly put in the opening question of the Westminster Catechism, which asks (in the unfortunately gendered language of the time):
What is the chief end of man?
Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.
Quiet and lavish acts of devotion, such as those displayed by Mary, are indispensable means by which we glorify and enjoy God. They are indispensable from the life of the believer; indeed, they are indispensable from life. Even and especially in times such as these we need to empower and celebrate the quiet and the beautiful, the abundant and the meditative, the superfluous and the pretty. We shall not live by bread alone, but roses too.
 
Mary’s anointing of Jesus is an act of wanton abandon. She pours out an entire bottle of this most expensive perfume such that the fragrance fills the house. And as intense as this would have been, fragrances (even those as elaborate as this) fade. Over time the more mundane scents of the daily household would return, and no trace of this moment would be left. Hardly and effective or efficient act, entirely unable to be preserved or replicated. And yet we know that there is a profound link between the olfactory and memory. And so the act lives on, repeating itself through sense and memory. Indeed, in Mark’s version of this story, the virtue of the lavishness of this act of devotion is explicitly entrusted to the memory of the church, as Jesus decrees: wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.
 
And so today we remember Mary of Bethany, and learn from her example to see when the time is right for acts of quiet and lavish devotion even when there are legitimate needs at our door. In doing so we give thanks for Christians across the life of the church who have similarly turned their attention, time, and passions to bequeathing to the church beautiful, lavish, and superfluous things: music, gardens, art, fabrics, and rituals. And, at the same time, we lament that too often the inequalities in society and the church have prohibited so many from being able to glorify and enjoy God in quiet and abundant ways. We lament most acutely that so many of the beautiful and sublime gifts the church inherits were built with so much stolen labour, with so many stolen resources, and on so much stolen land.   
 
And yet we do nothing to redress this past if our response to such irreparable history is to give over completely to the vision of economic efficiency and pragmatic programming. What is needed instead is to order our lives together so that that chief end of humanity might be pursued by all. To say it another way, we learn to make room for ourselves and each other to see when it is time to simply sit at Christ’s feet in quiet adulation, or when it is time to pour out our gifts on Christ’s feet in lavish appreciation. There will always be more chances to serve and welcome weary travellers, to generously give to those in need. But if we clamp down and criticise every act of devotion that cannot quickly demonstrate its utility and impact, then we not only stifle the ways we might – in the present – glorify and enjoy God, but we rob the church to come of those wonderful gifts that might appear irresponsible, just drips and drops, but come to be received in the church’s memory as fragrances filling our rooms as signposts of the joy and wonder that come when we sit in the presence of Christ.

Readings, Song of Songs 8:5-7, 13 and Mark 16: 9-14
Image, Graham Sutherland, Noli me tangere, 1961. St. Mary Magdalene Chapel, Chichester Cathedral, England.


If you read enough fiction you’ll likely come across a book with a nested narrative, or nested narrator. That is, the story in the book is narrated by someone found within the book. Sometimes these are called matryoshka books, after the dolls, where further and further layers of narration are revealed. Frankenstein for instance, features the narration of Walton, who records the narration of Victor Frankenstein, who recounts the narration of his creation, who narrates his secret observance of a family. Recently, filmmaker Wes Anderson adapted Roald Dahl’s The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, which begins with one character finding and then reading an essay written by a man who learnt to see through cards.
 
Layers upon layers, these books fold in on themselves, obscuring the authorial voice with which we began. It is an old device, used for many effects, not least of which is to undermine the trust of the reader, to remind us that this tale might just happen to be tall. And while a story like this elicits certain pleasures in questioning the veracity of the details which slips through the sands of multiple voices, it is another thing entirely to hear a story directly from one of your friends, a fellow disciple of Christ and say “nah, I’m not going to believe that.”
 
Mary Magdalene is a disciple of some significance in the latent Jesus movement. In the Gospel of Luke, she is consistently listed first among those named women followers and funders of Jesus’ ministry; signalling her leadership within the group. Her significance is heightened through the Passion narrative, where she (with some of the other women) remains near Jesus through his crucifixion and burial.
 
And then we reach the scene of the resurrection. In all the gospels Jesus appears first to Mary and the women. In Luke it is to a small group (with Mary Magdalene named first), in Matthew it is just two (Mary Magdalene and the other Mary), in Mark the young man proclaims Christ’s resurrection to Mary Magdalene, the other Mary and Salome, with an additional scene (which we heard) with Jesus speaking directly to Mary Magdalene. And in John it is Mary alone who sees the empty tomb and has the first encounter with the resurrected Christ, that beautiful, tender scene we read on Easter Sunday where she takes him for the gardener until he speaks her name.
 
