Holy Monday invites us into a quiet, intimate space, before the crowds swell, before the cries of “Crucify,” before the long shadow of the cross fully settles in. We find ourselves in a home in Bethany, gathered around a table with Jesus Christ, Lazarus of Bethany, Martha of Bethany, and Mary of Bethany.
It is, on the surface, an ordinary moment, a dinner among friends. Martha serves, as she always does. Lazarus reclines at the table, a living testimony to life restored. Jesus is present, sharing in this simple act of fellowship.
And then, everything changes.
Mary takes a pound of costly perfume, pure nard, we are told, something precious, something extravagant. She kneels, anoints Jesus’ feet, and wipes them with her hair. The house is filled with fragrances.
It is a moment of breathtaking vulnerability and devotion.
Mary does not hold back. She does not calculate the cost. She does not worry about how it will look. She responds out of love, lavish, unmeasured love.
And in doing so, she seems to understand something that others do not. She senses what is coming.
While others are still caught up in the excitement, in the hope, in the unfolding signs and wonders, Mary moves with a kind of quiet knowing. Her act is not only one of love, but also an act of preparation.
“Leave her alone,” Jesus says. “She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial.”
Even here, at the table, death is drawing near.
Holy Week always holds this tension. Joy and sorrow sit side by side. Celebration and grief intermingle. The fragrance of devotion fills the air, even as the shadow of the cross lengthens.
And, of course, not everyone understands.
Judas Iscariot raises an objection. Why this waste? Why not sell the perfume and give the money to the poor? On the surface, it sounds reasonable. Practical. Responsible. But the Gospel tells us there is something else at work.
Judas cannot see what Mary sees. He cannot recognize the moment for what it is. Where Mary offers love freely, Judas calculates. Where Mary gives, Judas measures.
And perhaps that is where this story meets us most directly. Because we, too, are often caught between those two ways of being. We know what it is to hold back, to measure, to calculate, to ask whether something is “worth it.” And we also know, at least in glimpses, what it is to give ourselves freely, to love without counting the cost.
Mary shows us what that kind of love looks like. It is embodied. It is risky. It is deeply personal.
It does not stay at a distance. She kneels. She touches. She pours out what is most precious.
And the fragrance fills the house.
That detail is easy to miss, but it matters. Love like this does not remain contained. It spreads. It lingers. It changes the atmosphere.
In the days ahead, there will be other scents, the bitterness of betrayal, the metallic tang of blood, the spices of burial. But for now, the house is filled with fragrance. A sign that even in the face of death, love has already begun its work.
So perhaps the question for us on this Holy Monday is a simple one: What are we holding back? What would it look like to love Christ, not cautiously, not partially, but with the same abandon as Mary? To offer our time, our attention, our resources, our very selves, not because it is efficient or practical, but because it is faithful. And what might happen if that kind of love began to fill our homes, our communities, our lives?
We stand at the beginning of a holy journey. The cross is coming. The tomb is near. But here, in Bethany, we are given this moment, a glimpse of what love looks like in the presence of Jesus. Costly. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
May we have the courage to enter this week with open hearts, willing to pour out what we have, and who we are, trusting that even in the shadow of the cross, love is never wasted.
