If you enter St Barnabas Church in Jehricho North Oxford you may be struck by the beautiful cut-glass mural on the left (north) side of the nave. It depicts many important saints, martyrs and angels of the Christian tradition, with the words of the Te Deum Laudamus underneath. It is absolutely stunning. What also stands out is the absolute lack of any equivalent mural on the right hand side. We shall explore that later.
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But first -let imagine ourselves in a dining room in Bethany just outside Jerusalem.
You kneel on the cool, earthen floor. The murmuring voices in the room fade into the background, swallowed by the steady thump of your heartbeat. Your hands tremble slightly as they clutch the smooth, rounded alabaster jar—cool and weighty against your palms. It is sealed, whole, untouched, containing oil more precious than gold, an essence of spikenard so rare and costly that it could feed a household for a year.
But this—this is not for selling. This is not for hoarding. This is for Him.
You shift forward, closer to Jesus. His feet, calloused from the long roads He has walked, rest in front of you. The scent of dust and sandal leather lingers in the air, mixing with the spiced warmth of roasted lamb and fresh bread. You glance up. He is watching you—not with surprise, not with hesitation, but with a quiet knowing.
The alabaster shatters in your grip. A sharp crack. A few gasps from around the room. A jagged shard bites into your palm, but you do not flinch.
And then—the fragrance.
It rushes out, flooding the room in waves. A sweet, heady, intoxicating perfume, rich with the scent of the mountains where the oil was pressed. The aroma clings to your skin, your hair, the very air itself, curling through the dim candlelight like an invisible veil.
Slowly, reverently, you pour. The golden oil cascades over His feet in thick rivulets, tracing the contours of His heels, slipping between His toes. It pools in the crevices of the stone floor, soaking into the very earth beneath you. Your hands follow, pressing the perfume into His skin, smoothing it over flesh that will soon be pierced.
And then, abandoning all pretense, you lower your head.
Your hair, unbound and wild, spills forward, brushing against His feet. You use it like a cloth, strands darkened with oil as you wipe, caress, worship. The scent clings to you now, marking you, mingling with your very being. You are no longer just Mary of Bethany. You are an offering. Your love is untamed, your devotion unashamed.
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If that sounds a bit much for you then the previous winner of the world’s most expensive perfume is DKNY Golden Delicious Million Dollar Fragrance Bottle. This fragrance is more than just a perfume, it’s a symbol of luxury and exclusivity. As one of the most expensive colognes in the world, it features a beautiful blend of fresh apples and lush florals. this masterpiece goes beyond fragrance, it’s a true work of art But it is not just the scent itself - the exclusive perfume bottle too is a true masterpiece. It is adorned with 2,909 precious stones, including 2,700 white diamonds, 183 yellow sapphires, and a breathtaking 2.43-carat yellow canary diamond on the cap. Designed by renowned jeweller Martin Katz, the bottle showcases an intricate New York City skyline, beautifully carved from gold. This stunning creation blends high-end jewellery with fine perfumery, making it a rare collector’s item for those who appreciate pure opulence.
The price – yes you have guessed it – One million dollars per bottle.
Well, I don’t know what wages are like in Hatfield. But if you can’t afford the diamond encrusted bottle – there is always Scent Salim Kings Blend 50ml Spray
A beautiful collection right from the heart of the vibrant and prosper nature, made especially to satisfy your splendid taste. A nice Smoky Scent. Yours for a mere £5000.
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And then—the fragrance.
It rushes out, flooding the room in waves. A sweet, heady, intoxicating perfume, rich with the scent of the mountains where the oil was pressed. The aroma clings to your skin, your hair, the very air itself, curling through the dim candlelight like an invisible veil.
Slowly, reverently, you pour. The golden oil cascades over His feet in thick rivulets, tracing the contours of His heels, slipping between His toes. It pools in the crevices of the stone floor, soaking into the very earth beneath you. Your hands follow, pressing the perfume into His skin, smoothing it over flesh that will soon be pierced.
And then, abandoning all pretence, you lower your head.
Your hair, unbound and wild, spills forward, brushing against His feet. You use it like a cloth, strands darkened with oil as you wipe, caress, worship. The scent clings to you now, marking you, mingling with your very being. You are no longer just Mary of Bethany. You are an offering.
