No regrets: a gospel reflection for the panel at Southwark, March 2023

I was saving it for a special occasion….had been saving it for years. Silly, really. As I got older, the chances of my needing it for my wedding night receded and yet still it stood in a corner of the room, waiting. Precious, but untouched. The lid sealed.

But then everything changed. The day that Lazarus took sick, our world was rocked, and on the day he died it shattered.

Two women alone, how would we survive in our small town where people could be so unkind about old maids? 

We buried him, and only when I reached home did I realise. I’d forgotten my jar of ointment. I could have used it on his beloved body. Should have used it. What was I saving it for?

And then came the transformation, wonderful, impossible. Death undone. That great voice calling my brother’s name and drawing forth a response, even from ears sealed in death. It was probably good that Jesus named Lazarus that day or all the dead of Bethany and beyond might have emerged in answer to his call. Yes – there was a smell of death. My perfume would have helped then – but in the joy of reunion that only added to our reality. Lazarus restored.

We were so happy when Jesus returned with his friends, the week before Passover. The house was full, the table laden, Martha busy as she delights to be. Wherever you looked, there was joy. Those I loved most sitting and eating together. A special occasion.

Then it came to me – my great idea. There’s nothing more special than receiving those you love back. No future party could ever be better than this, and there was one person to thank, one person to receive my every token of love and gratitude. I went to the corner, took the jar, anointed Jesus’s feet. My tears of joy flowed too as I focused on those weary, dusty, beautiful feet that preached the gospel just by being here. Then I realized it was too much. My tokens of love would overwhelm…Jesus would slip if he tried to stand, - so I used my hair, letting it too fall over his feet, as I dried them. And the house smelled of love and joy and hope – evidence, like my living, breathing brother, that nobody could deny.

Of course people were angry. It !I was saving it for a special occasion….had been saving it for years. Silly, really. As I got older, the chances of my needing it for my wedding night receded and yet still it stood in a corner of the room, waiting. Precious, but untouched. The lid sealed.

But then everything changed. The day that Lazarus took sick, our world was rocked, and on the day he died it shattered.

Two women alone, how would we survive in our small town where people could be so unkind about old maids. 

We buried him, and only when I reached home did I realise. I’d forgotten my jar of ointment. I could have used it on his beloved body. Should have used it. What was I saving it for?

And then came the transformation, wonderful, impossible. Death undone. That great voice calling my brother’s name and drawing forth a response, even from ears sealed in death. It was probably good that Jesus named Lazarus that day or all the dead of Bethany and beyond might have emerged in answer to his call. Yes – there was a smell of death. My perfume would have helped then – but in the joy of reunion that only added to our reality. Lazarus restored.

We were so happy when Jesus returned with his friends, the week before Passover. The house was full, the table laden, Martha busy as she delights to be. Wherever you looked, there was joy. Those I loved most sitting and eating together. A special occasion.

Then it came to me – my great idea. There’s nothing more special than receiving those you love back. No future party could ever be better than this, and there was one person to thank, one person to receive my every token of  love and gratitude. I went to the corner, took the jar, anointed Jesus’s feet. My tears of joy flowed too as I focused on those weary, dusty, beautiful feet that preached the gospel just by being here. Then I realized it was too much. My tokens of love would overwhelm…Jesus would slip if he tried to stand, - so I used my hair, letting it too fall over his feet, as I dried them. And the house smelled of love and joy and hope – evidence, like my living, breathing brother, that nobody could deny.

Of course people were angry. It was an extravagant gesture….but I promise I was not seeking attention, whatever my siblings said. My focus was on entirely on HIM…the One who changes everything, who turns despair to hope, darkness to light. Those words about his burial shook me. Why bring death to a feast of life?

But all too soon I understood, wished I had more nard, to anoint him once again on the third day of the week when we gathered at his tomb. His OPEN tomb. We wept. We called his name, but expected nothing. We knew that only he had that power to raise the dead.

I didn’t see him afterwards, though others I trust promise me that they did, - that they saw with their eyes and touched with their hands. THEY ate with him once again, but I was home in Bethany, trying to make sense of these extraordinary days.

We talk about him all the time, about that day, about all that he did, and said, and was. I’ve heard that he once talked of a man who knew a pearl of great price was hidden in a field, and sold everything so he might own the field and possess the pearl. 

That is my story too. My treasure was nothing compared to the treasure that HE was…

The pearl of great price who sat at our table, healed our family, gave us light and life.

That was a special occasion you see. Worth everything. No regrets.