It is fair enough for theology to acknowledge that words—not least, God’s words—can and do behave extraordinarily, transcending their capacity as mere signifiers. But to erect an entire theology of theological language on the premise of the ecstatic, interruptive character of the word of God is to risk dislodging or alienating the word from ordinary human words and, indeed, from the world.
Stanley Hauerwas (sermon at Duke Divinity, March 28, 2008):
We are well-schooled Christians. We know we are not to identify with Judas. Yet we cannot help but think, thief though he was, Judas was right—the costly perfume should have been sold and the money given to the poor. If we are honest, we cannot resist the conclusion—Judas is appealing.
Moreover, if any conviction characterizes what it means to be a Christian in our day, it is surely the presumption that we ought to be on the side of the poor. No longer sure that we know what it means to believe that Jesus is the Son of God, we at least take comfort that to be a Christian requires that we care about those less well off. Of course what it means for us, that is, for the moderately well off, to care for the poor usually extends no farther than our attempt to make the poor like us, that is, moderately well off.
Moreover, given the world in which we find ourselves—a world that thinks that what Christians believe must make us doubtful allies in the struggle for justice—the Christian concern for the poor can win us some respect. The cultural despisers of the church at least have to acknowledge that Christians do some good in spite of our reactionary convictions. So it is good that we burn with a passion for justice. The only problem with such a passion is that it can put us on Judas’s side.
This means we are profoundly troubled, if not offended, by Jesus’ response to Judas: “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You will always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me.” Jesus, we wish Jesus had not said that. If you needed a text to confirm Marx’s contention that Christianity is the opiate of the masses, you need look no further than, “You always have the poor with you.”
Yet note: the one who said, “You always have the poor with you,” was poor. That Mary saw fit to bestow a lavish gift on a poor person, a poor person who was soon to die, is surely to be celebrated— particularly by the poor. One of their own receives a lavish gift. One of their own is celebrated. So, if you are poor, what Mary does is a good.
It is, of course, true that Christians have used this text to teach the poor to accept their status by suggesting that if they do so, they will ultimately receive a greater reward than those well off. The church has also glossed over Jesus’ response to Judas by not asking, “what if we did more than cared for the poor?”or, “what if we celebrated with the poor?”
That such questions are not asked reflects a church that has forgotten that Christianity is determinatively the faith of the poor. That is why we, the moderately well off, are puzzled by the undeniable reality that the church across time and space has been constituted by the poor. We, the moderately well off, are tempted to think, in response to Mary’s gift, “What a waste.” Surely a more utilitarian gift would have been more appropriate? But the poor know that this is Jesus, the one who shares their lot, so what could be more appropriate than this lavish gift, bestowed on this man to prepare his body for death?
It is crucial that we notice that this is a dinner where death is as present as those feasting. Lazarus, who had been raised from the dead, is present. Lazarus was raised from the dead, but that only delayed the inevitable. Lazarus, like you and me, will die. Moreover, Mary’s anointing presages Jesus’ death. Mary had bought the perfume for the day of his death, but it seems she could not wait. And so she anoints him in order to prepare him for death.
I think it is not accidental that death and poverty are connected at this dinner. Death, after all, creates an economy of scarcity. We only have a few years to live. We cannot do everything we would like to do before we die. That some of us have been given more than others is just the way things have worked out. We do not necessarily want to be selfish, but there is just so much that one can do in a world of limited resources.
Mary seems, however, to have caught a glimpse of a different world through her encounter with Jesus when he raised Lazarus from the dead. Mary’s gift—her outrageous gesture of love—indicates that she has been drawn into the abundance of God’s kingdom enacted by the life and death of the one who has said he is the resurrection and the life. She knows there is always “enough” because we cannot use Jesus up. […]
… Mary’s extravagant gesture turns out to be what God has done for us, that is, to lavish us with a love we cannot use up. But even more startling, we turn out to be the gift God would give the world through the work of the Holy Spirit.
That is why we must think of the wealth of the church as the wealth of the poor. The beauty of a cathedral is a beauty for the poor. The church’s liturgy, her music and hymns, is a beauty of and for the poor. The literature of the church, her theology and philosophy, are distorted if they do not contribute to a common life determined by the worship of a Savior who was poor. The church’s wealth, Mary’s precious ointment, can never be used up or wasted on the poor. Thus after Jesus is dead, Nicodemus will use almost a hundred times the amount of Mary’s gift to care for Jesus’s body.
No doubt such an account of the church’s wealth can be an invitation to self-deception as well as a justification for us, the moderately well off, not to hear the call of those in need. Yet “the poor you will always have with you” is not a description to legitimate a lack of concern for the poor. Rather, it is a description of a church that has learned that, “insofar as you do it to the least of these, you do it unto me” (Matt 25:40). Mary the sister of Lazarus has done for Jesus what the church must always be for the world, that is, a lavish gift poured out for the poor by the poor. […]
… To have the poor with us, to have Jesus with us, does not mean our task is to make the poor rich. Of course, rich and poor Christians alike are called to serve one another. Rich and poor alike are called to feed the hungry and to clothe the naked. But the church, if it is the church of the poor, must refuse the bargain with death that tempts us to live as if life is a zero-sum game of winners and losers. We are, after all, Mary’s people who have touched and have been touched by Jesus. We know, therefore, that we live in a world of abundance, because you cannot use up the one who has been raised from the dead.
I am quite aware that some may well find what I have said to be “idealistic.” Yet in a moment we will again eat and drink with the poor person who has invited us to share his body and blood. This is the gift we cannot use up. This is the gift that makes possible a people capable of sharing food with one another. This is the gift that makes possible a people who have time for one another. This is the gift that challenges presumptions of power, prestige, and status that we think necessary to be of service to the poor. This is the reality that makes it possible to resist the appeal of Judas. So come and receive this lavish gift, and by receiving may we become poor, so that the world might see what it means to be rich.