The Fragrance of Christ

There’s something about scent that lingers long after a moment is over. A particular cologne, a familiar shampoo, the smell of baking bread—fragrance lives somewhere deep in our memory.  Think about how particular smells transport you back to your past with vivid imagery.

“Then Mary took a jar of costly perfume made from pure nard, and anointed Jesus’ feet and wiped them with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.” — John 12:3

John tells us that when Mary anointed Jesus’ feet with expensive perfume, “the house was filled with the fragrance.” It wasn’t just a symbolic gesture. It was a sensory moment. Her worship didn’t just bless Jesus—it changed the environment.

And it lingered.

Mary didn’t offer her talents or efforts. Rather she brought out a jar of perfume worth a year’s wages and poured it out, not just over Jesus’ feet, but down onto the ground and through her hair—her own identity. And the fragrance filled the house.

In doing so, she became the fragrance. She wore the scent of that sacrifice.

It was an intimate, perhaps even a hasty act. Judas called it wasteful. Jesus called it beautiful. One cynically saw the cost. The other entered into love.

I wonder if we’ve lost the simplicity of this in our pursuit of Christian service. Somewhere along the way, we started offering God our performance instead of our presence. Our usefulness instead of our intimacy. We strive to do great things “for God,” all while pushing to the margins the only thing that truly transforms us—being with Him.

We want to impress Jesus. Mary just received love from Him.

And she walked away smelling like Him.

This week we remember and meditate on sacrifice. The last supper. The garden. The surrender. But Holy Week isn’t just about sacrificing something. It’s about drawing close.

I think about how Mary’s act stood in contrast to the others in the room. Martha was serving (as always). Judas was managing the money and side-eyeing the moment. Lazarus was reclining with Jesus at the table, maybe enjoying some post-resurrection glow. But only Mary did something that stayed with her.

The fragrance didn’t wash off quickly. She wore it.

I’m starting to wonder if that’s the invitation of Christ—not to burn ourselves out proving our devotion, but to pour ourselves out in love. To slow down. To sit close. To risk being misunderstood. To leave His presence smelling like Him.

Not performative spirituality. Not public piety. But proximity.

The Bible calls us the aroma of Christ—to those being saved, a smell of life. To others, a smell of death. And if we’re honest, sometimes we don’t smell like life. We smell like stress. Cynicism. Burnout. Duty.

We do all the right things. We keep up appearances. But if anyone came close enough, they might not smell Jesus on us. They might just smell exhaustion.

I’ve been there. Pouring myself out in every direction, except at the feet of Christ. The result? I probably looked faithful, but I didn’t smell like Him. I smelled like effort. Like fear. Like death.

Mary’s perfume anticipated Jesus’ burial. Her love anointed Him for what was to come. But her act wasn’t about death. It was about devotion. And it became a prophecy of resurrection.

The fragrance she wore didn’t signal decay. It signaled life.

That’s what Easter is. Death giving way to the fragrance of life. The scent of grave clothes left behind. The aroma of a risen Christ walking among the living. The house—this world—filled with His scent again.

This Holy Week, I don’t want to reek of stress or effort. I want to carry the aroma of Christ. I want my house, my office, my words, my presence to smell like I’ve been with Him.

What if each of us purposed to simply smell like Jesus?