A few weeks ago, our family read the story of Mary who, in an act of extravagant love, anointed Jesus with expensive perfume. In Behold the King of Glory, Russ Ramsey writes, âAs the scent electrified the senses of everyone present, Jesus called it beautiful. Creation testified to a Maker who delighted in beauty for beautyâs sake… Jesus said to Maryâs critics, âShe has given me this gift because she is preparing me for my burial, and history will never forget her act of beauty.ââ
Our reading left me wondering. What would Maryâs beautiful act look like in our current culture?
Within days, I was given an answer.
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Later that week, we had friends visiting from out of town. They were only here for a few days, and most of that time they spent exploring and enjoying the city. At the end of their trip, we were grateful to have them join us for church. As we sat side by side, I was conflicted. I love these friends and was delighted to have them step into our community for a few hours. But during the service, I was distracted. As the guitar strummed and the room swelled with song, I scanned the rows of chairs and saw not flesh and blood, but rather story after story. Weâve walked and crawled and danced among this community for twenty-one years. Weâve witnessed devastation and miracle. Heartbreak and redemption. I wanted to lean over to my friend and whisper hints of those holy narratives. For her to catch a glimpse of the beautiful, messy, struggling, transformed saints covered in flesh and cloaked in their Sunday best. I wanted her toÂ hearÂ the significant ways in which God had touched and changed lives. For the Father to reach down from above and kiss her forehead through the stories of his people.
The service ended and the spell was broken. We moved from the worship service to our adult Sunday school class. The leader announced that weâd be taking a break from our current teaching series, as we did once every month, in order for members of the class to come up and share a bit of their journey. The couple who took the seats up front had been acquaintances for years, but we hadnât known them well. They were engaging and honest as they shared about coming from very different backgrounds, struggling to reconcile creative calling to the realities of limited job opportunities, and growing to find Godâs provision in the most unexpected places. Yet in the span of the forty minutes theyâd been given to talk, there was one particular moment on which the eternal and the temporal hinged.
The wife had been recounting the arduous journey of adopting from Ghana. After more than a year of preparing for and growing to love two children as their own, they learned that one, their new son, wouldnât be able to return to America with them. In an honest moment of desperation, the mother cried out to God. A God who she trusted to be both good and sovereign. How could their situation possibly be His best?
While journaling her thoughts during the flight headed to Africa, something in her heart shifted. Or perhaps it was awakened. Just as her heart was gripped with anguish on behalf of her son, the Father of all aches – even more deeply – for every last one of his children. Through her excruciating pain, a young mother had been given a glimpse of the beautiful heart of God.
My friend soaked up the motherâs words, said her goodbyes, and returned to Tennessee to resume life as normal. Only something was churning inside her. The Lordâs faithfulness in the midst of unspeakable pain had purpose. It was a reminder that she needed, and that we all need, to hear. Being true to her beautiful, gracious, creative nature, she began to scratch lyrics to the song sung from the heart of an aching parent. She called upon her friends â world-renowned musicians, whose immense talent is surpassed by their humility and devotion to the Creator. Within days and across hundreds of miles, they had composed and recorded a song. My friend, who had never met the mother, had poured out her talents in response to the glimpse of Glory sheâd been given. She quietly offered the final product, a video containing the lyrics, as a gift. It was an extravagant, spontaneous act of worship like few others Iâve experienced.
âArt, like Jesusâ tears and Maryâs nard, spreads in our lives, providing useless beauty for those willing to ponder. Many consider the arts to be the âextraâ of our lives, an embellishment that is mere leisure. Yet how many hours of sacrifice go into being able to play a sonata by Chopin? Or a dancerâs flight on stage at the Lincoln Center? What many consider extra, and even wasteful, may come to define our humanity. That evening at Bethany, in that aroma that Mary spilled, there were Leonardo da Vinciâs paintings and Johann Sebastian Bachâs cantatas floating in the air as well (thanks to James Elaine, curator and artist, for this observation). Every act of creativity is, directly or indirectly, an intuitive response to offer to God what He has given to us.â Makoto Fujimura
To God Be the Glory.