What a moment of extravagance! What a gesture of love!
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CS Lewis in his letters on the psalms wrote
I had never noticed that all enjoyment spontaneously overflows into praise… The world rings with praise—lovers praising their mistresses, readers their favourite poet, walkers praising the countryside, players praising their favourite game… I had not noticed either that just as men spontaneously praise whatever they value, so they spontaneously urge us to join them in praising it: ‘Isn’t she lovely? Wasn’t it glorious? Don’t you think that magnificent?’
The Psalmists in telling everyone to praise God are doing what all men do when they speak of what they care about. My whole, more general, difficulty about the praise of God depended on my absurdly denying to us, as regards the supremely Valuable, what we delight to do, what indeed we can’t help doing, about everything else we value. I think we delight to praise what we enjoy because the praise not merely expresses but completes the enjoyment; it is its appointed consummation. It is not out of compliment that lovers keep on telling one another how beautiful they are; the delight is incomplete till it is expressed.
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For Mary of Bethany too – her love for her messiah was incomplete until expressed by anointing his feet. We don’t know why Mary of Bethany had that perfume, what she had bought it for or how much it cost. But we know it was expensive and we know she poured it out as an act of love.
And that is what worship is meant to be. The English word “worship” comes from the Anglo-Saxon “Worth-ship” – meaning to show how much something or someone is truly worth to us.
Think of a time when you were in love. Think of a present you bought for your beloved. How much were you prepared to spend on them? Did you hold back or did you let yourself go?
Worship is about letting go with God. Worship is about showing God how much he matters to us. And as CS Lewis might put it:
It is not out of compliment that lovers keep on telling one another how beautiful they are; [it is not out of command or habit that worshiper sings God’s praises] the delight is incomplete till it is expressed.
Some of you may know that in the mid 19th century a huge revival happened in the Catholic wing of the Church of England. It began with a theological revival at Oxford University. But a generation later – those who had been students during that theological revival were out in parishes. They had a great advantage – often no one would give the plum jobs in rich parishes because they were considered too extreme. But – because many of them had taken vows of celibacy – they ended up in the cholera infested slums where priests with families would not go. And here in these places of deepest poverty – a theological revival turned into a worship revival.
Worship with a level of colour and music and movement and symbolism and drama that had not been seen in England since mediaeval times was seen again.
Take those beautiful mosaics of the saints and martyrs and Angels that I described on the left wall (but left wall only) of St Barnabas Jerhricho. At that time Jehricho was a very poor suburb to the north of Oxford – and into that Poverty came beauty. Similarly in Bethnal Green or St Peter’s London Docks in Wapping or in the docks of Portsmouth - in all these places of poverty beauty arrived in the form of Anglo-Catholic worship and decoration. Like the scent of Mary’s perfume the scent of that beauty filled these places of deprivation. And Mary’s nard signalled the presence of Jesus about to go to the cross, this beauty signalled the presence of Jesus who loved the people of these slums to go to the cross not just for rich people but for them.
Above the door of one Anglo-Catholic Church in East London [1] is a quote from Genesis- “This is the gate of heaven” – And that was the goal of the Slum priests – to bring to brothers and sisters who lived in poverty and Squalor something to lift them above it – a taste of heaven.
And the thing about all this is like Mary letting down her hair to use the hair as the means with which to wash Jesus’s feet – is that it was extreme. When St Francis of Assisi became a Christian, he started taking family goods and selling them to give the money to the poor. His dad is furious – and in the town square in front of the local vicar challenges Francis “How can you treat me like this? I have fed you I have clothed you and you do this?” At which point Francis replies “OK – you clothed me – have your clothes back, but I must serve Jesus” – and he strips naked in the square and tosses his clothes towards his dad. You can’t get more extreme than that!
In a previous church I had an Indian Christian and he made the sign of the cross like this [demonstrate: touch his forehead , then go all the way down to touch the ground then come back up to touch his shoulders – then end by touching his fingers to his mouth to kiss them] – this was no subtle gesture that you could hide – it was gloriously over the top.
