The First "Last Supper"
It's the last time these friends share a meal together in John's Gospel — though only one person at the table seems to know it. But it isn't the supper you are thinking of. A reflection on John 12:1–8.
John 12:1-8
Phrases that spoke to me today:
• Martha served, and Lazarus was reclining with him at table
• anointed... and wiped his feet with her hair
• he was a thief
• Leave her alone... for the day of my burial
Applying the Word to My Life:
It is a literal miracle that Martha, Lazarus, and Mary are in the same room. This is the last time they eat together in John's Gospel. Martha's still serving. Lazarus is alive at the table for no reason he can take credit for. Mary spends a year's wages on Jesus's feet, all at once.
Lazarus didn't earn that seat. He couldn't have — you can't hold up your end of being raised from the dead. That's where love from Jesus always starts: a gift to someone who has nothing yet to offer back. A gift given without thought, or even the possibility, of repayment.
Mary's gift isn't remarkable for its price. It's remarkable because she's giving back, extravagantly, reciprocating Jesus's love as much as she can. Nobody required it of her. Jesus will later tell His friends He no longer calls them servants, but friends — that's the difference a returned gift makes. Martha, Lazarus, Mary: three shapes of the same completed exchange.
Judas is at the same table, taking instead of receiving. He'd been skimming the common purse the whole time — more access to Jesus than almost anyone in the room, none of it ever headed back out. He was never planning to give anything back.
Jesus's defense of Mary had to seem strange. Everyone else at that table is celebrating a friend brought back from death. But Jesus is talking about Mary anointing Him for His burial. Jesus is the only one who already knows what raising Lazarus is about to cost Him. Mary seems to be the only other one who senses where this will end. Her loving act of anointing Jesus's feet almost anticipates what He will do for His disciples six days later, at the Last Supper.
True love — self gift without accounting of cost or expectation of repayment — grows and strengthens when it is reciprocated, becoming a covenantal love. Love that only moves one direction doesn't stay love — it quickly becomes use. Use creates separation while covenant brings unity.
When we accept this love and let it change us, the natural result is reciprocal love. Franciszek Gajowniczek didn't perform some form of balancing math, he simply received the gift offered. A stranger traded his life so Gajowniczek could keep his, but he didn't treat that gift the way Judas treated his access to Jesus. He spent the rest of his life making sure Maximilian Kolbe's name was never forgotten — telling the story himself, and was present when the Church declared Kolbe a saint. Eighty-five years ago today, ten men were chosen for that starvation cell. Gajowniczek spent the fifty-four years he was given giving something back.
When I read this scene, I don't always know which seat I'm sitting in. Some days I'm still catching up to a gift I didn't earn, like Lazarus. On my best days, I find moments to give a little more of myself than I received. On the worst days, if I'm honest, I'm closer to Judas than I want to admit — using what I've been given instead of returning it.
Jesus gave us everything on the cross. What we do with what we've been given decides whether it becomes covenant, or just use.
My Response for Today:
Today I will find one place I've been receiving without returning, and give something back.