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    “You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone!”

    I remember the phrase well. My mother offered the sentiment throughout my life. She spoke it sweetly with a glance from the corner of her eye as she stuck my favorite dish into the oven. She teased me with it when I was relentlessly poking fun at her spelling. Once or twice in my teenage years, she even spoke it sadly at the end of a disagreement. I understood: I would miss her good cooking, her willingness to laugh at herself, her watchful eye.

    My mother died suddenly. She became a Texas traffic fatality on November 9, 1974, about 9 a.m. I was 21 years old, married just over a year, and the six weeks since I had seen my mom seemed an eternity. Entering her home that afternoon, I picked up the soft, pink gown she had worn the previous night. I saw her coffee cup, left with the imprint of her lips still fresh in her favorite shade of lipstick. I found the painting she was completing... a Christmas gift for me. Everything was there... everything, except my mother. For months I grieved not only her death, but also the loss. Lost time, opportunities, visits, and words. I questioned myself at every corner: Would grief be easier, I wondered, if I had placed a higher priority on our visits... if I had seen her the week before, for example? Of my doubts, I knew two things. First, if I could have known the late hour, I would have made time for the trip. Second, my mother was dearer to me than anyone, save my new husband. Mother knew how much I cared.

    One of the most predictable, yet depressing, facts of life is this one: we rarely recognize the significance of life’s everyday moments and words. Thorton Wilder’s character Emily, before returning to her grave in Our Town, addresses this idea. She asks the stage manager, “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it... every, every minute?” “No,” he admits, “...saints and poets maybe... they do some.”

    In the three scenes immediately preceding Jesus’ trial (Mark 14:1.52), one might discern varying degrees of this phenomenon. Jesus, no mere “saint” or “poet,” awaits the fulfillment of the times. For Him, life progresses according to the plan; the Savior is on track to die. Yet, amidst the chaos of controversy, confusion, and preparations for a for a holiday meal, others fail to recognize the import of the times. For the disciples, life with Jesus has become complicated. They have marched with him into Jerusalem amidst the welcoming throngs. They have witnessed his dominance at the temple as he authoritatively overturned the tables. Yet, three times (8:31; 9:31; 10:33.34) he has predicted his own betrayal and death. Throughout chapter 13, his words echo another approaching doom, as well: “Watch,” “Be on Guard,” “Be alert,” he warns repeatedly. Despite the mixed signals, most seem to continue making plans to rule the nation by his side. One man and one woman, however, stand to themselves. As Jesus resolutely, but certainly, awaits his death, the other characters in this section provide for contrast and contemplation. In the story of Jesus, the tension is ripe, the irony is full, and the expectation is garnished with suspense.

    The first scene, a dinner at the home of a leper, draws attention to the perceptions of a woman. As Jesus and the other men recline at the table, the woman enters carrying a jar of perfume valued at a year’s wages. Going to Jesus, she kneels, breaks the jar, and pours its precious contents on his head. Save the lavish expense, the act would have been customary had the host performed the action. Hosts regularly welcomed honored guests by anointing the head. Yet this act was shocking. With the exception of those who served, women did not normally appear among men who ate at formal dinners. Not surprisingly, the men become indignant. They object: the action is rash and wasteful. The oil “could have been sold...and the money given to the poor,” they say. Jesus, however, refuses to rebuke the woman. Far from audacious, Jesus claims her actions are extraordinary. They demonstrate her depth of insight as well as her priorities.

    As their teacher, Jesus has taught his disciples the necessity of denying themselves for his sake (8.34.35, 10.29.31). On that night in the home of Simon the Leper, she alone has demonstrated this truth. She has sacrificed a precious family heirloom — a type insurance policy against a rainy day — to honor and recognize Jesus in one of his last days on earth. Her story will be told forever, he proclaims. While there will be many more opportunities to help the poor, the time to minister to Jesus has grown short. Others believe her action extravagant; Jesus views her sacrifice as a clear barometer of her extraordinary insight. Seemingly, this woman who refuses to stand on ceremony or even tradition, appears with Jesus in this part of the story as an alert observer of the times. “She poured perfume on my body beforehand to prepare for my burial,” he concludes.

We rarely recognize the significance of life’s everyday moments and words.