When I have been in South Africa and Mozambique – it doesn’t matter how hot it is the clergy always wear full robes with every layer present – cassock, alb, chasuble. There are servers galore. There is a canopy above the altar and at least 6 candlesticks . Some of the décor looks more Blue Peter than Watts or Wippels – but they have not stinted. And the Congregation – the Mothers Union all in their amazing uniform – each diocese with its own unique cloth that they make their skirts and head dresses out of. The men’s Bernard Maziki guild in their uniform, the youth choir in their distinctive uniform. More hymns than you have probably ever sung - this is no subtle blandness where you can escape notice and hide - it was gloriously over the top.
The first parish I was vicar of was called Holy Trinity Barkingside. There was a lady there called Audrey Campbell. I never met her – but I heard the stories. She was gloriously over the top. You can imagine her taking an alabaster jar of pure nard and breaking that jar and then letting down her hair and wiping Jesus’s feet with it. She was a tertiary Franciscan – a lay person who although they are not a monk[2] commits themselves to follow the value of St Francis. She dedicated herself to helping homeless people. In later life one man whom she had helped off the street and rebuilt his life she then fell in love with and married. She was by then too old to have children. He died before Audrey – and when she died she left her entire estate – and a house in the London Suburbs (even in those days) was quite a lot – she left her entire estate to the church. With one stipulation – that a new stained glass window should be put in the currently empty west window and the church could do what it liked wit the rest.
She died about six years before I arrived – and oh how I thanked Audrey Campbell. Twice over. Firstly because her gift paid for the entire church to be renovated. Every possible repair was done. Everything was repainted. The place was as good as new and there was even money left over. And secondly the beautiful new Stained glass window – Jesus surrounded on one side by Our Lady and on the other by St Francis. If it was not for her stipulation there would always have been something more important to spend that money on – but Audrey knew the importance of worship and beauty. There would have been some who said that that there was something more important to spend that money on – but Audrey knew that real worship cannot be contained. It is not about calculation, it is about devotion. It is not about logic, it is about love. And as CS Lewis pointed out – and as many of you will know – those who are in love do not measure how much they give they simply give.
You might want to think on that when you write your will – or when you set up a standing order to the church!
Now you might be getting the impression that I am saying that good worship has to be Anglo-Catholic. Not at all. I left my last parish in November -and since then I have been a supply priest helping in many different churches of many different traditions. In some the worship has been dire, In most the worship has been glorious. What distinguished the two? Not church tradition. But whatever the tradition – how extravagant was the worship? Bland is boring. If you don’t stick your head above the parapet you’ll sink into the mud. It doesn’t matter whether your worship in Catholic or Evangelical, Charismatic or Choral. But however you do it – do it with your all! Do it to the full! Do it with moments of extravagance and gestures of love!
In the 17th Century in the middle of the Civil War the presbytarians put together the Westminster Catechism. Now I don’t often agree with extreme Presbyterians – but there is one line in it that is absolutely beautiful, which I would love to see engraved in every church. “the chief end of man is to worship God and enjoy him forever” – the chief purpose of humanity is to worship God and enjoy him forever. Amen?
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And then—the fragrance.
It rushes out, flooding the room in waves. A sweet, heady, intoxicating perfume, rich with the scent of the mountains where the oil was pressed. The aroma clings to your skin, your hair, the very air itself, curling through the dim candlelight like an invisible veil.
Slowly, reverently, you pour. The golden oil cascades over His feet in thick rivulets, tracing the contours of His heels, slipping between His toes. It pools in the crevices of the stone floor, soaking into the very earth beneath you. Your hands follow, pressing the perfume into His skin, smoothing it over flesh that will soon be pierced.
And then, abandoning all pretence, you lower your head.
Your hair, unbound and wild, spills forward, brushing against His feet. You use it like a cloth, strands darkened with oil as you wipe, caress, worship. The scent clings to you now, marking you, mingling with your very being. You are no longer just Mary of Bethany. You are an offering.
A scoff shatters the moment.
"Why this waste?" Judas' voice, sharp and calculating, slices through the thick perfume-laden air.
