Jesus was at Bethany, a guest of Simon the Leper. While he was eating dinner, a woman came up carrying a bottle of very expensive perfume. Opening the bottle, she poured it on his head. Some of the guests became furious among themselves. “That’s criminal! A sheer waste! This perfume could have been sold for well over a year’s wages and handed out to the poor.” They swelled up in anger, nearly bursting with indignation over her.
But Jesus said, “Let her alone. Why are you giving her a hard time? She has just done something wonderfully significant for me. You will have the poor with you every day for the rest of your lives. Whenever you feel like it, you can do something for them. Not so with me. She did what she could when she could—she pre-anointed my body for burial. And you can be sure that wherever in the whole world the Message is preached, what she just did is going to be talked about admiringly.”
Mark 14:3-9 The Message Bible
We will call her Mary, as other accounts of this story do.
At Simon’s house that evening, the men reclined at the table, resting on their couches as the meal unfolded. According to the customs of the day, women were not part of that circle. They might be present in the room, but they remained in the background, quiet observers of the gathering.
Yet Mary stepped forward.
In her hand, she carried a small vial of perfume—nard so costly that its price equaled more than a year’s wages. Such oil might be saved for a bride’s wedding night, a gift offered to her groom. It might also be used in the solemn work of preparing a body for burial.
Mary broke the vial.
The fragrance spilled out, flowing over Jesus’ head and into his beard. The scent filled the room. There was no hiding what she had done.
And then the voices rose.
Sharp words.
Criticism.
Disapproval.
The sting of them must have pierced the quiet courage that had brought her forward.
Did her heart race as the room turned against her?
And then Jesus spoke.
“Leave her alone.”
Did those words settle her heart?
Did they steady her trembling hands?
He understood what others could not see.
“She did what she could.”
Those words linger.
I think of them because I have a confession to make.
Some time ago, I spoke in a small group of people who knew me only casually, as a photographer. We had just finished a workshop in Yosemite and were standing together, saying our goodbyes before returning home.
In that moment, I told a story. And I suggested that I believed it was a miracle.
Soon afterward, we each went our separate ways, back to our rooms to pack and prepare for the journey home. But instead of peace, a quiet uneasiness settled over me. I wondered how they now saw me.
Had I said too much?
Had I sounded naïve?
Their opinion suddenly mattered more to me than I expected. I found myself worrying about how I appeared, rather than simply remembering what had happened.
And this is the story I told.
During the workshop I carried two cameras. One of them was small enough to slip into a pocket, but it would have been expensive to replace. Normally, I kept it safely zipped inside my vest. But this time it rested in the outside pocket of my coat.
That evening, we drove to the Yosemite Valley Lodge for dinner. Snow covered the parking lot. I took off my coat and left it in the car before we went inside.
It was not until later that night, back at the hotel, that I realized my camera was gone.
I prayed about it. Perhaps, I thought, I had overlooked it in the car. I would find it in the morning. But the next day it was still missing.
Finally, I told our workshop leader what had happened. He urged me to check at the lodge desk to see whether someone had turned it in. I had little hope. If the camera had fallen into the snow-covered lot, it would have landed on frozen pavement beneath several inches of snow. Even if it had not disappeared, surely it would be damaged.
Still, I went to the desk. The man behind the counter stepped away for a moment and returned holding my small Sony camera. It looked as though it had never left my pocket. When I turned it on, the photographs were still there—just as they had been captured.
My words to him were simple. “There is a God.”
And yet afterward, I felt strangely hesitant to tell that story to the other photographers. Why? It was simply the honest telling of what had happened. To me, it was a small sign that goodness still moves quietly through the world.
Mary faced criticism in that room long ago, but she also heard Jesus’ voice defending her.
I heard no voice from my Savior that day. At least, no audible one. Still, I wonder. Perhaps some stories are meant to be told, even when we feel uncertain. Perhaps faith sometimes asks us to step forward quietly, as Mary did, not knowing how others will respond.
And perhaps, in the end, we are asked for something very simple.
To do what we can,
when we can,
and trust that it is enough.
Barbara Howe Djordjevic enjoys capturing the wonders of nature with her camera. She also does what she can as a volunteer chaplain on the Trauma Team at Desert Regional Medical Center in Palm Springs.