Mark 14:1-9

It was two days before the Passover and the festival of Unleavened Bread. The chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to arrest Jesus by stealth and kill him; for they said, ‘Not during the festival, or there may be a riot among the people.’

While he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he sat at the table, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment of nard, and she broke open the jar and poured the ointment on his head. But some were there who said to one another in anger, ‘Why was the ointment wasted in this way? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor.’ And they scolded her.

But Jesus said, ‘Let her alone; why do you trouble her? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish; but you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial. Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.’

I promise, I’m almost done inviting you to listen to Anderson Cooper’s All There Is podcast. So much of our midweek Lenten series on “grieving well” was inspired by the interviews, conversations, and insights from that show. I can’t recommend it enough.

And one of the ways of grief we didn’t cover on Wednesday nights over the course of the last five weeks seems so appropriate for today, I just couldn’t resist. It’s called “anticipatory grief” and it’s something I never really wondered much about until hearing Anderson’s interview with a film-maker named Kirsten Johnson, who actually made a movie about her dad’s dementia, as he was suffering, declining, and very literally preparing to die, long before he ever found himself in hospital bed or nursing home, even. More on that in a moment … but keep the notion of “anticipatory grief” in mind, if you could. In some ways it speaks for itself.

Today, this Palm Sunday, is a day full of symbols and story and looking ahead, because it’s all about what is to come in the days that follow Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. In many churches on Palm Sunday – and at Cross of Grace, many years – we simply hear the Passion narrative of Jesus’ last days and hours, leading up to his crucifixion and death. But there will be time for that, later this week. Particularly, on Good Friday, we’ll gather to hear about his last steps and last words, and last breath, even, on the cross.

So today, we’re just getting started – with the parade into Jerusalem before the big holiday for the Jews and now, even closer to the Passover, we find Jesus having dinner and being anointed with oil by this woman who seems to anticipate something others have missed … something Jesus understands … which is that his death looms. It is right around the corner and coming soon.

And, who knows why she understands and anticipates what others don’t? Maybe she was paying attention at that parade, when Jesus rode into Jerusalem on that donkey and those palm branches and cloaks were laid out before him.

Maybe she knew that he’d gotten the attention of the powers that be, that his challenge to the Empire would be his undoing.

Maybe she knew her scripture enough to recognize, in those shouts of “Hosanna,” that here was, indeed, this one who had come in the name of the Lord.

Maybe, as John’s Gospel tells it, this was Jesus’ good friend, Mary, Martha’s sister and the sister of Lazarus. And maybe she came with the oil because Jesus had told her; given her the inside scoop. Maybe she had a plan to show the others something they hadn’t been able to catch onto yet. I wonder, if maybe Jesus had even asked her to do just that. Or maybe her moment of anointing was a surprise – even to Jesus – that set his final days on a new course, in a way that surprised even him.

Whatever the case, the point is clear. Jesus was about to die. This woman knew it. Jesus knew it. And, I think, it was time for the rest of the crew to finally get with the program, and to understand the fullness of what was coming.

But that’s hard news to hear, right – that the end is near for those we care about? that death is coming for those we love? It’s easy stuff to deny, isn’t it? We’re inclined to pretend and to live otherwise, as much and for as long as we’re able, a lot of the time. We are hangers on, “tooth and nail” kind of people, most of the time, when it comes to death and dying.

But, whether he was ready for it or not, I think that’s the blessing Jesus received from this woman who anoints him today. I think she reminded him – and anyone who was really able to hear it, that his death was pending … on the way … imminent. And her anointing becomes a blessing – a teachable moment – Jesus, himself, uses to prepare his people for the truth and fullness of what was to come.

See, in all of that grumbling about the perfume and about how much it cost and about how much it could have done for the poor, Jesus seems to be unfussed. Because, back in Jesus’ day, this kind of anointing with perfume was done when someone died. They anointed the body with oils as a ritual sort of cleansing, as a spiritual sort of preparation for the afterlife, and, quite practically, I imagine, to keep the smell to a minimum once the bodies were left to decompose in those family tombs that got used from one funeral to the next.

All of that is why Jesus doesn’t bother with the others when they pretend to care that the money from that perfume could have been used to help the poor. He tells them to back off, to leave the woman alone, and to let her do with her perfume whatever she wants to do with her perfume. “You’ll always have the poor with you,” he promises. “You will not always have me,” he warns. “You will not always have me.”

