A Fragrant Devotion: The Anointing at Bethany (Jn. 12:1-8)

We stand on the threshold of Holy Week. In just one week, we will wave palm branches and cry “Hosanna!” and just days after that, we will remember a cross, a tomb, and the weight of all the world’s sin laid on one man’s shoulders. But before Jesus enters Jerusalem in triumph and descends into suffering, He stops in a little village called Bethany.

It is, in many ways, a quiet moment before the storm.

Here in Bethany, in the house of friends—Martha, Mary, and Lazarus—we see a scene that is at once tender and shocking, beautiful and prophetic. A woman breaks a costly jar of perfume. She pours it over Jesus. She wipes His feet with her hair. And the fragrance fills the entire house.

What are we to make of this?

For some, it looks like waste. For others, it’s embarrassing, excessive, strange. But to Jesus, it is worship. In fact, it is the only act in the Gospels where someone seems to grasp what’s about to happen to Him and responds rightly: not with questions, not with fear, not even with protest—but with love and anointing.

Mary sees the cross coming.

And so, in this short but unforgettable passage, we find a powerful call: Will we love Jesus like this? Will we treasure Him above all else, even when others don’t understand? Will our worship be costly, fragrant, and full-hearted? Or will we, like Judas, criticize while clinging to lesser loves?

This morning, as we continue our journey toward the cross, the opening of John 12 invites us to sit with Mary, to kneel beside her at the feet of Jesus, and to ask: What is He worth to me?

Let’s walk through this story together, not as detached observers, but as those longing to see Jesus more clearly and respond with lives poured out in love.

The Setting of Extravagant Love

John 12:1–2 — “Six days before the Passover, Jesus therefore came to Bethany, where Lazarus was, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. So they gave a dinner for him there. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those reclining with him at table.”

Let’s not rush past this scene. John opens the curtain slowly here, he wants us to feel the moment. It’s six days before Passover, the most sacred feast in Israel’s calendar, the commemoration of blood on doorposts, of deliverance from death, and freedom from Egypt. And here sits Jesus, the true Lamb of God, walking steadily toward His own sacrifice.

Where is He? Bethany. Not Jerusalem, not Galilee. Bethany, this tiny village and quiet refuge. But more than a place, this is a home. It’s the home of friends. Martha. Mary. And Lazarus, yes, that Lazarus. The one who just a chapter earlier had death in his lungs and grave clothes wrapped around his body. He’s now reclining at the table like he never skipped a beat. It’s like a scene from a strange dream: a former corpse enjoying dinner with the man who called him out of his tomb. Imagine that.

This will be Jesus’s primary residence throughout Passover Week. It makes me wonder how much it helped our Lord's humanity —knowing he was going to face death soon—to see a visible reminder in Lazarus that he was “the Resurrection and the Life.”

But notice the characters: Martha is serving (not shocking). Lazarus is reclining. And soon, Mary will be kneeling. Each of them responds to Jesus differently, but here’s what they all have in common: They’re all near to him. This is what love for Jesus looks like: different forms but the same center.

Yet, the room isn’t just filled with food and conversation, it’s filled with something more. It’s filled with deep gratitude. Think of it: a man who was once dead is now alive. A home that once grieved is now rejoicing. And a Savior who gave life is now sharing supper. It’s a foreshadowing of the coming Kingdom: resurrection, table fellowship, and love overflowing.

There is a shadow here, too. Jesus is six days away from His own death. The one who raised the dead will soon be buried. The smell of food lingers in the air, but soon another aroma will take its place: perfume, burial spices, the fragrance of sacrifice.

Now, before we rush to analyze Mary’s act, we must see this: worship begins where gratitude lives. Those who have tasted resurrection, those who know what it is to be called from death to life, can’t help but draw near. The setting of extravagant love is always a heart overwhelmed by what Christ has done.

Bethany is where love lingers before the cross.

The Act of Lavish Devotion

John 12:3 — “Mary therefore took a pound of expensive ointment made from pure nard, and anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.”

We’ve moved from the setting to the stunning act itself, and everything slows down here as if John wants to hold this moment in sacred stillness. One sentence. One verse. But it’s thick with glory.

John writes, “Mary therefore…” and let’s pause on that word: therefore. It’s a hinge of intention. It tells us this isn’t some impulsive, sentimental gesture. This is not an accident of emotion. Mary is responding to something. She’s acting because of who Jesus is and what she sees coming.

She knows.

