Stupid Love

I preached this sermon at St. Lydia's on Sunday, April 10 as part of our exploration of the book of Mark.  The text is Mark 14:3-9; read it here. 

 

I used to have a small, brown rabbit.  He lived in a cage in my apartment, and he had a little white tail.  His name was Peter.  I did not give him this name -- it was the name he came with.  But it was somehow fitting. 

 

I’ve owned a few rabbits in my life, and one of the things that you’re told to be aware of is that rabbits have a natural defense mechanism, which is that they mask any signs of being ill.  Because in the wild, if a rabbit looks sick, it will quickly get picked off by a bird or predator.  So rabbits instinctively hide their symptoms. 

 

This might serve them well in the wild, but for rabbit owners, it means that, once a rabbit looks sick, that rabbit will most likely die in about 24 hours. 

 

One morning, I woke up, and Peter looked sick.  Knowing there was not really much hope at all, I rushed him off to the vet, who told me that there wasn’t a great chance of him surviving, but if I wanted to, she could prescribe him antibiotics.  Which were really, wildly expensive, as in, beyond anything I really should have been spending. 

 

And I though to myself, 

This is a rabbit.

And he’s lived a good, long life.   

And I know he’s going to die. 

 

And I bought the antibiotics. 

And stayed up all that night, trying, and ultimately failing, to nurse him back to health. 

 

 

I wrote on my blog that evening:

 

It all makes me sad but also grateful 

that our little hearts can expand so much with love, 

stupid love that makes us do stupid things, 

because we really are tender little creatures ourselves. 

 

 

Stupid love that makes us to do stupid things. 

 

Like spend wild amounts of money on a tiny little creature whose time has come.  But I did it because it was the only thing that I could do...the only thing I knew how to do at a time when I knew I had to do something.

 

We’ve been telling this story of the woman who anoints Jesus every week in Lent. 

Telling the story of how she pours oil over his head, anointing him like a King. 

 

In the midst of a season that is all about restraint and discipline, 

her act is one of impossible abundance. 

The nard that she pours out over Jesus is overwhelmingly fragrant, 

the scent filling the whole room with an astonishing perfume. 

She pours out a pound of this oil over his head.

It runs down over his face,

onto his clothing, 

onto the floor, 

eliciting gasps from those in the room with them. 

It is worth 300 denarii -- about a year’s worth of wages for a manual laborer,

and in the midst of a town filled with lepers and beggars,

people in desperate need of money, 

she has poured it out over Jesus. 

 

It is stupid love, 

stupid, crazy love 

that seems to spill out of her unrestrained. 

She has done the only thing she knows how to do. 

 

So here she is, in the middle of Lent, just before the narrative of Christ’s death. 

We’re all busy trying our hardest to keep from eating chocolate or meat,

or to be more disciplined in prayer, 

or to tithe more of our money, 

and she’s pouring out a years worth of wages all over Jesus’ head.

What are we to make of this extravagant act?

Her effusive, uninhibited gift? 

Its lavishness seems overwhelming, 

more than we can possibly accept. 

 

One commentator writes that this unnamed woman reminds us not to confuse discipline for discipleship. For though discipline does carve a pathway for us to follow toward spiritual health and growth, there will be times when God asks you to simply follow, to act, to pour out everything that you are in lavish, extravagant, ridiculous, stupid love. 

 

Every story of the gospel is, in some way, 

a microcosm of the gospel itself. 

What is broken is healed, 

what is last is made first, 

death is found in the mist of life 

and life in the midst of death. 

And it’s just the same with this story, 

the story of a woman 

who pours out her very self, 

everything that she has 

and everything that she is 

because of stupid love. 

It is a gospel story, 

and it is a microcosm 

of another story:

the story we tell each week, 

of a teacher who pours out his very self, 

everything that he is,

and dies on a cross.

Because of stupid love. 

 

And it’s all a reflection of a God 

whose love is so big and so wild, 

whose arms are so strong and so wide,

that she gives us a part of her very self

gives us her son:

to live in pain and joy and sorrow and fear 

among us. 

 

Stupid love:

I know that you have experienced it. 

Moments when all you know how to do 

is pour out yourself without restraint. 

Without holding back. 

I know it, because each of you 

is also a microcosm of the gospel. 

Each of you is a living story. 

In each of you, 

what is broken is healed, 

what is last is made first, 

death is found in the mist of life 

and life in the midst of death. 

 

We pour our our hearts over tiny things, 

little pieces of God’s creation. 

I hover over a rabbit named peter at 4:30 in the morning, 

and weep when I find him dead. 

But I wonder if that’s any different 

than the way that God loves us. 

When our hearts ache, 

God’s heart aches too. 

And when we rejoice, 

God rejoices with us. 

 

We are made in the image of our creator, 

a God whose hearts can expand with love,

just as ours can, 

and should. 

We may not know what to do, 

but we have done what we can. 

We have poured out oil over our beloved, 

we have anointed him for death.