Kirsten Johnson, the filmmaker Anderson Cooper interviews about this thing called “anticipatory grief” – the one who made a movie about her own father’s decline into dementia, dying, and death – hosted a funeral service for her dad, while he was alive and still well and able to experience it, himself.

In the family’s church, with all of their loved ones gathered, people who had known him throughout his entire life came and spoke and said what they would want to say at his actual funeral, when the time came. Only, he was able to watch it, hear it, experience it, on this side of heaven. What a gift.

What if, in that moment with Jesus over dinner, that woman was giving her version of a eulogy? Offering him the gift of her anticipatory grief … sharing the depth of her love for him … anointing him as cosmic royalty in the eyes of the creator of the universe … showing whoever was paying attention that nothing was or is or could be more valuable than the kind of love he came to share – not her perfume or her paycheck or her pretending that everything was just fine.

At that funeral that wasn’t really a funeral, for the man with dementia who wasn’t dead yet, a woman stood up and said, “as long as my memory lives, the memory of him will live in me.”

And I wonder if our lesson for today, if our invitation as we enter into yet another Holy Week, is to anticipate the grief that’s on the way in the days to come. And I don’t mean in a long-suffering, masochistic, self-flagellating kind of way. I mean, in a worshipful, awe-inspiring, reverent, hope-filled kind of way that might change our lives – and change our way in this world – if we let that kind of grief have its way with us more often than we’re inclined, so much of the time.

I mean, if we lived every day like Jesus’ sacrifice was just around the corner, instead of just one Holy Week out of 52 in every year… wouldn’t things be different for us, as his followers? And then maybe the world could be different, too?

Would we be more grateful for what we already have and stop coveting the green grass on the other side of every fence?

Would we give more generously, out of our abundance, as Jesus commanded? Or would we keep giving from what we have leftover or saving and striving for a day that may never come?

Would the extent of our social activism be limited to our social media feed? Or might we get out and do more with our hands and with our feet and with our voices and with our votes?

Would we save our greatest expressions of love and devotion for the funeral, or would we say more of those things face to face with words and actions, instead?

Would we ask for forgiveness and offer it more often and with more integrity?

Because the reason we can be honest and real and even embrace the grief that has or will come to us all, is because of the good news we share as children of God, as followers of Jesus, as the baptized in Christ, headed into this Holy Week.

See, this grief we anticipate – ours, Christ’s, that woman who made the movie, or the one with the perfume – none of this grief wins the day. It doesn’t last forever. It invites us to anticipate, too, the new life that follows. Our grief is evidence of the deep, abiding love God has for us all. And it calls us to more of the love, joy, grace, guts and faith with which we’re called to live on this side of heaven and for the sake of the world, our God so loves.

Amen

Matthew 18:10-14

‘Take care that you do not despise one of these little ones; for, I tell you, in heaven their angels continually see the face of my Father in heaven.* What do you think? If a shepherd has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray? And if he finds it, truly I tell you, he rejoices over it more than over the ninety-nine that never went astray. So it is not the will of your* Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost.

Have you ever made rock candy? I have not. But the process isn’t that hard. [Start video] To make rock candy you wrap a piece of string around something and let some of it hang down. Then you take a glass, combine water and sugar until it makes a thick solution, and then you drop that string down into the water. For a while nothing happens, a day, two days go by and you don’t notice a big change. But then all of a sudden, when the saturation point is reached, the sugar molecules begin to crystallize around the string. More and more crystals form, making the string harder and harder. Eventually, the string is completely calloused over with these crystals. That is how you make rock candy and it’s how shame works.

Over the past many weeks we have journeyed together through different forms of grief or different ways we experience grief. Some were obvious and common. Others were nuanced and unexplored.

Tonight we have one more kind of grief and it is perhaps the one many of us least want to address: grief for the places that have not known love. As Francis Weller explains, “These are profoundly tender places precisely because they have lived outside of kindness, compassion, warmth, or welcome. These are the places within us that have been wrapped in shame and banished to the farthest shores of our lives. We often hate these parts of ourselves, hold them in contempt, and refuse to allow them the light of day.”