And each of these encounters is accompanied with the commission to proclaim his resurrection to the other disciples, huddled away in fear. For this reason, Mary Magdalene has been decorated in the church as the “apostle to the apostles,” the one entrusted with the first easter message, the first Christian to proclaim Christ as the crucified and risen one. Like that figure in the Song of Songs, she is coming up from the wilderness, leaning on her beloved. See, she comes, with Christ set as a seal on her heart, on her arm. See, she comes to them with love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. See, she who dwelt in the garden, Christ’s companions are listening for her voice…
 
And yet, like the narrator nested four-deep in a fantastical novel of tall tales, she is heard, but not believed. In Luke, the disciples treat the words as an “idle tale,” while in this longer ending of Mark, Jesus upbraids his disciples for their lack of faith and stubbornness, because they did not believe those who saw him after he was risen.
 
It is a rather satisfying passage really. A little vindication of Mary’s authority and testimony, coupled with a scolding of those far too quick to dismiss her for telling them exactly what Jesus had told them would happen. Unfortunately, for Mary, what happened to her by the church to come was arguably far less kind and received no such direct rebuke.
 
Mary was quickly conflated with other unnamed women in the gospels (such as the sinful woman of the city who anoints Jesus, or the woman caught in adultery). This created a tradition whereby her demons are associated with prostitution and sexual sin. This image weaves its way into popular culture, where – whether in Jesus Christ Superstar or The Da Vinci Code – Mary’s significance is reduced to her erotic attachment to Christ. Sloppy as such scholarship is, its arguable her example was most debased not through any direct attack on her character, but in the systematic ostracising of women from the preaching and leadership of the church. What could be a more dismaying example of her denigration than the church’s efficient action to make the first woman apostle the last, ensuring that after one woman proclaimed this first easter Sunday message the rest should fall silent?
 
What might we learn then, from this second Mary in our series? Well, first, that like those nested narratives, the story of Jesus is – from the beginning – entrusted to human witnesses. His victory is entrusted to narrators of the gospel (apostles and disciples) who are not confined to any one group. From the beginning those called to proclaim the good news and lead the church are drawn from ranks spanning the categories of gender, class, age, and ethnicity. The story of the gospel is no more suited to one language, accent, or timbre, no better belonging to men than women, the free than the slave, the educated than the non, the one who believed because they saw than those who later heard. All who have encountered the risen Lord, are in turn sent to proclaim this good news.
 
And yet, at the same time, we cannot dictate the reception of our proclamation, nor what memory we leave. This does not excuse us from proclaim good news of great joy. We are each of us sent, simply to witness to the resurrection, and the reception of such witness is out of our control and so out of our concern – we simply trust that our calling is true, and Christ is risen. In this way, as is evoked in the refrain “let me hear it” from the Song of Songs, the primary audience of our proclamation is Christ himself: proclamation is doxological.    
 
We also learn, perhaps less from Mary as exemplar, as those around her as cautionary tales, not to clog our ears to the proclamation of good news by those we consider less fit to bear and deliver it. We must be on guard against prejudice, privilege, and preference which clouds our judgment and misguides our gut. This, I think, is of especial importance when we, like the disciples, are “mourning and weeping.” It is that much more difficult to hear the word of resurrection when we are struggling with the fact that something has died. So much harder to embrace the promise of new life when we are mourning that something which buried will not return as it once was. Words of new life, sightings of resurrection, glad tidings of great joy are proclaimed around the church, but if we are so consumed by narratives of death and decline, we find them too easy to disbelieve. Perhaps, sadly, we choose to disbelieve the word of resurrection because that would require us to admit something has indeed died, and that what comes in its place appears in a form at first unrecognisable.   
 
Mary Magdalene, like Mary the mother of Jesus last week, sets an example of discipleship. She followed Jesus through his life, remained with him at his death and burial, and returned to his tomb. And though she came to prepare a body for death and decomposition, she recognised the new life of the resurrection and reoriented her comprehension of the world, taking hold of her commission and rushing forth to proclaim the risen Christ to those in need of good news. She may not have been believed, and her memory might have been maligned, but in the end such shall fade away. For the disciple’s worth is found not in the esteem of the world, or even the church. Rather it is found in Christ, who meets us in the gardens of our mourning and weeping, our loss and woe, with love stronger than death, passion fiercer as the grave and commissions us to narrate him to the world:
O you who dwell in the gardens,
My companions are listening for your voice;
Let me hear it

Readings, John 2:1-12 and John 19:25b-30
Image, Benny Andrews, Portrait of Black Madonna (1987)

These are first and last great signs of Jesus’ glory in the Gospel of John, and his mother Mary is interwoven in both. Indeed, we might say not only interwoven, but – as is the case with the first – integral to its beginning, and – in the case of the latter – foundational to what will follow. But let’s go back further to find a starting point.
 
