I often think about how Jesus knew he was going to die. We often say how you never know what will be your last morning, your last night of sleep, your last moment of peace. Except Jesus did know, He knew it intimately. He knew His last time eating with those He loved, His last time to hug His mother, His last prayer. How precious were these moments for Him? The last time He had physically been with His creation had been in Eden. Now, wrapped in flesh, He had to give it up again all for the hope that He could again be with us, this time forever. The love of God physically hurts me sometimes. I feel how He misses me, and I dearly miss Him.

I think this is what gets to me about Mary of Bethany and the jar of oil. Time is counting down, the days are flying past, Jerusalem and everything it holds is casting a long shadow over his final hours. He stops on his way into the city of his death in the small town of Bethany to see his old friends, the siblings Mary and Martha and Lazarus, and eats with them one last time.

And then Mary, the woman who sat at his feet as a disciple, the one who chose the better part, brings forth the oil to anoint his feet. A last act of reverence and love, in the face of the looming spectre of the violence and hatred awaiting him. A statement to his abusers that at least by this one person he is loved, both as God and as a human being.