A Worship That Counts

Open your Bibles to the Gospel of John, chapter twelve, the first three verses. Six days before the Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus lived, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. Here a dinner was given in Jesus's honor. Martha served, while Lazarus was among those reclining at the table with him. Then Mary took about a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus's feet and wiped his feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.

Before we explore these verses and the message God has for us, let us set the scene by recalling what has happened up to this point in the narrative world of John's Gospel. John is the one Gospel writer who presents who Jesus is in an unparalleled way. He has no birth narrative; he begins instead, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." This is high Christology. Compared with Matthew, Mark and Luke, John takes pains to show who Jesus is: he is the light, and in him was life. From the very first chapter the climax is set before us — here is Jesus; do not miss him.

And yet, all through the narrative, people have a problem seeing Jesus for all his worth. Some make confessions; others look like followers but soon turn out not to be, because they have no real revelation of who he is. Take chapter five: a man who had been an invalid for thirty-eight years lies near the pool of Bethesda, waiting for healing, a social outcast with no one to help him. Jesus heals him. We would expect him to declare, "You are the Son of God, the King of Israel, the Messiah." Instead, from verse sixteen onward, the man reports Jesus to the authorities, and from verse eighteen the persecution against Jesus begins. On one side his identity is presented gloriously; on the other, people stumble over it.

Chapter six tells the same story. After the feeding of the five thousand the crowd wants to make him king; but by verse sixty-six many of his disciples turn back and no longer follow him — they do not want this Messiah. In chapter seven the people are divided: some say he is a good man, others say he is a deceiver. Sign after sign is performed, and still they stumble over his identity and cannot see him clearly.

Chapter twelve is the turning point of the Gospel. This is the last chapter that describes the public ministry of Jesus; from chapter thirteen onward he speaks primarily to his disciples, and there are no more signs. His public ministry is drawing to a close, and the chapter records the beginning of Jesus's final week. A single word ties it to what came before: chapter twelve, verse one, says "six days before the Passover," and chapter eleven, verse fifty-five, had said it was almost time for the Jewish Passover. This is the third Passover in John's Gospel — the first in chapter two, verse thirteen, the second in chapter six, verse four, and now the third. As the celebration draws near, the writer wants us to read this story in its light: six days before in twelve, verse one; five days before when "the next day" comes in verse twelve; and "just before the Passover" in chapter thirteen, verse one. The word is repeated, and this story is placed deliberately at the heart of all that this third Passover will bring.

We might expect another miracle — this is, after all, the last chapter of his public ministry, and chapter eleven had given us the raising of Lazarus. He walked on water, fed the multitudes, healed the lame man, opened blind eyes. What more could we need? Yet in chapter twelve there are no miracles. Instead there is a meal — a meal that raises eyebrows, a scandalous meal — and an anointing. The anointing appears in all four Gospels, though the details differ: in Matthew and Mark Jesus is anointed on the head, in Luke and John on the feet; in Luke it is a sinful woman, while Matthew, Mark and John seem to have the same person in view. We must not get lost in the differences and miss the main message.

Notice, too, that here for the first time the hour has come. All along we have read that "the hour has not yet come" — in chapter two, in chapter seven. But in chapter twelve, verse twenty-three, for the first time, "the hour has come": the Son of Man is to be crucified, the passion is at hand. And it is precisely here that this scandalous anointing is set. I want us to consider three things: how Mary is presented, and then, from verse four onward, how Judas is presented.

First, Mary seems to have a revelation of who Jesus is. If I were to title this message, I would call it "A Worship That Counts" — and a worship that counts can only come from a revelation of who Jesus is. Otherwise worship is reduced to two hours on a Sunday morning, like a performance. Jesus had been saying, "I am the bread of life; eat my body, drink my blood," and people stumbled. He said, "I am the light of the world; you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free," and the Pharisees protested that they were no one's slaves. As chapter one, verse ten, says, he came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him; the world did not recognize him. But here is Mary of Bethany, who does.

