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| Jesus told us we will always have the poor with us—was that an eternal truism or a reflection on our brokenness? |
Isaiah 43:16-21
Philippians 3:4b-14
John 12:1-8
Psalm 126
The Rev. Seth Olson © 2025
This sermon was preached on April 6, 2025, the Fifth Sunday in Lent, at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL.
Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.
I don’t know about you, but I have occasionally sided with Judas. GASP! Don’t worry—I’m not talking betrayal, silver coins, or anything dramatic. I mean the kind of moment when you… hypothetically… walk into a church meeting and someone suggests spending $300 on an exotic essential oil diffuser, and you instinctively think, “How about we feed someone instead?”
It was a reasonable reaction when Judas said, “This perfume could have been sold and the money given to the poor.” I get it. Frankly, his response aligns with things I’ve heard in a Finance or Stewardship Committee meeting—maybe it’s even something I’ve said!
However, John’s Gospel account does not let nuance stand unchallenged. The narrator told us right away: Judas didn’t say this because he cared about the poor—he said it because he was a thief. And before we can get too cozy with Judas’ point, Jesus turned the whole thing upside down when he said: “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”
That line. That verse. It stings. It sounds dismissive—like a brush-off to the world’s suffering. But it wasn’t. It was something else. Something deeper. So, let us dig down:
First, let’s wonder, what did Jesus mean? If this statement wasn’t Jesus shrugging off the poor, then what was it? These words were a reference to Deuteronomy 15:11:
“There will always be poor people in the land. Therefore, I command you to be openhanded toward your fellow Israelites who are poor and needy in your land.”
In other words, Jesus was not denying the need to help the poor. In truth, he was reaffirming the commandment to do so—and simultaneously drawing attention to the sacredness of the present moment.
Mary in this sacred moment anointed Jesus for burial. She was the only one in the room not named Jesus who seemed to understand what was about to happen. And in that vulnerable, intimate, beautiful act, Jesus said: This matters. This moment matters. Let her do this.
This act mattered so much that here in John’s Gospel account, Jesus himself emulated Mary’s foot anointing by washing his disciples’ feet a few nights later. So, we can see that Jesus’ words were not a dismissal of the poor—they served instead as a re-centering of worship, a call to pay attention, and an invitation to see what God was doing right in front of them.
Most scholars believe that this saying of Jesus—found in Matthew, Mark, and John—goes back to an earlier version of the Good News of Christ Jesus. Whether these were the exact words Jesus said or whether John was shaping them to make a theological point, the meaning holds firm: On the Sabbath evening before what we know as Palm Sunday, Jesus’ presence was precious. His time was short. And, when people loved Jesus, like Mary did here, their love spilled over—not just into acts of worship but into acts of justice.
John’s Gospel account has a way of layering meaning: Mary’s act was about love. And, it was also about loss. And, it was about the holy extravagance of giving your best to God, even when it doesn’t make practical sense.
Perhaps this is why Jesus told parables like the one with the pearl of great price or the treasure in the field. The implication of those stories is that when we realize what it is worth to be part of God’s Kingdom, we will liquidate assets and go “all in” to be part of it.
So, is this what Jesus is calling us to do? To sell everything? Maybe. Oh, don’t you love the sweet ambiguity of the Episcopalian Way? The more prevailing consequence of Mary’s actions, Judas’ words, and Jesus’ admonition is that God calls us to live in the tension of both/and.
This is to say that as much as we may revert to either/or thinking, that is not the Way of Christ. Sure, there are clear cut moments of good versus evil, but often, like in this moment, it’s an ethical dilemma pitting good choices against one another. Serve neighbor or worship Jesus?
Our calling is truly to worship and to serve, to love Jesus and to love our neighbor, to make room for sacred moments and to mobilize for justice. These were not opposing forces—they were partners, they were siblings of goodness. Thus, Jesus did not push his followers—including us—toward false choices. Instead, he was and still is inviting us to live with holy attention—to see him in worship, and to see him again in the face of the hungry, the sick, the lonely, and the poor.
So, what about us now? Should we worship Jesus or feed the hungry?
Well, friends here’s the wild thing: we could do both, particularly we could do both byending world hunger. Like, we as a human species can actually do this.
The world produces more than enough food to feed everyone. We even waste around a third of what we grow. And experts estimate it would cost about $40 billion a year to end global hunger by 2030.
For context: humanity spends over $2 trillion a year on military budgets, and I’m not saying that protection isn’t worth it, but we also use billions more dollars on things like luxury handbags, unused streaming subscriptions, and novelty items that no one actually needs (I’m looking at you, glow-in-the-dark toilet paper).
So why don’t we end hunger? It’s not because we can’t. It’s because we as humans have chosen not to.
The poor are still with us—not because God ordained it as permanent suffering—but because we’ve built systems, economies, and politics that make it so. And yet, Jesus is also still with us—not only in the sacraments and sanctuary, but in the soup kitchens and shelters, the refugee camps and community gardens, in the quiet rooms of grief and in the loud cries for change. It’s often uncomfortable for me to see Jesus in those who are on the margins of our society.
My discomfort stems from a feeling of guilt. I know that Jesus commanded us to care for the hungry, the sick, the lonely, and the poor, but I feel the painful sting that I have continually ignored the needs of these beloved ones. On Wednesday night, the Rev. José Fernandez reminded us that reaching out is good, but exclusively practicing a hand-out style of charity, does not do the same lasting good as forming deep, long-lasting relationships with those in need.
To play around with the old fishing expression: We aren’t to give a man a fish. We aren’t even to teach a man to fish, although that’s better. We are to go fishing together!
In conclusion, this passage shows us that to follow Jesus is to be broken open like Mary’s jar of perfume. It is a calling to pour out what we have—not with shame or obligation, but with love and courage.
Yes, we are called to worship like Mary. AND, we are also called to see Christ in the hungry, the unhoused, the weary, the mentally burdened, and the spiritually parched.
We can feed the hungry. We can heal the hurting. We can lift up the lowly.
And when we do, we’re not just “doing good”—we’re meeting Christ. Because in the end, this story wasn’t about a split between justice and devotion. It was about the presence of Jesus, who said, “Don’t miss this. Don’t miss me. I’m here—in your worship, in your acts of love, in every broken place you’re willing to touch with compassion.”
So, when the world offers you an impossible choice—between feeding someone or honoring something holy—remember that God does not limit us to either/or choices.
We are called to both/and.
Worship the Lord.
Feed the poor.
Break the jar.
Spill the perfume.
And trust that Jesus is in the midst of it all.
Amen.