She’s been listening and watching. Maybe she remembered His words about dying and rising. Maybe she saw the look in His eyes when He wept at Lazarus’ tomb. However, she knew this much was clear: Mary understood what time it was. And so she does something unforgettable.

She takes a pound of pure nard. Not a few drops, not a drizzle, but a pound. The original Greek word is litra, about 11 ounces, roughly the size of a soda can. It’s perfume made from the roots of a Himalayan plant. Imported from India. Uncut. Pure. Unimaginably costly. Judas will estimate it at 300 denarii, about a year’s wages. Think about that: in one act, she pours out what might have taken a lifetime to save.

This is no scented candle moment. This is extravagant. Wasteful, even—unless, of course, the object of your love is worth everything.

But she doesn’t just pour it on His head, as was the normal gesture for honoring a guest (and as Matthew and Mark record). John highlights something even more intimate, His feet. The lowliest part of the body. Reserved for servants, slaves. But Mary doesn’t call a servant. She becomes one. And then she does the unthinkable: she wipes His feet with her hair.

This isn’t just humble, it’s scandalous. In Jewish culture, a woman’s hair was considered her glory, something not even to be loosed in public. But Mary lets hers down and uses it to clean the Savior’s feet. No rag. No towel. Just the beauty of her own self, poured out to serve Jesus.

Why? Because love has no concern for appearances when worship is real. Because when Jesus is truly seen, nothing is too precious to give.

John ends this verse with a detail that lingers literally: “The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.”

You can almost smell it. It was unavoidable. Inescapable. Everyone in the house would go home smelling like Mary’s offering. That’s what devotion does: it lingers. It permeates. It’s not content to stay private. It fills the air.

This is what gospel love looks like: costly, humble, overflowing. Mary didn’t care what others thought. She wasn’t doing this to go viral. She was doing this because she saw the One who was going to die for her and she couldn’t hold back.

And friends, this same Jesus has given us life. He has raised us from the grave. Shouldn’t our love for Him have weight to it? Shouldn’t it have a fragrant aroma? Shouldn’t it fill the house?

Let me say it plainly: If your worship never costs you anything, you’re probably not doing it rightly.

And perhaps the question this passage gently presses upon us is this: When was the last time your love for Jesus smelled like sacrifice?

Devotion vs. Deception

John 12:4–6 — “But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (he who was about to betray him), said, ‘Why was this ointment not sold for three hundred denarii and given to the poor?’ He said this, not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief, and having charge of the moneybag he used to help himself to what was put into it.”

Just when the house is filled with the fragrance of worship, just when the air is thick with beauty, a different aroma enters the room. The stench of hypocrisy.

Enter Judas.

If Mary’s love was extravagant and pure, Judas’s heart is calculating and corrupt. And John wastes no time in helping us feel it. He introduces him as, “one of his disciples (he who was about to betray him).” It’s almost like John can’t say Judas’s name without choking a bit. He wants us to feel the betrayal in advance.

Now, on the surface, Judas’s words sound noble. “Why was this perfume not sold and the money given to the poor?” I mean, isn’t that what religion is for? Helping the needy? Sounds compassionate. Logical. Efficient.

But here’s the thing, even a cold heart can wear warm words.

John peels back the curtain of Judas’s motives: “He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief.” He wasn’t worried about the poor. He was worried about the profit margin. He wanted the perfume in the bag so he could skim a little off the top.

Judas was the treasurer of the group, but more Wolf of Wall Street than Mother Teresa. He knew the price of everything but the value of nothing. He could appraise the perfume, but he couldn’t see the worth of the One being anointed.

This is the danger of dead religion. It always looks good from the outside—concerned for the poor, advocating for good stewardship, mindful of efficiency—but under the surface? A love of money. A heart untouched by grace.

And here’s where it gets haunting: Mary’s act reveals Judas’s heart. Her love exposed his lack of it.

That’s what worship does. It forces a response. When someone gives everything to Jesus, it either inspires us or irritates us. Mary’s perfume exposed Judas’s poison. And let’s not forget, Judas is in the room. He’s a disciple. He’s part of the circle. He has a title, a ministry role, a moneybag, and yet no love for Jesus.

Though invasive, we should ask: Am I more like Mary or Judas? Do I mask a cold heart behind religious words? Do I criticize what others do for Jesus while holding back myself?

Perhaps deeper still: When someone else pours themselves out for Christ, do I rejoice or do I roll my eyes?

