Full Text of the Homily Excerpted on March 20

Homily 1/25/02   Jenifer K. Ward, Christ Chapel, Gustavus Adolphus College

Text:  Matthew 26:6-13  An unidentified woman anoints Jesus' head with very costly ointment at the house of Simon the leper in Bethany


In Biblical tradition, there are many examples of anointing with oil, often perfumed and costly; sometimes in the context of healing, as in the Letter of James; or as a sign of honor, as in the passages where kings are anointed; or in scenes in which a body is being prepared for burial, as in today's text. In all cases, to anoint requires touching someone, either figuratively or literally. At its very simplest level, an anointing is about service and intimacy and vulnerability, and so when Jesus says to his disciples that the Gospel will be told in memory of the woman who has anointed him, he is making a foundational statement about what it means to serve Christ.

When I think back over my life, and conjure up memories of anointings, I have to confess that I can find no costly perfumes or alabaster jars. My anointings were much more humble. I think of my mother, Betty. When I was sick as a child, she would come into my room, bearing a jar of the dreaded Vicks Vap-o-Rob to slather over me. On the one hand, this overpowering swirl of camphor and eucalyptus…my flannel nightgown sticking to the ointment and to me…my own feverish, congested discomfort. But on the other hand: my mother…sitiing on the edge of my bed, present to me, only to me, there to soothe, to tell me it would be all better, as her hand gently circled around my face and chest.

I think of my maternal great-grandmother, Nanny, whose method of removing ticks from my head after I had lolled around in the Arkansas fields was to dip her finger into the jar of bacon grease present in every Southern icebox and rub a glob of that smokey goo into my hair. Within seconds, the"anointing" would take effect and the tick would release its bite and I would be delivered and healed. On the one hand, bacon grease in my hair. But on the other hand: afterwards I would stretch out on my back on the kitchen counter with my head resting in Nanny's hand. She would pour warm water over my head and say things about Baptism as her other hand massaged Prell Concentrate into my hair. I still know in my deepest core of me the smell of Prell, and the sound of the pressure cooker on the stove, and the sight of the crepe-y skin of Nanny's grandmother arms as she washed my head.
I think of my paternal grandmother, Mamaw. In the summertime, when it was hot as blue blazes in Arkansas and all us grandkids would be up at the farm, Mamaw had a going-to-bed ritual. All the children would sit on the edge of the various beds - I was always with my cousins Renee and Lisa - and wait in the dark as Mamaw went from room to room with a pitcher and basin and some rags. It was so hot and sticky and still, and even though the windows were open, there wasn't a hint of a breeze. Mamaw would come in and dip those rags in cool water and wash our little feet, and only then were we allowed to lay down in the bed. And our cool feet made the rest of us feel refreshed and she urged us through our prayers, and it seemed as if the breeze always picked up just a bit after that…On the one hand, she was probably just making sure our dirty feet didn't ruin her white sheets. But on the other hand, I can still tell you that Mamaw's praying voice sounded different from her gruff speaking voice, even though she's been dead since 1972, and I still know that the best way to find refreshment on a hot day is to go stand in a few inches of cool bathwater.

These women were gracious givers; they did a good service for me; and when I tell you my memories of them, I am telling you about the light of Christ.

Last week I was back in Arkansas. This time it was my mother who needed healing. At St.Vincent's, a hospital run by the Catholic Sisters of Charity, my mother was about to have a complicated and lengthy back surgery. She had been in pain for years, but her fear of the surgery and the very long recovery kept her from scheduling it. Finally she made the arrangements and at 5:30 on a Friday morning, my Dad and I sat with her as the nurses prepped her for surgery. She was terrified and very quiet. Dr. Bruffett came in and explained in great detail, very professionally and very scientifically, what he was going to do. And while I know my Dad and I were comforted by his obvious expertise, my mother got quieter and quieter. And Dr. Bruffett stopped. He said, "Mrs. Ward, if you don't object, I like to share a moment of prayer with my patients before we go to surgery. Would that be OK with you?" My mother couldn't even answer, she was so relieved. She nodded her head and blinked her eyes and Dr. Bruffett took her hand in his. He asked for God's grace and help for himself and the nurses and anesthesiologists, he asked for my Mom's trust, and for courage for our family as we waited for news of the surgery. My mother didn't need a scientist right then, and Dr. Bruffett saw that. He dispensed with being a surgeon and became a person, a child of God, anointing another child of God with hope.

After the surgery, the nurse who helped us get Mom settled into her room was named James. He was a warm, boisterous African-American, and he brought my Dad a chair to nap in and me a blanket from the warmer because he saw me shiver. He was a nurse, to everyone in the room, not just to his official patient. When my mom started waking up, she wanted to know if the surgery had been a success. We confirmed that it had, and in her morphine-slurred alto voice she croaked out the first line of an old Southern gospel song: "I've got a new body, Praise the Lord!" to which James, without missing a beat, clapped his hands together and sang out the second line: "I've got a new life, I've got a new life!" My mother didn't need her blood pressure checked just then, and James saw that. He saw that my mother was a woman with a sense of humor and a love of music and so he anointed her with the healing power of laughter and song.

These men were gracious givers; they did a good service for my mother and when I tell you my memories of them, I am telling you about the light of Christ.

Now, I am a Lutheran. My mother is Methodist and so was Nanny. Mamaw was a Missionary Baptist. Dr. Bruffett is Roman Catholic. And I don't really know what James is. But on a very simple level, what could it possibly matter? They all exemplified the sacred and blest thread which runs through all our traditions and which bind us to all: that to touch one another, to serve one another, to be truly present to one another, is to reflect the light of Christ.  Amen.


Jenifer K. Ward is currently Interim Provost and Vice President of Academic Affairs at Cornish College of the Arts, Seattle, Washington. Copyright©2002 Jenifer K. Ward.