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o For Mary, no price is too high to expend on Jesus. For Judas, any price will do in exchange for him.
o For Mary, the worth of Jesus is immeasurable. For Judas, 30 pieces of silver will do just fine, thank you very much.
o Mary acted in humility and bowed in his presence to serve him. Judas acted in haughtiness and rose up to sell him.
o Mary determined what she might give as an expression of love for Jesus. Judas determined what he might get in exchange for Jesus. [3]
Mary’s moment of extravagance! Mary’s gesture of love! And yet, in the midst of such devotion, a voice of cynicism arises—Judas, the thief, the betrayer, the one whose heart is far from love. Where there is love there is also mockery. Where there is worship there is always a voice that sneers. "Why do you waste time in prayer? Why do you give so much to the Church? Why do you live a life of sacrifice?" Those voices do not understand!
The world does not understand the extravagance of love for Christ. The Judases of this world will always scoff at genuine worship. But, beloved, let them speak! Let them criticize! Let them judge! For they do not know the joy of a heart fully surrendered!
I spoke of St Barnabas Jehricho and the beautiful mosaics adorning the left hand wall – in sharp contrast to the absolutely blank right hand wall. At the turn of the 20th century the Church decided it was going to decorate both walls. The women of the parish were given the task of fundraising for the left hand wall, the men of the parish for the right hand wall. The women made joyful sacrifices and scrimped and saved and raised that money – and the left hand wall was decorated. The men were going to raise the money too. But lets be practical, There’s a few bills we just need to pay first. And we need to keep some money aside just in case we have a problem at home … And the men with their caution and their safety never raised the money and 120 years later their wall is still blank.
I spoke of Audrey Campbell - and said it was not just the extravagance of her gift I gave thanks for but her stipulation that some of it must be used to pay for a new stained glass window. Had it not been there someone would have said “oh that’s a lovely idea but we had better hold the money back, just in case we need it.”
How do I know. Well, halfway through my time at Holy Trinity the ceiling fell in in the church. Not the roof, but the horse-hair plaster ceiling underneath. At that point we discovered that the insurance policy on ceilings was based on a standard domestic policy. It would pay the cheap sum of replacing the plaster – but it would not pay the huge sum for the scaffolding to do the work.
This was (and don’t forget this was almost twenty years ago) going to cost us tens of thousands of pounds. There had been money in the bank account – and it all went on repairing the ceiling.
Good news perhaps you think? Uh-uh [shaking head]
Many a suggestion by me of how we could use that money for mission or for worship had been turned down “because we must keep money for a rainy day” – and this was a rainy day and all the money went.
Except, except that we discovered there was a grant available that would have paid for the whole lot. If only we didn’t have the savings. Instead it paid for nothing. If we had invested the money in mission and beautiful worship everything would have been paid for by the grant. Instead like the man with the one talent, we dug a hole and put our money in it and everything was lost.
And its not just about sacrifice.
In the last few generations – the very decades in which the Church of England has been haemorrhaging people, our worship has been becoming blander. Perhaps there is a connection?
Take the Anglican curtsey. People come up for communion and they slightly bob the knee like this [demonstrate]. A hundred years ago people would have done a full on genuflection [bow the knee properly to touch the ground] – its half hearted as though we are ashamed of what we were doing. And that shame is not attractive!
Or take the Eucharistic Prayer. (and I can say this because this is my first time here so I have not seen what you all do). The Prayer when we ask God to make Jesus present in the Bread and the Wine. We start off with a seasonal time of thanks giving called the preface - and everyone stands. Then we sing the Holy Holy. Then we get to the most to the most important bit of all – “Lord you are holy indeed the source of all holiness. Send down your holy spirit on these gifts of bread and wine etc etc” and everyone sits down and slumps back in their chair.
Now if you do that – (I know I am not going to be making any friends by saying this) – but that is Awful.
You see in the old days [demonstrate] people would stand for the opening praise and then [getting down on knees] for the most important part they would kneel. Because kneeling is hard work. Kneeling is extravagant. Like Mary of Bethany getting down on her knees to anoint Jesus feet – our ancestors would mark the importance of Jesus’s presence among them. They did not sit – because sitting is casual. Sitting suggests it’s not that important or you don’t care.