    One man also stands out in this brief story. When Jesus reaffirms the woman, saying her act will endure forever, Judas Iscariot reacts. He goes “out to the chief priests to betray Jesus to them.” In a similar story concerning such a sacrifice (John 12:6f), the writer identifies Judas as the disciple in that story who suggests selling the perfume to benefit the poor. He is not singled out here, however. Indeed, the two stories are generally regarded as separate incidences. Yet, whether or not he is the speaker in this story, the reader understands his opinion. “So,” the text says, “he watched for an opportunity to hand him over.” The word, watched, stands out in the broader context of this section. Almost as a refrain in chapter 13, Jesus has repeatedly warned his disciples to “Watch!” The wise man, Jesus said, will remain alert, watching for days and times of trouble. The fact that Judas has changed sides in the building drama is nowhere more evident than in his shift in attention. After committing to betray Jesus, Judas now watches the time for an opportunity to consummate his promise.

    The irony grows fuller as Judas joins the other disciples to eat the Passover meal with the Master. In ancient times, sharing a meal represented more than hospitality or convenience. The act of eating together with others symbolized a faithful, established relationship. Following Judas’s betrayal, no wonder Jesus’ first recorded words to his disciples that night in both Matthew and Mark are accusations. “I tell you the truth,” he says, “one of you will betray me” (14:18). The Lord’s Supper in Mark requires only about half the verses used in Matthew, the second briefest account. In fact, the explanation of the bread and cup are so abbreviated that they become almost supporting cast to a repeatedly emphasized betrayal theme. “One by one,” Mark reads, the disciples denied the charge as though each one did the same. “It is one of the twelve,” Jesus replies. Then, when they received the cup, the symbol of his blood, the text notes: “they all drank from it.” Unlike the woman, who values Jesus above all and who recognizes the significance of the hour, the disciples fail to understand the symbol of which they partake, its worth and its imminence.

    At the Mount of Olives, Jesus returns to the idea of betrayal: “You will all fall away,” he says. Peter rejects the notion, and Jesus offers his famous rooster-crowing prediction (14:30). Living in surreal denial, Peter and all the others flatly deny the possibility; they would rather die. Taken in context (in the section immediately following Mark 13 and the anointing of Jesus at Bethany and before their nap in the garden and verse 50 — “Then everyone deserted him and fled.”), this exchange should be as sobering today as we expect it should have been then. Having been taught the significance of living lives of astute watchfulness and total dedication, the disciples fail to understand the times... again.

    The “watch” theme recurs again at Gethsemane. Jesus has escorted his disciples there to accompany him while he prays. Taking Peter, James, and John with him further, he requests that they “Stay here and keep watch.” Overwhelmed by his realization that the time has come, Jesus resorts to his relationship with the Father. Further separating himself, he asks an all-powerful God to intervene. He adds only this addendum: “Your will, Lord, not mine.” Jesus recognizes the worth of the Father’s will. Like the woman in Bethany, he will surrender his most prized earthly possession — his own life — for the needs of others.

    When Jesus returns to the three, however, he finds them sleeping. “Watch and pray,” he says, “so you will not fall into temptation.” The chastisement does not demonstrate selfish intentions; rather, Jesus’ concern is for his disciples. Having regularly relied on prayer himself (Mark 1:35; 6:46), Jesus advises from the position of personal authority. He had advised them to pray (13:18) and keep watch (13:35) as they waited on the Day of the Lord, as well. There, he had warned: “Do not let [the owner of the house] find you sleeping.” Yet, on this, the night for which he has watched, they sleep. The next time he returns, there is no time for further instruction: “Look,” he says, “the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners.” The hour has come. What seemed like any other evening had been a night of destiny. Their last minutes with the master were spent in winks of sleep, ignoring his repeated requests that they pray for strength during this time of testing.

    The disciples, living that night as if they had life to spare, had wasted precious moments. They may have also revealed something concerning their priorities. Though they believed themselves to be dedicated to Jesus, they had become drugged by life. Important moments were passing without clear indications of love and undying devotion.

    How many times have I thought back to my mother’s words? Throughout my time with her, she had shared many words that would become useful to a young wife, not yet the mother of three. Some I would remember vividly, as I do those of which I write; others I would strain to remember, but never quite retrieve. Not recognizing the time and perhaps even misplacing important opportunities, I was caught off guard. Oh, how I wish I had listened more intently.

    And so did the disciples...