Anointed King

In a quiet, fragrant moment that has echoed through history, a woman named Mary did something shocking—so shocking, in fact, that even Jesus’ closest followers were scandalized.

It happened in Bethany, a small village just outside Jerusalem, six days before the Passover, during a dinner given in Jesus’ honour. They were gathered at the house of Simon the Leper, a man Jesus had likely healed. As the meal unfolded, Mary—sister of Martha and Lazarus—entered the room with a small alabaster jar in her hands.

Inside it was pure nard, an imported, aromatic oil worth a year’s wages. Without hesitation, she broke the jar and poured every drop—not just on His feet, as many remember, but on His head as well (Mark 14:3, John 12:3). The scent would have filled the entire house, heavy and holy, clinging to His skin for days. But this was more than an act of affection or hospitality. This was an anointing—and a burial preparation.

“She has done a beautiful thing to me… When she poured this perfume on my body, she did it to prepare me for burial.”

— Matthew 26:10,12

Mary saw something no one else did. She understood something about Jesus that even His disciples struggled to grasp: He had come to die. She wasn’t waiting for a warrior king; she was worshipping the crucified one.

Her anointing wasn’t just a generous gesture—it was prophetic. It was her way of saying: “I see you. I know what’s coming. And I give you all I have.” She poured out her treasure, her dignity, her security—and she didn’t hold anything back.

But not everyone saw it that way. The disciples were indignant. Judas, in particular, protested: “Why this waste?” They called it excessive, impractical. Jesus called it beautiful.

And in that moment, we see a pattern: Mary, like so many before and after her, understood Jesus in a way that offended others. She honoured Him in a way that made the “righteous” uncomfortable. She was, in many ways, scandalized by grace—but not into rejection. Into worship.

The Scandal Continues

This same tension—between expectation and reality, between honour and offense—is echoed in another scene, one that reveals just how deeply Jesus unsettled people.

In Matthew 11, we encounter a surprising moment of doubt. John the Baptist, the bold prophet who had prepared the way for the Messiah, sends word from prison: "Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?" Even John is questioning Jesus.

Jesus replies: "Blessed is the one who is not offended by me." The Greek word here is skandalizo—to be scandalized, to be outraged into rejection. And John, of all people, was beginning to feel scandalized by Jesus.

But why? Jesus wasn’t doing what many expected the Messiah to do. He wasn’t overthrowing governments. He wasn’t bringing down fire from heaven. Instead, He was healing the sick, preaching to the poor, and spending time with the outcasts. And Jesus knew this offended people—not just back then, but now too. He knew that people in New York, London, or any major city today, just like in ancient Judea, would struggle with a Messiah like this—one who didn’t come to settle political disputes, but to rescue souls from eternal separation.

Jesus responds by describing the kinds of people who truly receive Him: not the powerful, not the respectable, but the poor, the violent, and the least. Let’s explore what that means.

Why the Poor Recognize Good News

Jesus told John’s disciples: “Tell John what you hear and see... the poor have good news preached to them.” The term gospel means “good news,” but not just any news—it referred to a world-changing announcement. In the Roman world, it was used for the coronation of a new emperor or the victory of a great army.

Jesus used this word intentionally. Christianity is not good advice—it’s good news. It’s not a philosophy, not a set of moral teachings. It’s the proclamation that something has happened: God has broken into history, become human, died, and risen again.

Why do the poor receive this more readily than the wealthy or powerful?

Because the poor understand dependence. They know life isn’t fair. They know they aren’t in control. They live with a constant awareness that grace is the only way. So when they hear that salvation is a gift, not a reward, they rejoice.

In contrast, many of us—especially in privileged, educated circles—are offended. We want a Saviour who affirms our values, who applauds our efforts. We reduce Jesus to a wise teacher or moral guide. We say: “We don’t need doctrine—just love, peace, and justice.” But what we really mean is: “We don’t need a Saviour. We just need a little inspiration.”

Jesus says no. You need a gospel, not a self-help seminar. And the poor already know that.

The Urgency of the Kingdom

In verse 12, Jesus says something mysterious: “From the days of John the Baptist until now, the kingdom of heaven has been forcefully advancing, and forceful men lay hold of it.”

This phrase has baffled translators for centuries. Some versions say the kingdom suffers violence. Others say it advances violently. Either way, Jesus is saying that entering the kingdom requires more than passivity. It requires urgency. Determination. Even upheaval.

You don’t casually add Jesus to your life like a new app. He overhauls everything. If He is who He says He is—the Lord of history, the One before whom stars are like lint—then His entrance into your life is an earthquake. Everything changes: your priorities, your values, your identity.

To follow Jesus means surrender. It means letting Him tear down and rebuild. This is the “violence” of grace. The gospel doesn’t ask you to clean yourself up—it asks you to die to yourself and be made new.

And here’s the good news: Jesus has already endured the real violence for us. On the cross, He bore the judgment we deserved. He suffered the ultimate upheaval, so that our transformation could be the violence of life—not death.

The Least Are Lifted Up

Then Jesus makes another shocking claim: “Among those born of women there has not risen anyone greater than John the Baptist; yet whoever is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.”

How can this be? Greatness in God’s kingdom isn’t about status, strength, or spiritual achievement. It’s about grace. The least—those who know they are weak, needy, and sinful—are the ones who truly grasp the gospel.

Jesus quotes Isaiah 35, which prophesied that when God comes, “the eyes of the blind will be opened… the lame will leap… the mute will shout for joy.” But Isaiah also said this would come with vengeance and retribution. So John wonders: Where is the judgment? Where is the fire?

Jesus’s answer is profound: It came—but it fell on Me.

If God had come in judgment, He would have lost us all. No one could stand. But instead, Jesus took the judgment on Himself, so that we could receive the blessing. He took the wrath and gave us peace. He wore the crown of thorns so we could wear the crown of life. This is the scandal of grace—that the weakest sinner, clothed in Christ’s righteousness, is more beautiful in God’s eyes than the strongest saint standing in their own. That the kingdom is inherited not by the worthy, but by the willing. That the first become last, and the last are lifted up.

A Scandalous Gift

Mary wasn’t offended. She was undignified in her devotion, bold in her worship, and prophetic in her love. While others debated, she acted. While others held back, she poured it all out—every drop.

And in doing so, she anointed Jesus not just as a King—but as the Anointed King who would die for the world.

Are we offended by (the real) Jesus? Do we want a Messiah who confirms our beliefs, or one who transforms our lives? Do we want a gospel—or just a religion? Do we want grace, or control?

Jesus says it’s the poor who understand, the fierce who seize, and the least who are lifted up. The gospel is not about being good. It’s about being saved. It’s not about achieving—it’s about receiving. It’s the scandalous gift of grace. And it’s offered freely.