A sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent, April 6, 2025. The scriptures are Isaiah 43:16-21, Philippians 3:4b-14, John 12:1-8, and Psalm 126.

The Gospel evokes strong images that are easy to imagine: an evening in Bethany, a small dinner party, a jar of perfume, an unexpected act of intimacy and devotion. Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, takes a pound of costly ointment, anoints Jesus’ feet, and wipes them with her hair. John tells us that the fragrance filled the house. It is a deeply personal moment of worship—no grand speeches, no miracles, just an act of pure love. At its heart, what we witness in that moment is an image of friendship with God.

Friendship with God. It may seem like a bold idea, even presumptuous. Who among us feels worthy to be called a friend of the Divine? And yet, again and again, the story of Scripture invites us in. Abraham was called a friend of God. Jesus tells his disciples, ‘I no longer call you servants… I have called you friends.’ And in today’s readings—Mary’s quiet act of devotion and Paul’s passionate pursuit of Christ—we are drawn into the deep, unfolding mystery of what it means to live in friendship with God.

This friendship is not simply about belief or religious practice. It is something deeper, more intimate and relational. It is about knowing Christ and being known by him, about sharing in his life, his suffering, and his joy. It is about love that goes beyond duty, about presence, about surrender.

The passage from Philippians gives us a glimpse into Paul’s heart, and it is a heart that longs fiercely for communion with Christ. Paul, once a Pharisee firm in his religious credentials, now says that all of that—his status, his heritage, his achievements—is loss compared to the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus. Not just knowing about him. Not merely worshipping his teachings or his example. But knowing him.

‘I want to know Christ,’ Paul writes. And we might pause there. Because it is so easy—even in our faith—to fall into abstractions. To follow a code, to debate theology, to attend rituals, and yet to remain distant from the One at the center of it all. Paul reminds us that the goal is not the system—it is the person. The friendship.

‘I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings,’ Paul continues. That is a striking juxtaposition—resurrection power and suffering, held in the same breath. True friendship with Christ does not involve walking only in the light of Easter morning. It also means walking the road to the cross. It means identifying with Jesus not only in glory but in grief, not only in triumph but in pain.

That is exactly what we see in Mary’s act in John 12. Her pouring out of perfume, her kneeling at Jesus’ feet, her drying them with her own hair—this is no mere act of hospitality. It is something more profound. It is an act of preparation, a gesture that looks ahead toward the coming sorrow of Holy Week. Mary understands—perhaps better than the Twelve—that Jesus is moving toward death. While others are plotting, arguing, or distracted, she enters into his suffering with love and presence.

It is significant that Mary’s friendship with Jesus is not expressed in words, but in action. The kind of action that costs something. The ointment she uses is worth a year’s wages—a life savings in a jar. Judas, watching from the side, is offended. He does what people often do in the face of deep devotion—he masks discomfort with criticism. He pretends to care for the poor, but in reality, he cannot comprehend this kind of unfiltered, extravagant love.

But Jesus defends her. ‘Leave her alone,’ He says. ‘She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial.’ He receives her act as a prophetic witness, an early glimpse of what many will not understand even after the cross.

That is one of the truths about friendship with God—it often invites us into gestures the world cannot understand. It may look foolish or wasteful to others. People might say, ‘Why this devotion?’ ‘Why this commitment?’ ‘Why this sacrifice?’ The world measures in efficiency and profit. But love—real love—does not measure. It pours out. Freely. Recklessly.

As government support and funding are cut from programs that help people and as organizations and institutions are targeted or singled out, we’re called even more to loving acts in the name of Christ—welcoming the poor, the victimized, the ignored. Mary acts even in the face of Judas the bully.

As we approach Holy Week, Mary’s act also asks us how might we offer ourselves in friendship to Christ, not simply as bystanders of the Passion, but as participants? What do you value so much that giving it to Jesus would seem like a waste to onlookers? Is it your time, your leadership, your possessions, your reputation? Can you lay it down at his feet—not for recognition, not for obligation, but for love?

True friendship with God means drawing near even while others pull away. It means sitting with God not only in flesh-and-blood celebration, but in grief and silence. It means walking with him when crowds shout Hosanna and when those same crowds cry Crucify. It means refusing to be only Sunday disciples. It means lingering with him in the Garden, watching with him at Gabbatha, standing with the other Mary’s at the foot of the cross.

And yet, it also means tasting the power of his resurrection. The paradox at the center of Paul’s words in Philippians is the paradox at the heart of Holy Week: suffering and glory, cross and empty tomb. The same Jesus who invites us into the fellowship of his suffering raises us into new life. Friendships tested in trial find deeper joy in the morning.

But how do we cultivate this friendship? How do we, like Mary of Bethany and Paul, draw close?

Paul says, ‘I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own.’ Friendship with Christ is not first our doing—it is a response to how he has already claimed us. He has already called us friends. He has already offered covenant, presence, and grace. We pursue him because He first pursued us. He has made us his own. And so, we run this race—not as those who strive to earn a place, but as those who run toward someone who is already running toward us.

In these final days of Lent, in the shadow of the cross, we have a chance to draw close. We have a chance to sit at his feet, to be still and listen, to notice his wounds, to honor his death, and to await his rising. We do not need clever words. We do not need perfect faith. But we do need open hearts.

Let the fragrance of Mary’s devotion linger in your soul this week. Let Paul’s single-minded hunger for Christ challenge you. And let your own friendship with God deepen—not only through acts of prayer and fasting, but in love and presence.

The days are coming when the world will turn away. But we are invited, by mercy and grace, to move closer. To the upper room. To Gethsemane. To the foot of the cross. And to the empty tomb.

Because friendship with God does not end at the grave—it carries through it. And it begins again with a word spoken in a garden: ‘Mary.’ The voice that called a friend still calls to each of us—by name, in love, and forever.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.