Fifth Sunday in Lent: April 6, 2025

Sermon Summary

(Summary produced by ChatGPT from video transcript)

The dice are warming in my hand
The chips are stacked and sorted
But they cannot stay, they cannot stay

There is no easy way; no stepping back
It’s all on red, it’s all on black
My life drops in the wheel, drops in the wheel

It may not work
I may be fooled
But anyway, we all are gambling fools
So I risked it all on you. I risked it all on you.

My portfolio must be the joke
Of brokers’ break rooms
My returns are few and lonely, few and lonely

But we spend it all on something
Something big, something dumb
We release it quick and hope it returns, hope it returns

It may not work
I may be fooled
But even the brokers are broke in the end
So I’ll go broke for you. I’ll go broke for you.

Is Judas disingenuous
To advocate for those with less
I broke the flask; I poured it out. I poured it out.

A year of paychecks on the floor
On the feet that carry everything I hope for
Rinsed with my tears, and dried with my hair, dried with my hair

It may not work
I may be fooled
But to really love is to fear no waste
So I’ll waste it all on you. Waste it all on you.

These lines from a poem titled Waste It All, which I wrote about fifteen years ago, invite us into a deeply personal and spiritual reflection on risk, love, and the nature of sacrifice. Inspired by a Gospel story of extravagant devotion, the poem reframes love not as a transactional exchange but as a sacred gamble, one that sometimes ends in apparent loss—but always opens the door to grace.

The poem likens love to a reckless investment, one that might earn us ridicule. They admit their emotional portfolio may be the laughingstock of any broker’s break room—returns few and lonely. And yet, they risk it all on love, on hope, on someone else. The poem mirrors the Gospel story of Mary of Bethany, who pours an expensive perfume on Jesus’ feet and wipes them with her hair. It’s a year’s worth of wages gone in one moment — a pure, impractical act of devotion that leaves even Judas Iscariot aghast. But Mary does it anyway.

Have you ever experienced or given such a love — so extravagant, so unexpected — that it prompted suspicion? Many of us have found ourselves questioning the motive behind a generous gesture, wondering “What do you want?” In today’s world, where so much of life is transactional, this type of selfless love can feel foreign or even suspect.

But that’s exactly the kind of love we see in Mary’s act. And it’s the kind of love Jesus invites us into — a love that wastes everything on the other, not expecting anything in return.

We often approach love, even divine love, as a transaction. We reach out when we need something, when the timing is convenient, when we believe there might be a return. We feel compelled to earn love, to justify our worth, to measure whether others deserve it. But Mary’s story challenges that. Her love, poured out with perfume and tears, is unmeasured, unapologetic, and complete.

This idea brings us to Martha, Mary’s sister. The Gospels present the two women as contrasting figures — Mary sitting at Jesus’ feet in worship, while Martha busies herself with hospitality. Yet in the scene where Mary anoints Jesus, we see Martha once again serving. She hasn’t abandoned her role; instead, it seems she now understands and honors her sister’s path as well. Martha has grown — not by changing who she is, but by perceiving the beauty and validity of another way.

It’s not service versus worship. It’s both. They do not live on separate planets. In fact, when our hearts are open, service becomes worship.

That understanding is embodied in places like the Necessity Pantry at St. Michael’s. It’s easy to think of such ministries as separate from worship — that we serve in the pantry and we worship in the sanctuary. But the truth is, they’re one and the same. When guests at the pantry say, “I’m used to being treated like dirt, but here I’m seen, I’m treated like a human being,” we are witnessing the merger of Mary and Martha, of reverence and action. Worship isn’t confined to incense and hymns; it’s in the welcome, the dignity offered to those in need.

And here’s the miracle: we don’t ask for income verification. We don’t judge worthiness. We don’t sift through stories to decide who deserves help. Just like Mary didn’t calculate how much her gift was “worth” — she just gave. Love doesn’t start by asking what’s deserved. Once you start dividing people up that way, love is already gone.

Jesus calls us to perceive the new thing God is doing. In Isaiah, we hear God say: “Do not remember the former things… I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” This is not just a poetic flourish. It is a call to action, to presence, to attentiveness. God is not stuck in the past. God is moving in real time, always bringing about new rivers in the desert, new ways in the wilderness.

So we return to Mary’s scandalous act of devotion. She is criticized. First by Martha in one story, then by Judas in another. But each time she is shown to have chosen the better part—not because she served or sat, but because she saw. She perceived. And then she acted on it with love.

To love like this—to waste it all—is to fear no loss, no embarrassment, no judgment. It is to trust that God is doing a new thing, even when it feels impractical or foolish.

So we say: if some people take advantage of our generosity, so be it. If someone squanders our compassion, let it be wasted in the same way Mary wasted that perfume. Because we don’t know how else to love. And love, real love, will always look like a waste to those who do not understand it.

Amen.

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