In “She Did What She Could,” Elisa Morgan asked a question only a woman would think to ask. When Jesus was on the cross, could he still smell the costly perfume Mary of Bethany had anointed him with only days before? Did it comfort him, this reminder of his friend's love, as he was dying a grisly death in front of women who loved him too much to avert their eyes?

I can't shake the question. I wonder, sometimes, if he smells of it still; of the costly sacrifice of love poured out, of a vessel that, once broken, empties itself entirely on behalf of the beloved. I wonder if, on That Day, I will smell it before I see him, and know he is coming. There are moments in worship, in prayer, in the sacred moments of everyday life, when I think I can smell it already, catch the faintest hint of nard hovering in the air.

She captivates me, Mary of Bethany. This reckless disciple who ran to Jesus in her grief, who flaunted convention to sit at his feet, who carefully stored up treasures that made men green with envy and poured them all out over the precious body of Christ, heedless of the fact that there was no way to cap the beautiful alabaster bottle once broken, no way to save some of her treasure for her own use later on. She was not one for moderation, Mary of Bethany. She spent all that she had and more on a grand venture of love for her savior.

And she was reviled for it. It seems Mary was constantly being chastised and humiliated, by her sister, by Jesus' disciples, by society in general. She was just too much. Too emotional. Too scandalous. Too unable-to-stay-politely-in-her-place.

But Jesus never chastised her. No, perhaps what fascinates me most about Mary of Bethany was the way Jesus was always defending and vindicating her. Was there any individual in scripture who Jesus championed more than Mary of Bethany? Was there anyone whose scandalous adoration gave him more opportunities?

As messiah, Jesus' head should have been anointed with olive oil by the high priest. Instead, a weeping woman poured perfume worth a years wages over his head, his feet, and wiped them with her hair. The gesture was a deeply symbolic as it was uniquely feminine.

It kinda makes olive oil look like a shoddy, second-rate embarrassment.

For Judas, it was the straw that broke the camel's back: Mary's outrageous act, and Jesus' refusal to side with the good ol' boys. Judas and his stingy heart hied back to the respectable safety of the religious establishment, where he sold out the savior for thirty pieces of silver.

But Mary–Jesus said Mary's act would be remembered every time the gospel was told.

Why is it, then, that we hear more about Judas than Mary?

Could it be that Mary still makes our stingy hearts uncomfortable?

But oh, beloved Marys. You are doing a beautiful, beautiful thing.

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