It was springtime when I received a phone call one day. The sun was shining brightly, and I was living in a small farming town in Alberta. I sat in my house with the windows open, and along with the breeze, the scent of blooming flowers from neighbourhood gardens drifted gently into the room.
The phone rang. On the other end was a woman I had never met. She told me she used to attend our church but had stopped coming some time ago. Through quiet emotion, she shared that her youngest daughter had just passed away, and she was asking if I would come to the hospital to perform a ritual.
I prepared a handbook for the visit and made my way to the hospital. At the front desk, I asked the receptionist where the young woman was. As I walked down the hallway toward the room, I caught the unmistakable scent of death – for the first time in my life.
It was probably the same smell that Marta had warned Jesus about as he stood before the tomb of her brother Lazarus. When Jesus asked for the stone to be removed, she said, “Lord, there is already a stench because he has been dead for four days.” The tomb was filled with the unmistakable stench of death. The smell meant death.
But then Jesus called out, “Lazarus, come out!” And the dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of linen and a cloth wrapped around his face. Jesus said to the gathered crowd, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
I can imagine how that group of people also caught the scent of death – how thick it must have been in the air. I can also imagine how quickly it vanished once Jesus ordered him back to life.
Today, we smell something different — it is the fragrance of expensive oil. The same group of people has gathered again in the house of Larazus, Martha and her sister Mary of Bethany, a town three kilometres from Jerusalem. They are there to celebrate, to give thanks for Lazarus’s return to life.
Yet, even in this joyful gathering, another scent lingers in the air – a shadow, a new stench of death. This time, it is not Lazarus’s, but Jesus’s own, looming on the horizon. The cross is drawing near.
In the midst of this dinner, Mary does something unexpected. She brings out a pound of pure nard, a costly and fragrant ointment. Without a word, she kneels and anoints Jesus’ feet and then wipes them out with her hair. The room falls silent. Conversation ceases for a moment. All eyes turn toward Mary.
What she does is striking – tender, intimate, and deeply symbolic. To anoint someone’s feet and to wipe them with one’s hair is an act of profound humility and love. It is extravagant. It is vulnerable.
Judas is angered by the gesture. “Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor?” he protests. “It was worth a year’s wages.”
But Jesus praised Mary. He affirmed her act of devotion. In his eyes, she was exactly where she needed to be. From the very beginning of his ministry, Jesus made it clear that women, children, and all those considered powerless in society were welcome in his presence. In the coming reign of God, everyone would have a place. Everyone would be seen. Everyone would be valued. And Mary demonstrated that vision. She modelled a new way of being together – rooted in community and mutual care.
John is also clear about Judas. John repeatedly tells us that Judas’s words cannot be trusted – that he is the one who would betray Jesus, that he is a thief. In contrast, John subtly invites us to follow Mary instead – Mary, who anoints Jesus’ feet and wipes them with hair.
But why his feet, not his head? And why use such costly perfume only to wipe it away?
In biblical tradition, anointing is typically done on the head – especially to honour royalty or prepare someone for burial. But in John’s gospel, Mary anoints Jesus’ feet. In ancient times, it was the role of slaves to wash the feet of guests, not the host, and certainly not with perfume. So Mary’s act was not only intimate – it was profoundly symbolic.
What’s more, the word “to wipe” is the same word used in John 13:5, when Jesus washes the feet of his disciples. Mary’s gesture becomes a foreshadowing of that moment – an early echo of the love Jesus would later show at the Last Supper. She loves him before he commands love. She pours herself out before he calls others to do the same. Mary lives out the commandment to love even before it is spoken.
By anointing Jesus’ feet, Mary boldly acknowledges the reality of his coming death. Her act becomes a preparation – not only for burial but for transformation. She senses the stench of death that surrounds her teacher. But instead of shrinking back in fear, she responds with tenderness, courage, and love. With the fragrance of love, she confronts the stench of death. And this how she shows her love for Jesus.
As we walk with Jesus through this Lenten season, we, too, must journey through the valley of death before we can glimpse the glory of resurrection on Easter morning.
And yet, it is spring. Cherry and magnolia blossoms burst into bloom. Daffodils, crocuses, and irises rise from the earth in delicate splendour. But even amid this beauty, the scent of death lingers – around us and among us. We sense it in the recent devastating earthquake in Myanmar, in the ongoing suffering of the Palestinian people in Gaza, in the war in Ukraine amid the ceasefire deal between the US and Russia, and in the growing tensions of global tariff wars. We feel it in the uncertainty that clouds our economic future, in the threats to our sovereignty – in headlines and heartbreaks. The stench of death is everywhere.
But it will not overwhelm us. Death may be here and there and everywhere, but it will not define us. We are a resurrection people. The fragrance of love that once filled the house of Martha will rise again, overcoming the stench of pain, injustice, bullying, imperialistic worldviews, violence, and abuse. For the fragrance of love – our love for Christ and his love for us – will always rise stronger. It will always outlast the stench of death.
Resurrection is coming. Love will rise again on Easter morning. Amen.