Now I know there are some people with bad knees. If you can’t kneel - stand for the whole thing. And there are some people who can’t stand that long – if so sit for the first bit and stand for the second most important part. Or even sit for the whole thing. If you have bad knees – don’t feel embarrassed. But if you have good knees, don’t slump down in your chair – use those knees.
If you look at the prayer book – kneeling was one of the things we Anglicans were proud of. The Puritan thought it was Papist to kneel. But we knelt. An action of extravagance. A gesture of love. Not half hearted Not ashamed to show we love Jesus. Not ashamed to kneel.
Like our singing. If like me you can’t keep a tune, then you probably shouldn’t sing a solo. But as I always told my congregation – God has given me a gift. A gift of encouragement. You see if you can hear how badly I am singing then you are not singing loudly enough. Amen?
St Augustine said – he who sings prays twice. When we sing – sing with gusto, sing loudly. Like Mary who didn’t care about the crowd, who didn’t care about Judas - don’t care – just sing!
When I was in South Africa for a term, my daughter went to the local primary school. She was about 9 years old. I once went to one of the assemblies at the school. The teacher did not say “we are now going to sing Morning has broken” – and she turned, picked on one of the children and said “Lundiwe – start us on a song” – and Lundiwe started a simple hymn in Zulu and all the children and adults joined in. They were all totally unembarrassed – from an early age they had been used to being asked to start a song – so they all did.
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abandoning all pretense, you lower your head.
Your hair, unbound and wild, spills forward, brushing against His feet. You use it like a cloth, strands darkened with oil as you wipe, caress, worship. The scent clings to you now, marking you, mingling with your very being. You are no longer just Mary of Bethany. You are an offering.
A scoff shatters the moment.
"Why this waste?" Judas' voice, sharp and calculating, slices through the thick perfume-laden air.
You do not look up. You do not need to. The answer is in the weight of Jesus’ gaze, in the way He does not pull away.
The room does not understand. But He, Jesus does.
And that is enough.
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My dear brothers and sisters, history remembers the early Anglo-Catholics who brought vibrant worship to the slums. History remembers the early Methodists – John Wesley travelling to preach three times each day – at one mine in the morning before they went down to work, in another as they came up for lunch and in another 50 miles away as they came out at the days end – and each time surrounding his sermons with his brothers new hymns written to the popular tunes of the day. History remembers the early Pentecostals – black and white Christians worshiping together in segregated America, History remembers St Athanasias writing hymns to drinking songs so that ordinary people sang the praises of the Trinity in the Taverns of ancient Cairo. History remembers Francis of Assisi flinging his clothes off in front of his dad.
History remembers all these things. But - history will not remember those who kept their worship safe. It will not celebrate those who played it careful and reserved. It will remember those who knelt before a baby in Bethlehem. It will remember those who poured out their treasures at the feet of Jesus or broke open vials of pure nard. It will remember those who loved without limit, who gave without hesitation, who worshiped without fear
And so I leave you with this final question: When your story is told, what will remain? Will it be the fragrance of worship? Will it be the scent of a life poured out for Christ?
Let us be those who leave behind a legacy of worship that shakes the world, that offends the powerful, that touches the heart of God.
Yes, my friends. Now is not the time to hold back, counting the cost, ensuring your worship is respectable and reasonable. Now is the time to break open your alabaster jar, to let down and shake free your hair, to pour out your love without measure.
Your fragrance filling the air – love untamed, devotion unashamed. Amen?
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[1] St Paul’s Bow Common
[2] yes I know the technical word here is Friar not Monk
[3] sermon at https://www.samstorms.org/all-articles/post/33--worship-and-the-worth-of-jesus-john-121-8
Whilst I was writing this sermon, I used ChatGPT to write various sermons on various possible angles in various styles. ChatGPT is not very good at writing sermons – they read rather bland and unexciting. But occasionally ChatGPT does spur off an idea that gets me thinking in a particular way – or write a single line or paragraph that I can steal and insert. It doesn’t do the hard work – but it does give me ideas. I cannot footnote those because there is no human to acknowledge – but I give thanks for the inventors of this AI.
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