“She anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped them with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance…” – John 12:3
Holy Wednesday sits quietly in the middle of Holy Week, often overlooked amid the more dramatic days to come. Yet it contains one of the most intimate and uncomfortable scenes in the gospel story—a moment where love becomes extravagant, and betrayal begins to take root.
In one home, a woman kneels before Jesus, breaks open a jar of precious perfume, and pours it out on his feet. No words. Just the scent of devotion, the softness of hair, the humility of touch.
In another part of the story, Judas begins to speak with the chief priests, quietly setting in motion a very different kind of offering—an act of betrayal.
Holy Wednesday lives in the space between those two responses: between lavish, fearless love and the subtle withdrawing of the heart.
The Fragrance of Love
What the woman does would have seemed shocking at the time. It wasn’t just the cost of the perfume—although that alone was enough to scandalise the room. It was her vulnerability. Her willingness to be seen kneeling at Jesus’ feet, hair unbound, weeping, wiping, offering something beautiful with no expectation of reward.
No one asked her to do this. It was entirely unnecessary. Entirely unstrategic. But it was real. It came from a place within her that wasn’t calculating cost. It was love, poured out simply because love needs to be expressed.
Jesus sees it for what it is. While others criticise, he honours her. He doesn’t explain it away or reduce it to metaphor. He says, “She has done a beautiful thing.” Not useful. Not practical. Beautiful.
How often do we hold back our beauty—our most tender expressions of love—for fear it will be misunderstood or dismissed?
The Shadow of Withholding
In sharp contrast, Judas’ journey takes shape quietly. He doesn’t storm away in anger. He simply leaves the room at some point with a different agenda. One foot still in the circle of disciples, one eye looking elsewhere.
This is what makes his story difficult to ignore. It’s not a tale of dramatic rebellion—it’s a slow erosion of connection. Perhaps he had unmet expectations. Perhaps he had doubts. Perhaps he just couldn’t understand the kind of Messiah Jesus was becoming.
We all carry places like that within us—parts of us that wonder if this path is really going anywhere, if this spiritual life is truly worth the cost.
Holy Wednesday asks us to be honest about both the perfume and the silver.
To recognise the parts of ourselves that long to pour out…
and the parts that quietly pull back.
Faith That Isn’t Measured by Clarity
The Celtic Christian tradition holds space for complexity. Faith is not seen as a linear ascent, but as a journey marked by rhythm, tension, and return. There’s room for both devotion and doubt. For pouring out and pausing. For honesty in the shadow.
In that light, Holy Wednesday becomes less about good and bad, and more about awareness. Noticing where we’re still trying to manage our offerings. Noticing where fear has edged out trust. Noticing what we love, but hesitate to express.
And most of all, noticing that Jesus—fully aware of the anointing and the betrayal—doesn’t turn away from either.
A Holy Kind of Waste
In a culture obsessed with usefulness and efficiency, it’s hard to make peace with the idea of a “wasteful” offering.
But the Kingdom of God doesn’t operate by the same logic.
Sometimes the most powerful spiritual acts are the ones that look pointless to everyone else.
Sitting in silence. Lighting a candle with no words. Writing a letter you don’t send.
Kneeling to bless, even when no one sees.
The woman’s gift didn’t accomplish anything in the traditional sense. But it filled the room with fragrance. And it filled the heart of Christ with love.
That matters more than we often allow.
A Reflection for Today
Holy Wednesday doesn’t ask us to be perfect.
It asks us to be present.
To notice where we are holding back and where we are willing to risk beauty.
To reflect on the ways we offer love—freely, haltingly, imperfectly—and to trust that even the smallest gesture can carry eternal weight.
And perhaps, to ask:
- Where am I being invited to pour something out, even if it doesn’t make sense?
- What small act of beauty or truth is waiting to be offered?
- Is there a part of me that feels distant, uncertain, or hesitant—and can I bring that, too, into the light?
A Practice
If it feels right, find a quiet moment today to do something purely out of love.
Not because it’s needed. Not because it will be praised.
But simply because your soul wants to say “thank you.”
You might:
- Light a candle and sit with the question, “What do I need to pour out?”
- Kneel in silent prayer, even if only for a minute.
- Offer someone a small, unnoticed act of kindness.
Let it be enough that it is beautiful.
That it is yours.
That it is given.
Final Thought
Holy Wednesday reminds us that Jesus walks toward the cross already surrounded by the scent of love and the sting of betrayal.
And still, he walks.
Not away from us, but toward us.
Carrying both the weight of human frailty and the beauty of human devotion in his heart.
Let today be a day of quiet honesty.
Of unguarded love.
Of returning to what matters most.
Not to impress.
But to offer.
Ancient Whispers 
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