Breaking Jars, Shattering Judgments: A Gospel Guide to Lavish Love
A homily for the 4th Sunday of Lent 2024 — celebrated in solidarity with Catholic Women Strike. Readings from The Catholic Comprehensive Lectionary (Gen 18:1–15, Ps 78, Phlm 1–2, 8–19, Luke 7:36–50).
All four canonical Gospels tell some variant of a woman anointing Jesus in the final days of his life. In Matthew and Mark, an anonymous woman with an alabaster jar anoints Jesus’ head. In these accounts, Jesus responds, “Wherever this gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told in memory of her” (Mt 26:13, Mk 14:9).
In John, it is Mary of Bethany who anoints Jesus’ feet and wipes them with her hair (John 12:3). In all three of these Gospels, someone protests — be it Judas, “the disciples”, or “some of those present” — saying the expensive perfume could have been sold and the money given to the poor (John 12:4–5, Matt 26:9, Mark 14:3–9). But Jesus defends her: “Why are you bothering her? She did a beautiful thing” (Matt 26:10; Mark 14:6).
John’s Gospel, however, goes further — exposing the accuser’s hypocrisy. The narrator offers a sharp aside: “[Judas] did not say this because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; as keeper of the money bag, he used to help himself” (John 12:6). Blaming the woman is a manipulative distraction. It’s a tactic as old as time: shame the vulnerable to obscure one’s own corruption. Just ask Eve.
Today, we turn to Luke, who offers us perhaps the most emotionally intimate telling of this moment. Like John, Luke describes a woman anointing Jesus’ feet and wiping them with her hair. But Luke takes us even closer — this woman bathes his feet in her tears, dries them with her hair, anoints them with myrrh, and kisses them again and again (Luke 7:38). It is an act not only of devotion, but of deep vulnerability. What does this tell us about her? About the depth of her sorrow, her love, her knowing? What kind of trust must have existed between them — for such tenderness not only to be allowed, but honored?
And then, the disruption.
Unlike the other Gospels, where it is Judas who objects, Luke places the judgment elsewhere. It is not the betrayer who speaks, but a Pharisee who thinks. Luke shifts the drama inward. The woman is not condemned aloud, but in silent, seething judgement: “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is — that she is a sinner” (Luke 7:39, CCL).
Here, the Pharisee becomes the archetype of a wounded, self-loathing piety — the inner voice that says: You’re not worthy. I’m not worthy. How dare you. Stay in your place.
We know that anger doesn’t have to be spoken to be felt. And Jesus doesn’t miss a beat. He perceives the Pharisee’s internalized judgment and responds not with condemnation, but with a story — one that reframes worthiness in the light of Love and forgiveness. The message?
Love is salvation; salvation is Love.
Jesus’ teaching shifts our focus away from purity or perfection. It isn’t about who has sinned less. It’s about who loves more. It’s about the return to intimacy, to truth, to connection. The woman doesn’t hold back — she risks everything to show her devotion. She pours out her tears, her perfume, her touch. She chooses lavish affection over careful accounting. And Jesus praises her for it.
He does not reward Judas’ posture of moral superiority. He doesn’t even reject him. He teaches him. If Judas could listen — truly hear — he too could be saved. That is the radical, inclusive love of God.
The others at the table also question Jesus — though silently. Who is this who even forgives sins? they wonder. Who dares to undo what has been deeply internalized — that some are in, and some are out? Who dares to say: You are loved as you are? Who dares to upend the calculus of worthiness?
This is the sacred tension we live in — as human beings, as faithful Catholics. Our tradition is both beautiful and broken. It has been written in the ink of liberating Love and of deep corruption. For every woman who anoints Jesus’ feet, there is a Judas or a Pharisee. For every Dorothy Day, a colonizer. For every holy offering, a harmful betrayal.
We are the Church of Teresa of Ávila, whose mysticism inspired generations. We are also the Church of Queen Isabella, who ordered the Inquisition.
We are the Church of Pope John XXIII, who opened the windows of reform at Vatican II. And we are the Church of Pope Nicholas V, who issued the papal bulls that justified enslavement and conquest under the Doctrine of Discovery.
We are the Church of Nuns on the Bus, and we are the Church of Kevin Roberts, an Opus Dei devotee, President of the Heritage Foundation, and key architect of Project 2025.
This is not easy to face. But only in truth can we be transformed. When we look clearly at our reality — with courage, not despair — we can choose with integrity. We can forgive. We can rebuild. We can love again.
Because the truth is this: we all carry both the woman and Judas within us. We all have to choose — again and again — whether we will judge or weep, withdraw or embrace, protect power or pour ourselves out for one another. This is not just a personal choice; it is collective. It is the work of the Church.
The Catholic Women’s Strike is one such collective movement — a public call to conscience. It challenges us to divest from the Judas-mindset that guards power and shames love. It asks: are we pouring out our resources for the Body of Christ among us? Or are we lining the purses of systems that betray Emmanuel — God with us?
For most of us, the answer is: a bit of both. That’s why we must keep tipping the scales toward healing. Toward equity. Toward a Catholic Church that lives up to its call.
To strike is not to abandon. It is to re-align. To refuse participation in harm. It is to say: I will not withhold my love, but I will not fund my own silencing. To strike is to redirect our energy, our money, our labor, toward sacred transformation — for the sake of Love.
If we listen to Jesus — as the most faithful Catholics always have — we will choose the intimacy that God honors: lavish, vulnerable, embodied Love. We will anoint one another with tears and tenderness. And we will rise — together — with a Church that dares to be healed.
You might say to yourself, like I said to myself, “Could I, could we, possibly make a difference? Over 2000 years and holding strong, the patriarchal power of the Roman Catholic Church will never change.”
But then I heard the messenger scoff to me, as to Sarah: “Is there anything too marvelous for God to do?”
Touche.
What do you hear in our readings today?
To learn more about Catholic Women Strike and get involved with the global Catholic movement for church transformation, visit https://www.catholicwomenstrike.org/.
