Bread and Roses

The Rev. Paddy Cavanaugh, Lent 5C, 4/6/25

Readings: Isaiah 43:16-21, Philippians 3:4b-14, John 12:1-8

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, amen.

As we go marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,

A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,

Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,

For the people hear us singing: Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses!

This is the opening stanza of a poem by James Oppenheim, penned at the height of the labor movement and women’s suffrage movement at the turn of the 20th century. This famous slogan “bread and roses” had become a rallying cry for women and workers and it encapsulates a particular philosophy, a theology even, of what is necessary for human flourishing. Daily bread, or food and water, is of course, the bare minimum required to sustain human life, and each day that we have food on the table is a blessing from God indeed, which we know is not afforded to every human being in this world. However, it is also true that even when this lowest common denominator of being fed is satisfied, living hand-to-mouth is a far cry from life in abundance.

Rather, to live the abundant life which God wills for us also involves some roses. That is to say, God desires a standard of human dignity beyond the satisfaction of our base levels of need. To have opportunities for such things as leisure, beauty, education, and the ability to offer something back of what we have been given, is far from extravagance – it is a target of human community worthy of God.

In today’s Gospel we find Jesus at the house of Lazarus some days after Jesus had raised him from death to life. And once more we find Lazarus’s sisters at their familiar places; Mary at Christ’s feet and Martha preparing a meal in the kitchen. But this time, rather than receiving the words of the good teacher, Mary is doing something incredibly tender and intimate on Christ’s behalf. She gingerly anoints Jesus’s feet with nard; a costly oil traditionally used for the preparation of a body for burial, perhaps oil left over from Lazarus’s death some days prior.

Whether she knew it or not, Mary’s act of compassion was both a foreshadowing of Christ’s own death and a loving act of defiance; a countering of death’s stench with the sweetness of resurrection anticipated. And yet even the most selfless acts of mercy are not without their detractors. Judas, the disciple who would later betray Jesus, raises the ostensibly reasonable objection that Mary’s compassionate gesture is a lavish waste. This oil, worth a whole year’s wages, could be sold and the money given to the poor. Now, even if Judas’s objection was motivated by his own self-interest, the argument is worth considering. To turn the question to ourselves, why not sell this organ, these windows, our silver Communion vessels, and offer them to the poor? Is this not the same commandment our Lord gave to the rich young man who sought the Kingdom, yet placed a higher value on his riches?

To this question, Jesus issues the scandalous reply “leave her alone… you always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” At first, it shocks the ears. It sounds callous, flippant even. Could our Lord really mean this? I think he could. And if we recall the poem by Oppenheim, it suddenly sounds less scandalous. Remember those necessities for human flourishing? Bread and roses. Food for the body and nourishment for the soul. I’d like to tell you what I think Jesus is gesturing towards in a story that happened to me.

I was once a member at an historic parish in downtown Boston that was world-renowned for its music ministry. For half of the year and at great expense, they employed a professional chamber orchestra and a choir of staff singers to perform Bach cantatas during the liturgy. After receiving Communion, parishioners would file back to their pews and the ensemble would gather in the chancel to play some of the most arrestingly beautiful music that the Western world has ever produced before the priest gave the dismissal.

And just like Mary’s lavish anointing of Jesus, this ministry was controversial; one bishop had even attempted to stop the music, arguing that the congregation spent Sunday mornings worshipping Bach, rather than the Risen Lord. And in my early days of attendance, I too found myself wondering whether these cantatas were the most Christlike means of stewardship, when one often had to walk through encampments of the homeless to reach the church’s doors.

That is, until one day, I took a look around to really notice my fellow companions in the pews. To my left I spotted a man who I knew was a professional music critic and a regular at the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and there seated next to him was another familiar face – an unhoused woman, surrounded by her bags of worldly belongings, who I’d often see shaking her cup outside of the local metro stop. People whose realities were worlds apart, and yet here, both of them were, shoulder to shoulder, eyes closed, heads tilted upward, as heavenly choruses washed over them, lost in wonder, love, and praise. The sight nearly brought me to tears. Here sat the disinherited and the highly favored – and I’ll let you decide who was which – bound by a common human need – for bread and roses. It was a vision of what I imagine heaven must look like.

And this was a common sight on any given Sunday. The rector, who ensured that the parish also hosted the most robust outreach ministry in the neighborhood, advocated beautifully for the necessity of both of these ministries – Bach and bread. It was the only place in the city where someone like that unhoused woman and many others like her who worshipped with us could receive a warm meal and experience this variety of lavish, soul-nourishing beauty, free of charge.

It is easy to perceive the resources we spend on offering beauty to God and the resources we spend on meeting the physical needs of our brothers and sisters as being at odds with one another. And it is true that we must always be mindful of the balance between the two. But after worshipping at that parish in Boston and hearing the words of our Lord to Judas and Mary, I am all the more convinced that offering our first fruits to God and to the poor is part of a common cause which makes us worthy of the promises of Christ.

Our rector, like Mary at Jesus’s feet, understood the benefit of smashing open that jar of oil. She understood that our offerings to God should be befitting of the poor, and our offerings to the poor should be befitting of God. That is why Jesus permitted Mary this extravagant gesture. That is a picture of the abundant life which God wills for us to share in.

So as we go marching, marching to the cross and empty tomb.

And are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses.

Let our Good Lord hear us singing: Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses! Amen.