We all have these parts of ourselves. It might be one’s body or a part of it that you loathe or won’t look at in the mirror, bringing about the self-image you’ve struggled with all your life. It might be the neglect you endured growing up or face now, leaving you feeling rejected and not just that you did something wrong, but feeling that something is wrong with you.

It might be abuse, physical, mental, or sexual, that you survived but have locked away hidden in the dark out of fear of judgment or reliving the trauma.

It might be one’s sexuality, the realization of who you were made to love, and at the same time rejecting that with all you can, afraid of rejection from family, friends, even your own faith.

And here is how shame is like making rock candy. We can endure some neglect or hurt. We can withstand some berating, self-criticism, and disappointment. But then there comes a point when we can’t. And with enough repetition, by staying in that solution too long, crystals grow around that thing and we become hardened. The internal stories associated with those events reach their saturation point and the fictions, the lies, the hurt crystallize into things that feel like truths we cannot break.

What is the thing in your life, in your very soul for which you are ashamed. We all have this and we all do our best to cast it out to the deepest, darkest parts of our souls where we hope it goes to die. But it doesn’t. Instead, we end up carrying around this shame, and it separates us from others and ourselves, bending us over, pulling us down so that we no longer gaze into the eyes of others, because the last thing we want when we feel such shame and self-doubt, is to be seen.

So like the sheep in the parable, we try to run off, to hide, to go astray. That is what shame does: it makes us think it’s better to be alone because at least then no one will know my shame.

Yet, that’s not how Jesus, our shepherd, works. The catch in the parable is that if one sheep goes astray, no shepherd in their right mind would leave the other 99! But this shepherd does. Here the words of the Psalmist as if Jesus, our shepherd, is saying them to you: “I have searched you and known you… I have discerned your thoughts… I am acquainted with all your ways… I know you completely. I surround you and protect you.

There is no place where I can’t find you or won’t go to save you. In your joyous moments and when shame has you in the pit of hell, I am there. You say you dwell in the darkness, but that’s where I do my best work. For only in darkness can my light shine through.”

Shame hardens our hearts; it makes us feel as though parts of us are outside of God’s reach, as if we are unloveable. But that is a lie. You are sought out, you are known, you are loved. In Jesus, God takes all our shame and the sin that caused it, and puts it to shame on the cross. We need not carry it anymore.

But what can we do? Is there anything, other than hearing this good news, that helps us address the shame that's hardened within us? And this is where grief comes in. “what we feel ashamed of, what we perceive as defective or flawed about ourselves, we also experience as loss. And the proper response to any loss is grief.”

So what can we do to move from shame to grief?

Here are three things: One, we begin to see ourselves not as worthless but as wounded. Because, if we are honest, that’s what we are. We have been wounded by ourselves, by others, and by a society that feeds off of shaming. And yet you have worth! You are made worthy through the grace and love of Jesus. It has been bestowed to you, given to you, and nothing can ever take that away from you.

Second, once we recognize our hurt, we can begin to see ourselves with compassion rather than contempt. With less condemnation and more understanding. The samaritan looked upon the stranger and had compassion. Out of compassion, Jesus fed the 5,000, gave sight to the blind, healed the sick, and forgave those who put him on the cross. The path to forgiveness for others and healing for yourself begins with a posture of compassion, never scorn or disdain.

Lastly, move from silence to sharing. This is nothing new. Over the last few weeks, we’ve heard the importance of sharing our grief. And The same is true for our shame. When we share it, all that pulls us down or keeps us away is lifted and we can begin to grieve the loss we’ve experienced. So share it with a trusted friend, with a trusted therapist or counselor, or with a trusted pastor. Most of all, share it with God and hide it no longer.

Let the love of Jesus break through the hardened lies that shame has formed inside our souls, giving light to our darkest parts.

Tonight we will practice exactly that. On your chair you have a candle. As Jeannie plays this next hymn, share your shame with God in prayer. Tell God of the parts of you that have not known love, the parts you’ve tried to hide. Invite God into those very places, to heal our wounds, move us to compassion, and soften our hardened hearts. Then, when ready, light your candle and place it on the way. And together we will see that the light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Amen.

Palm Sunday's Anticipatory Grief

Grieving Well - Places That Have Not Known Love