PASSION SUNDAY
READING:
John 12:1–8
John 12:1–8: An overwhelming smell
I wonder if you ever catch yourself using phrases like “Something smells fishy” or “That smells like trouble”, or even “You could smell it a mile off”. These sayings are familiar, aren’t they? Part of the everyday fabric of our language. They’re idioms—metaphors—that tap into something instinctive. In fact, many of them date back to a time when the streets of towns and cities smelt so strongly of decay that people carried nosegays just to mask the stench.
It’s striking how deeply smell is woven into our emotional and moral language. Smell bypasses logic and cuts straight to the heart. We use it to talk about trust, danger, even deceit. And so it makes perfect sense that in today’s Gospel—at this turning point before the Passion—the story is saturated with scent.
We’re told: “The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.”
Jesus is at table with Lazarus—whom he has raised from the dead. A scene of restoration, intimacy, and unexpected life. And into this moment walks Mary. She carries not a message, nor a demand—but a jar. A jar of pure nard, worth a year’s wages. A treasure. A family’s financial security. Her future, possibly. And without hesitation, she breaks it open and pours it out on Jesus.
The smell would have been overwhelming. But so was the love.
I wonder how you heard that story this morning? I wonder what stirred in you as Mary shattered the jar—not carefully tipping out a few drops, but breaking it open. She didn’t measure, she didn’t hold back. She gave everything.
Imagine someone today cashing in their pension to care for someone who’s dying. Or selling their home to support a friend’s dream. That’s the scale of what we’re talking about.
And yes—it’s unreasonable. It’s not strategic. It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t feed the poor. It doesn’t change policy. But that’s the point. It’s not useful. It’s beautiful. It’s love, poured out for love’s sake. Unmeasured, misunderstood, and utterly true.
Judas asks the reasonable question: “Why wasn’t the perfume sold and the money given to the poor?” It’s a good and valid question—on the surface. But it doesn’t come from love. It comes from cynicism. Judas sees cost, not meaning. He sees money, not people. He speaks of the poor, but he doesn’t love them. His is the voice that says, “Don’t be foolish. Be careful. Be efficient. Be safe.”
We know that voice. We the church have listened to it too often, especially at meetings . . We’ve asked what works, what gets results, what we can measure. But the Gospel invites us into something else entirely: presence, not performance. Being with, not doing for.
Mary offers us a theology of presence. Her act is not productive—it’s sacramental. It reveals something. It tells the truth:
- That Jesus is worth everything.
- That love cannot be counted.
- That discipleship is not always sensible—but it is always costly.
And here’s the miracle. Her extravagance is not wasteful. It’s truthful. Mary recognises something even the disciples struggle to see. She sees what’s coming. She knows that death is near. And still, she dares to love.
In that moment, her gift becomes a mirror of what Jesus will do just days later—he, too, will be broken and poured out. Not held back. Not measured. But given entirely. That’s what happened at The Last Supper.
Mary’s gesture is deeply Eucharistic- that which happens at communion . . She brings something precious, she breaks it, and she gives it. Sound familiar? Her love is a hint of the upper room, of the cross, of the tomb—and beyond. She lives, in that moment, with the scent of resurrection already in her heart.
And so the house is filled with fragrance. Just as love—true love—fills the world. It can’t be contained. It lingers. It awakens.
Today’s Gospel is a story of extravagant love. Not practical. Not explainable. Not restrained. Love that risks misunderstanding. Love that is exposed, vulnerable, even scandalous.
And I wonder… I just wonder… how do we respond to such extravagant love poured out on us by God?
I wonder where we see that kind of love in the world today?
Maybe it’s a carer staying up all night with a patient. A parent giving everything for their child. A neighbour looking out for someone quietly in crisis. Maybe it’s you, offering something precious, something unseen, just because love asked you to.
Mary’s act reminds us: the fragrance of love still fills the house. The world may ask, “What’s the point?” But the Gospel says: “This is the point.”
RESOURCES
SONG
This worship song by Matt Redman’s would be a fitting choice.
It delves into the profound love demonstrated through Christ’s sacrifice.
POEMS
Two poems which you might use at the end of a time of quiet :
The first by George Herbert reminds us of God’s love as extravagant, inviting, unmeasured.
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lacked anything.”George Herbert
Or
To love without counting.
To give without measuring.
To pour ourselves out for Christ and for one another.
That is the aroma of life. That is the scent of resurrection.
That is the beauty of extravagant love.
And extravagant love—like Mary’s—still speaks.
Photocredit:
The Resurrection of Lazarus,1303-5 (fresco), Giotto di Bondone
