A Fragrance That Remains

As we enter deeper into Holy Week, today’s Gospel draws us into a quiet home in Bethany. There is no crowd, no teaching, no miracle. Just a meal among friends. Lazarus sits at the table, Martha serves, and Mary does something unexpected. She takes a jar of costly perfume, breaks it open, and pours it on the feet of Jesus, wiping them with her hair. It is an act that feels deeply personal, even a little uncomfortable to witness. It is excessive, intimate, and not at all practical. And yet, we are told that the whole house was filled with the fragrance.

It is precisely this lack of practicality that draws a reaction. Judas questions the act. Why was this perfume not sold and given to the poor? On the surface, his concern sounds reasonable, even righteous. It is the kind of statement we might agree with. But the Gospel quietly shows us something more. His words sound right, but they do not come from love.

This is where the passage begins to turn toward us. It is not hard to recognise that same voice within. There are moments, especially in ministry or in parish life, when we start to measure what others do. We may wonder if someone’s service is genuine, or if their intentions are right. Even within our families, we can be quick to interpret actions and assume motives.

At times, we may go a step further. Instead of addressing things quietly, we bring what we see to others, perhaps to someone we trust or someone in authority, hoping they will understand and agree with us. It can feel justified. It can even feel responsible. But if we are honest, there are moments when this comes from a need to be affirmed, to be right, or simply to be heard.

What begins as discernment can slowly turn into comparison. And beneath it, there may be something we do not notice at first. A desire to be seen. A quiet jealousy. A need to feel that we are doing better than others.

The Gospel does not place Judas far away from us. It shows how close someone can be to Jesus and still struggle within. That is what makes this passage uncomfortable, but also honest. It invites us to look not only at others, but at ourselves. When we question others, is it always out of love? Or is there frustration, insecurity, or pride beneath it?

In contrast, Mary says nothing. She does not explain herself or defend what she is doing. She simply gives. There is no calculation, no concern about how it will look. What she does may not seem efficient, but it is full of love. And that love leaves something behind. The fragrance fills the whole house.

Perhaps this is where the Gospel meets us most clearly. In our daily lives, love often looks small and unnoticed. It can be choosing patience when we feel irritated, especially with those closest to us. It can be answering gently when we have already answered the same question before, especially with our ageing parents, whose pace and needs are different from ours. It can be continuing to serve in ministry without needing to be recognised.

These moments do not stand out. They are easy to overlook. Sometimes they even make us feel invisible or unimportant.

But love like this does not disappear. Like the perfume, it lingers. It shapes the space around us in ways we may not see. People may not remember exactly what was said, but they remember how they felt. Whether they felt at ease, understood, or at peace.

As we walk through Holy Week, we are reminded that Jesus Himself chooses what is hidden. He does not demand attention. He gives Himself quietly and fully. And He invites us to love in the same way. Not to perform, not to compare, but simply to give what we can.

Perhaps today’s invitation is not to do something big, but to be honest. To notice where we may be calculating instead of loving. Where we may be judging instead of understanding. Where we may be trying to be right instead of being kind.

And then, gently, to choose differently.

To offer what we can.
To let go of what we cannot control.
And to allow our lives, in quiet and unseen ways, to carry a fragrance that remains. (BV)