Her act carries the memory of the Old Testament, where kings, priests and prophets were anointed — Samuel anointing Saul in First Samuel ten, verse one; Samuel anointing David in First Samuel sixteen, verse thirteen; the priests anointed in Exodus twenty-eight and twenty-nine; the prophets, occasionally, as in First Kings nineteen, verse sixteen. And the very next paragraph, from chapter twelve, verse twelve, shows Jesus entering Jerusalem as a king. Kings were anointed on the head, in public. Mary, a woman, not highly educated, not one of the Twelve, not at the forefront of events, anoints his feet, in private. She grasps that he is a king — but a different kind of king, revealed not through power to dominate but through humility and death. That is why she is at his feet. Mary is anointing the Anointed One.

Jesus is on trial in our world today. Some say he came to start a religion, some that he is a deceiver, some that he was a philosopher or a good moralist. But how many of us have the revelation that he is not a mere man — that he is God in human flesh, who walked through history and came to save me? That revelation makes all the difference, and it will not come by hearing or study alone; God must open our hearts. It is the greatest miracle that can happen to a person, to see that Jesus is God.

Mary has seen much. In her own home, in the previous chapter, she saw not only the love of Jesus but his power over death. She has also seen the growing threats against him, for right after the raising of Lazarus people wanted to kill him. Because she has seen, she says, "Jesus, come to my house; let us host you." And while everyone else is taken up with the menu, enjoying the dinner, Mary is looking at the feet of Jesus and seeing the Lamb headed to sacrifice — the Lamb of God. What attracts us when we gather? The media, the lights, the screens? May we, in the midst of all of it, see the feet and the face of Jesus, for there is none worthy like him. Her act became a royal anointing, a preparation for burial, a prophetic sign. True worship begins with a true revelation of who Jesus is; when you see who he really is, everything changes — your worldview, your priorities, your home, your anxiety about the future.

The second thing I learn from Mary is that she worships sincerely, and her worship is marked by three things. First, it is extravagant and lavish. She gives what is most costly — pure nard worth a whole year's wages — and she breaks and pours it out with no calculation and no holding back. Those who study such things say this nard was most likely grown in the mountains of northern India and imported to Palestine; for Mary to possess that quantity and quality was no small thing. She does not break it at her brother's funeral, but now, while Jesus is alive, because she sees that he is the King who will die and yet rise. It is worth spending everything at his feet.

Second, her worship is full of humility, for she goes to his feet — the place of a servant. True worship comes from holding nothing back, and it comes clothed in humility. Third, it is marked by costly devotion: to wipe his feet with her hair would raise eyebrows in that society, yet she risks her dignity to express genuine love. So often we are anxious about what others think of our hallelujahs — whether people will look at us if we shout his praise. But when we have a revelation of who Jesus is, even when others are irritated, we say with Mary that he is worth everything we have. Notice that in the three places where Mary of Bethany is most prominent — Luke ten, John eleven and John twelve — she is always at the feet of Jesus: in Luke ten learning, in John eleven grieving, in John twelve anointing.

And the house, verse three says, was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. Some take this simply as a contrast with the stench from the tomb of Lazarus in chapter eleven, but there is more. This kind of perfume evokes the incense used on the altar of the first and second temples. In chapter two Jesus had already spoken of his body as the new temple, and now, in this room, the aroma evokes temple worship. They are not in Jerusalem, not in the temple, but in Bethany — and yet the house is filled with the fragrance, the presence of God. It does not matter whether your house is owned or rented, fifteen hundred square feet or six hundred; these are not what assure the presence of God. When we have a revelation of who Jesus is and are willing to pour out what we have, an unmistakable aroma fills the house. Mary speaks no words — only an act that says, "You chose me before the creation of the world; you love me more than anyone; King, you took my shame and died for me, and I have no words" — and that aroma fills the room.

