Christo and Jean-Claude were installation artists. This husband-wife duo’s work was audacious, breathtaking, and sometimes baffling. My favorite series of they did is the “Wrapped” series. They would drape massive canvases over buildings or stretch them across landscapes. Bridges. Government buildings. Even the L ‘Arc de Triomphe in Paris disappeared beneath fabric.

Why? Because, as Christo put it, “Wrapping helps you to see familiar things afresh.”

Today, we heard the story of Jesus being anointed. Scholar A.J. Levine calls this moment “The First Dinner,” and it is one of the rare stories that appears in all four Gospels. But, as with any great work of art, the perspective shifts depending on where you stand.

Matthew and Mark tell nearly identical stories: In the final week of his life, Jesus is at the home of Simon the leper. A woman approaches with costly ointment and pours it over his head. The disciples grumble—couldn’t this perfume have been sold and the money given to the poor? But Jesus rebukes them: “Why trouble her? She has done something good for me. The poor you will always have with you, and you can show kindness to them anytime you wish. But you will not always have me.” He then makes a bold proclamation: Wherever the Good News is preached, what she has done will be remembered. And yet—she is never named.

Luke shifts the scene to an earlier point in Jesus’ ministry, placing him at the house of a Pharisee. A “sinful woman” arrives uninvited, anoints Jesus, then washes his feet with her tears and dries them with her hair. The guests take offense. “If this man were truly a prophet, he’d know who was touching him!” But Jesus turns to them and tells a parable about forgiveness. Two people owe a debt—one small, one enormous. When both debts are forgiven, who will be more grateful? The answer is obvious. And Jesus turns to the woman, forgives her, and lets the weight of the moment settle over the murmuring guests.

Then there’s John. He alone names the woman: Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus. Here, it is Judas who complains, and John makes sure we see him clearly—not just as the betrayer but as a thief who never cared for the poor to begin with. “Leave her alone,” Jesus says. “She has saved this perfume for my burial.”

Four stories. Two similar. Two not. Each revealing something different.

And yet, throughout history, one line has been wrenched from its context and wielded as an excuse: “The poor you will always have with you.” It has been misused to justify apathy, to claim that poverty is inevitable and unchangeable. But Jesus wasn’t giving an excuse. He was giving a mission statement. He was echoing the prophets, who spoke of a God who systematically interrupted the systems that created poverty—cancelling debts (Deuteronomy 15:1-2), setting slaves free (Leviticus 25:10), redistributing land (Leviticus 25:23-24). God’s concern for the poor is the heartbeat of Scripture. Again and again, the prophets cry out: Defend the orphan. Protect the widow. Seek justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly.

A.J. Levine reminds us that even if every stomach were filled and every head had a roof, human need would remain. Because we do not live by bread alone. We are creatures who hunger for love, affection, and community. The church’s great calling is to meet those needs—to proclaim that God’s kingdom is near, that grace is sufficient, that no one is forgotten.

But history teaches us that the church has often ignored its own calling. Jeremiah’s words ring in my ears: “They have grown fat and sleek. Their evil deeds have no limit; they do not seek justice. They do not promote the cause of the fatherless; they do not defend the just cause of the poor” (Jeremiah 5:28).

Who will we be? The disciples who complain? Or the woman who anoints?

Luke’s version pushes us toward another truth—one of forgiveness. “Her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown.” Have you ever had a fight with a friend and later realized you were wrong? And when they forgave you, you felt the weight lift? Forgiveness is a gift, but it’s also a learned skill. Just as hate can be taught, so can mercy. I had to learn it myself. In my family system, we held grudges. I had to look to Kate’s family to see what forgiveness looked like in action. Maybe you’ve had to do the same.

And then there’s John. The Gospel that names Mary and names Judas. John wants us to see the contrast. Mary sees Jesus for who he is. Judas does not. He is only here for what he can take.

All four stories foreshadow Jesus’ death. All four stories have the anointing. All four stories ask: Do you see him? Or are you too caught up in your own complaints?

Which brings me back to Christo and Jeane-Claude.

Great art makes us see differently. It makes us notice things we have become numb to. Trees that have stood bare all winter will soon wrap themselves in blossoms. And we will stop. And we will see them, as if for the first time.

On my sabbatical, I saw Christo’s work again at the Charles Schultz Museum in Palo Alto. He once wrapped Snoopy’s doghouse in tribute to the Peanuts comics.[1] A simple act. A profound effect. Seeing the familiar, made new. And I was reminded of one of his most famous works—those enormous fabric fences stretching across the prairie. In breaking the landscape, they made people notice the hills, the dips, the unseen beauty that had been there all along.

That is what this moment is.

Oil running down Jesus’ face, we can see the essential lines of his features. The way his brow—so often furrowed—finally relaxes. The curve of his lips, catching the light, maybe hinting at a smile. Or are you too busy composing your complaint? The oil in his hair, making it darker, glistening, pulling the curls tight to his scalp. The fragrance filling the room. The scent that will cling to him as he is arrested, tried, and crucified.

Take a long look at Jesus. Does your image of him ever shift? Can he smile? Can he delight in being loved? Or is he always stern in your mind? It’s good to challenge the image of Jesus we have in our heads every once and awhile.[2]

Like Christo wrapping a building, like spring wrapping the trees in green, this story wraps Jesus in oil so we can see him anew. See the essential lines: A man in community. At a table. Sharing a meal. Receiving love. A woman who sees him. A group of people who grumble. A call to care for the poor. A call to love. A call to forgive. A moment where the familiar becomes fresh again.

May you be like the woman. May you be like Mary. May you see Jesus for who he is. Do not miss this moment. Celebrate it. Revel in beauty. And turn your judgment into curiosity. For that is what Judas then—and the Judases now- simply can’t do. Amen.

Bibliography
Sotheby’s, “Christo and Jeanne Claude: A Lifetime of Memories Revealed,” YouTube video posted Feb 3, 2021, https://youtu.be/KxyczvyD5D0?si=Erk17kEpof0bmY1c

60 Minutes, “Christo and Jeanne Claude.” YouTube video from THE GATES 2005 installation in Central Park, https://youtu.be/MwXbf-abVzk?si=Gk3OBQiza39agWgW

Works Cited

[1] https://schulzmuseum.org/in-memory-of-the-artist-christo/

[2] https://www.uccmedina.org/series/faces-of-jesus/