"She broke the flask and poured it on His head."
She came without announcement. The Gospel of Mark does not give her a name and perhaps that is itself a kind of theology: her act was not about her name. She came carrying an alabaster flask of spikenard, very costly, worth more than a year's wages for a working man. She came to where Jesus was at the table of Simon the leper's house, and she broke the flask and poured the oil on His head.
She did not give a lecture on sacrifice. She did not explain her theology of love. She did not carefully measure out a portion and keep the rest for future use. She broke the jar. The breaking was not comfortable. The jar does not break painlessly. The fragrance filled the whole house. Those who watched were indignant at the waste. Jesus said: She has done a good work for Me.
The jar had to be broken. Without the breaking, the oil stayed inside.
The fragrance had no way out.
You are leaving this day not with the wound resolved. That was never the intention. The invitation was not to healing in the sense of erasure, not the return to a state before the breaking. The Risen Christ did not return to a state before the Passion. He carried His wounds into the Resurrection, and made of them the ground of the greatest confession the Gospel records.
The invitation of this day was simpler and more demanding than erasure: to name the wound, to bring it into the presence of the One who bore wounds first, and to allow Him to begin in it what only He can begin.
If the wound is real — and it is —
and if God is tending it — and He is —
then what is He preparing you to pour out?
Who is waiting, somewhere in the dark of their own wounding,
for a servant who has been wounded too — not from above, but from beside?
The One who was wounded before you has already gone ahead.
And what He does with broken things is beyond what we can ask or imagine.