Yet in the parallel passage, in Matthew twenty-six, verses eight and nine, the onlookers say, "Why this waste?" To my young brothers and sisters studying for your degrees, hear this: it is not a waste to offer your best to God. A worship that costs nothing is worth nothing. Let me tell you about a young man born in a remote village. At fourteen he realized that Jesus is the living God and gave his life to him; at fifteen he was filled with the power of the Holy Spirit; at seventeen he sensed the unmistakable call of God. He had lost both parents as a child, and a huge responsibility for the family rested on him; he was a smart, capable boy, the one everyone expected to study and restore the family. His family was not Pentecostal — they were Syrian Orthodox — and only this child was Pentecostal, so at first they struggled to understand: he was the breadwinner; what would happen if he went to Bible college? But his oldest brother said, "If you are feeling led, go." He came to Southern Asia Bible College, graduated in 1959, and in 1983 went on to become its first national principal. Last night we heard of the passing of Dr. H. C. George. The aroma fills the house.

Worship is not merely two hours; it is a life surrendered at the foot of the cross and at the feet of Jesus. I had the privilege of praying almost every Sunday with this great man of God at SABC. I never once saw him stand or sit during that prayer time — he would always lay down the mat, kneel, and say, "Come, let us pray." And I never saw him speak or sing of the cross of Christ without tears. The songs dearest to him, in Malayalam, spoke of being an orphan with no one — "for the fatherless, he is the Father." After teaching for fifty years at SABC, that was his sincere devotion: he had a revelation of who Jesus was, and he poured out his best, his very life, serving God consistently with humility, integrity and sincerity. Today we can all feel that aroma. A life surrendered at the foot of the cross and the feet of Jesus is worth living; it is not a waste.

Thirdly and lastly, look from verse four onward. Between Mary's anointing and the welcome into Jerusalem stands another figure. Mary's act is explained in a single verse, but this man's attitude takes five — and that, the narrator John wants us to see. The other Gospel writers veil his name: Matthew twenty-six, verse eight, says "the disciples"; Mark fourteen, verses four and five, asks, "Why was this ointment wasted?" But John the beloved disciple spells it out. Here is a man who walked with Jesus for three years, who heard him, touched him, lived with him — Judas Iscariot, who would later betray him. He objects, "Why wasn't this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? It was worth a year's wages."

Mary was looking only at the feet of Jesus; from the first moment Judas is looking at the value of the perfume. His eyes are not on Jesus but fixed on the price — how much it is worth, what he might gain — and so he calls it a waste. Judas is the man with the right words and the wrong heart: he has ministry but no devotion, the actions of worship but no genuine heart transformation, all external. He held the money bag. And here is the lesson: anything we do — pastoral ministry, teaching, music, counseling, social work, the cause of the poor and of justice — can look from the outside like devotion and worship. But if the hidden motive is self, advancing ourselves, protecting our reputation, then quietly and subtly we are selling Jesus for our own benefit. Why do we shout hallelujah and lift the name of Jesus? Is it a cover-up? Our worship must spring from revelation and sincere devotion, never as a cover-up for whatever did not please God last week. A heart surrendered and right with God is the first thing required before we even sing a song, for the heart of worship is the heart of the worshiper.

Two people are in the same room. Mary gives everything to Jesus; Judas calculates what he can gain. One had only a few interactions with him; the other had three years. And in a few days Judas will betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. Mary's worship was worth three hundred denarii — a year's wages; thirty pieces of silver were worth about four months' wages, and were the price of a slave in the slave market. Judas refuses to put a year's-wages price tag on Jesus; he is worth something, perhaps, but not everything. Revelation determines worship: one says he is worth everything, the other that he is worth merely something. Mary breaks open all she has; Judas prices him as a slave. Three years with Jesus — learning all the Scriptures, seeing all the signs, hearing all the "I am" sayings — and still no revelation.

And so Jesus says, in verses seven and eight, "Leave her alone." "You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have" — and the next word is the point — "me." Have you seen me? It is all about who Jesus is, and about the price tag we are willing to place upon him.