Mary is Jesus’ first teacher. Like many a parent, she teaches the child those basic things of life, the elemental building blocks of being a person. And like parents who live religious lives, she would have also taught Jesus things basic to the life of faith, wrapping the rhythms of their daily life around God’s stories, festivals, and rituals. She would have imparted and impressed those basic building blocks of being part of the people of God.
 
And yet, she was also a parent with a specific commission. She was called by God to bear the saviour of her people, to carry Emmanuel in her body and lead him into life. And she was entrusted to instruct Jesus in this commission, teach him what she had been taught, make his what she proclaimed in song while he grew in her womb. It is she who would have imparted those words of the shepherds she treasured in her heart, those words of Simeon that brought blessing and dread, those words of Gabriel which reoriented her life.
 
Who better than she, then, to prompt Jesus to act – to bring about the hour at which his ministry began, the hour at which his glory shall begin to be revealed. Who better than she, to issue the imperative by which followers of Jesus shall live: Do whatever he tells you.
 
Mary is thus not only a paradigmatic disciple – one who receives with vigour the command of God and allows it to reshape the direction of her life. But she exemplifies the task of Christian teaching and instruction; especially of the young. She takes up eagerly the task laid before her to instruct her child in the wisdom of God, and the task and commission laid before him. And she takes this on with such enthusiasm and authority that she can take the prerogative to come before the world’s redeemer and say, it is time to begin.
 
From this beginning, until the bitter end, she remains by Jesus’ side. We read in that upon the cross he looks down and uses a few of his remaining words to say to his mother, Woman, here is your son, and to the disciple he loved, here is your mother. And while we can be moved by this as an act of filial devotion, to remain there lessens the lesson on offer.
 
Jesus, in both these stories refers to his mother as woman, signalling not the unimportance of her relation to him and specific role in God’s plan, but pointing through to the most important role one can play: that of a disciple. Who are my mother and brothers, Jesus famously asks of the crowds, Those who hear the word of God and do it… and while this is sometimes read as a rebuke to those who would pay particular attention to Mary, we are better led to recognise that who among the gospels characters more perfectly performs the word of God than Mary the mother of Jesus?
 
Such a lesson is repeated elsewhere, where a woman shouts to Jesus, Blessed is the womb that bore you and the breasts that nursed you, to which Jesus responds, Blessed rather are those who hear the word and obey it. Again, the lesson is not to find here a dismissal of Mary in the shaping of our faith, but to direct the eye at where that significance is found.* It is not, as if, Mary’s womb is blessed in abstraction, that the breasts which nursed Jesus are holy simply for that act. No, Mary is to be celebrated and emulated, chiefly because of those traits which we might replicate. It is not her womb that we aspire, but the example she sets as one who heard the word and obeyed. Who said to the angel, I am a servant of the Lord, and took the risk of bearing the world’s scorn, in order to bear God. Blessed is she who heard the word and obeyed, who taught the saviour of the world, and accompanied him as sign by sign he revealed his glory.
 
Which leads us back to the foot of the cross, and those last words of Jesus. Here Mary, while remaining Jesus’ first family is also first in his new family, created by the Word to be his body, the church, a further sign of his glory. She receives a Spirit of adoption from the one she birthed. A mother given to a friend, the beloved to a mother and in this they become family to each other – not by blood but by the Word, bound only by commission and obedience. It is in this same way that we are given to one another as family in baptism – siblings of Christ, and kin to one another.
 
Mary, unlike so many of the disciples, does not depart from Jesus, even when there is so much risk and grief. It is this discipleship which is recognised, the same discipleship she displayed when the angel came, practiced when she taught Jesus, and exercised when she told him to make new wine. It is this discipleship that makes her favoured, blessed, and worthy of calling into the new family of Christ. For it is this kind of discipleship by which the church shall extend into all the world preaching the spirit of adoption.
 
Her discipleship, which we call blessed, is at least part (if not the significant part) of what we take from the life and witness of the first Mary in this series. And if we are to attempt to emulate her example, we must draw on the same strength on which she drew. She, like we, become disciples in the knowledge of God’s presence and promise to look on us as favoured, lift up the lowly and fill the hungry with good things. The strength to stay by Christ’s side through the glory and the bloodshed is built on the trust in the great things God has done. The humility and grace to become a family established at the foot of a cross is fed by finding in the simple things a holiness most profound. In Christ we have received a spirit of adoption, made children of God, and when we consider what it means to live in light of this great joy and responsibility, we take as an example Jesus’ mother; who heard the word of God, bore him in her womb, led him by the hand, and followed him all the days of her life.

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*My thanks to Dr Ali Robinson for this insight.