It’s worth remembering: Judas had beheld the best teaching, the best miracles, the best seat at the table, but he never surrendered himself wholly to Jesus.

Don’t be impressed by proximity to Jesus. Be broken by the cross. Be drawn into his love.

Honor and Prophecy

John 12:7–8 — “Jesus said, ‘Leave her alone, so that she may keep it for the day of my burial. For the poor you always have with you, but you do not always have me.’”

Finally, Jesus speaks.

The room has grown tense. Judas has just lobbed his sanctimonious grenade masked as concern for the poor but dripping with cynicism. Maybe others felt awkward too. Maybe they started nodding, “Yeah, that was a lot of perfume…” Maybe even Martha gave a side glance that said, “I was going to clean that floor…”

But Jesus breaks the silence with a short sentence that silences every critic: “Leave her alone.”

He doesn’t just defend Mary, He honors her. He lifts her act above rebuke and anchors it in something far greater than emotion. “She may keep it for the day of my burial.”

In other words: She gets it.

Mary’s not being irrational, she’s being prophetic. She knows where this is going. Jesus has spoken of His death before, but most didn’t want to hear it. Mary heard it. She listened when others tuned out. She believed what others dismissed. She’s the only one in that room, it seems, who understands that this road leads to a tomb.

She’s not wasting perfume, she’s preparing a body. And that changes everything.

Now, we might wonder, “Wait, didn’t she already pour it all out?” Yes, but Jesus is speaking with symbolic and theological weight. What Mary did here anticipates what will happen in just a few days when His broken body is laid in the tomb, and perfumes and spices will be brought, not to prevent death but to honor it.

In a world where people bring perfume to dead bodies, Mary is the only one wise enough to bring perfume to a living body headed for death.

And then Jesus adds this line that’s been quoted, misused, and misunderstood ever since: “The poor you always have with you, but you do not always have me.”

Now, let’s be clear, Jesus is not downplaying care for the poor. He’s quoting from Deuteronomy 15:11, where God commands Israel to always care for the poor precisely because they will always be with us. Jesus isn’t saying, “Don’t worry about the poor.” He’s saying: “Don’t miss what’s happening right now.”

This is a moment of divine urgency. The cross is days away. The window to honor Christ in the flesh is closing fast. Mary seized that moment, while others stood around virtue-signaling.

There’s a time to feed the poor and there’s a time to fall at the feet of Jesus. There’s a time to do good and a time to behold glory. And if we don’t know the difference, we’ll be so busy managing charity that we’ll miss Christ Himself.

Jesus is not asking for more efficient disciples; He’s seeking more adoring ones—not just hands that serve but hearts that pour out. That’s what Mary gave Him, and that’s what Judas couldn’t fake.

Let this sink in: The only person in the room who acted like Jesus was going to die was one of the few who didn’t run away when He did.

A Fragrant Life in Light of the Cross

Mary’s perfume is long gone. The bottle was broken. The nard poured out. But the fragrance remains, not in the room, but in the pages of Scripture, and more than that, in the heart of God.

Jesus said in another Gospel account, “Wherever the gospel is preached in the whole world, what she has done will also be told in memory of her” (Matt. 26:13).

Why? Because what she did was the only fitting response to a crucified Savior.

Mary saw Jesus not just as a miracle-worker, not just as a friend, not just as a teacher, she saw Him as the Lamb, walking toward slaughter, and she worshiped Him with everything she had.

Judas saw the same Jesus and sold Him for silver.

That’s the choice every heart faces.

So let me ask you plainly:

What does Jesus smell like in your life?

Is He a sweet aroma of life and love? Or a distant, fading memory?

Do you pour yourself out for Him or just sprinkle a few drops on Sunday?

Are you in the room, near Jesus, even serving in His name, but still cold, calculating, holding back your heart like Judas?

Beloved, hear this: Jesus went to the cross. He was broken like Mary’s jar. He was poured out like perfume, and the fragrance of His love continues to fill the world.

So what will you do with this Jesus?

Don’t wait. Don’t hold back. Don’t analyze what might be the cost. Fall at His feet. Loosen your grip. Pour it all out.

Because He’s worthy. Because He’s walking toward death for you. And because the moments to love Him in this life are fleeting.

Let your life be fragrant with worship. Let your devotion interrupt the ordinary. Let your love, like Mary’s, fill the house so that all who behold it may ask: what manner of love and devotion is this?

To which the answer is the fragrant love of which Christ alone wholly deserves.

Amen.