My Alabaster Jar: A Life Broken and Poured Out unto Jesus

Mary of Bethany was one of Jesus’ dearest friends and most radical lovers.  Her lavish worship has inspired songs, books, and works of art for centuries; and her unrestrained adoration has shown the way of love to millions.

There is some evidence that Mary of Bethany may have been the same woman who was caught in adultery, whom Jesus forgave and restored.  If this is true, how much she must have loved Him who found her in her darkest place and proclaimed her freedom.  How her tears must have flowed every time she beheld those eyes that could have condemned her but chose instead to love.

The love she received was lavish, unreserved, and unrestrained.  The love she gave was likewise lavish, unreserved, and unrestrained.  The manner in which we receive is the manner in which we are able to give.

In her story, we find an allegory of each of our lives.  The following account is meant to be read from the reader’s perspective, with the first person pronouns “I” and “me” allowing readers to see themselves in the story.

Her Story, My Story

“Then, six days before the Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus was who had been dead, whom He had raised from the dead. There they made Him a supper; and Martha served, but Lazarus was one of those who sat at the table with Him. Then Mary took a pound of very costly oil of spikenard [Matt. 26:6: ‘an alabaster flask of very costly fragrant oil’], anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped His feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the oil. But one of His disciples, Judas Iscariot, Simon’s son, who would betray Him, said, ‘Why was this fragrant oil not sold for three hundred denarii and given to the poor?’ . . . But Jesus said, “Let her alone; she has kept this for the day of My burial. For the poor you have with you always, but Me you do not have always. [Matt. 26:13: ‘Wherever this gospel is preached in the whole world, what this woman has done will also be told as a memorial to her.’]” – John 12:1-8

Her story is my story.  In her alabaster jar of costly oil, broken and poured out unto Jesus, I find an allegory of my life: that which is most precious to me, broken and poured out unto the One I love most.

The allegory is not a comfortable one.  It is tear-filled like hers, heart-rending like hers, yet as dear to His heart as hers.

The story of a life broken and poured out unto Jesus is one that He remembers for eternity.

The Alabaster Jar

The alabaster jar, filled with costly perfume.  It was worth a year’s wages, as the Scripture tells us, and was the most valuable of her possessions.  Many scholars believe that in Jewish culture every young woman received an alabaster jar of costly perfume from her parents, to be saved and poured out on the feet of her husband on her wedding night.

This alabaster jar is my life.  Alabaster, a common, pliable mineral, speaks of my earthly weakness.  This vessel holds all that is precious to me – my dreams, my plans and goals, my family and friends, my possessions and finances, my godly desires and longings.  There is no impurity in the oil, for my sin was taken away at the cross.  The oil represents the best of me – all that is good, beautiful, and valuable.

The oil speaks of my worth, of how much He values me to redeem me with His own blood.  He canceled my sin and redeemed my life so that the true me would come alive and be revealed.  This is the value of my alabaster jar – that I was redeemed not with corruptible things but with the precious blood of Christ.

Yet its purpose – like Mary’s costly offering – is to be poured out… on the feet… of my Husband.

My worth is great, but His worth is beyond compare.  Only my greatest treasure – something of such high value – is sufficient to be presented to Him.

He is worthy of my alabaster jar.

The Offering

Treasure in hand, I kneel at the feet of the One my soul has come to love.  I remember the day my eyes first met His – those beautiful eyes that could have condemned me but chose instead to love.  I remember His words that proclaimed my freedom.  Something about His love has made me find my home at His feet day after day, hour after hour.

Here I come again to His feet, this time with all that I have ever loved on this earth.  My tiny treasure is eclipsed by this Beautiful Man, the true Treasure, He who is everything to me.

I touch the wounds in His hands and feet.  If His body was broken and His blood was poured out, how much more ought my little jar to be broken and my life to be poured out?

Eyes filled with tears, I strike the bottle, the first blow like a dagger to all that I have ever loved.  It shatters, every fissure like one of His wounds.  He understands what it is like to be broken.  It hurts.

The pieces lay crushed before me.  The crowds carelessly saunter by, unaware that they are trampling on the broken pieces of my heart, unaware that they are allowing me to experience His broken heart.  Still it hurts.  I wonder if His suffering hurt like this – and if it still does.

I lift my head to gaze into His eyes.

He gets it.  He will never forget this moment.

The jar broken, the oil has begun to pour forth.  My life, my treasure, poured out, for there is no one more worthy to receive it.

It is not a gentle pour.  It is a heart-wrenching spilling – puddles here and there of what had been, of what could have been, of what I had hoped would be.  Each dream, each goal, each person I love so dearly – now unrecognizable, with no hope for it to ever look as it once had.

Yet somehow, He thinks these puddles of oil, now mingled with my tears, are more beautiful broken than put together.

A tear falls from His cheek, landing in the puddle.  That precious tear anoints my poured-out life, a privilege I never would have known had the jar not been broken and the oil not been poured out.  My heart spilled in puddles, now oil carrying His glory.

The shards lie there, broken, a painful reminder of what my life could have been.  Yet all the oil must be poured out, for He is worthy of it all.  No one is more worthy to receive that which costs me everything.

The passersby view this excessive display of emotion, nearly tripping over us, unaware of the value of this moment.

This moment, one He will remember forever.  Someday, it may hurt less for me, but He will always remember the cost.

The final drops of oil fall from my now-broken life, spent and poured out.  I think of Him – my life is poured out like water.

I behold the sight: broken shards lying at His feet, oil covering Him, me, the floor, and nearby objects and people.  My broken, poured-out life has become a spectacle – a display of love few could ever understand or value.

I remember His words – my body, broken – my blood, poured out.

I understand now.  My heart, broken.  My life, poured out.

He died.  In the breaking, in the crushing, I too died.

Yet He said that death was the only way to life.  The grain of wheat must die.

In the tomb, His body lay, lifeless – much like my broken jar and oil lay lifeless in this moment.

Yet here He stands before me, resurrected, whole, and beautiful – though still with the wounds of His suffering.  One day, my broken life too will be resurrected, transformed into something beautiful by His touch. 

My precious treasure was once constructed of my plans, dreams, and efforts.  Now, broken, it carries His tears, His touch, and His breath, being fully available for His purposes.

Only by death comes life.  Only in the breaking of the alabaster jar can my life be a carrier of His glory.