Before we move on to the Passion, John pauses one last time and asks us to look back over everything we have seen. This is no accident. Throughout the Gospel he has patiently assembled his evidence, not as a lawyer arguing a case nor merely as a historian preserving memories, but as a witness inviting us to faith. He tells us his purpose at the end of the Gospel: “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. But these are written that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through this belief you may have life in his name” (John 20:30-31). Every miracle, every conversation, every confrontation has pointed toward this truth. The water became wine. The official’s son was healed from a distance. The cripple walked after thirty-eight years. Five thousand were fed in the wilderness. The man born blind received sight. Finally, Lazarus, four days in the tomb, walked out alive at the sound of Jesus’ voice. John has answered the question, Who is Jesus? By chapter twelve, he assumes the answer has become unmistakable. The question now changes. It is no longer, Who is Jesus? It is, Who are you now that you have met Him?
John opens the chapter with a quiet dinner in Bethany, but beneath its ordinary appearance lies one of the most revealing scenes in all of Scripture. Gathered around the table are men and women who have all encountered the same Jesus, witnessed the same miracles, and heard the same words. Lazarus reclines beside the Lord who restored his life. Martha moves about serving, just as she has always done, her love expressed through faithful action. Mary enters carrying a jar of perfume worth nearly a year’s wages. Without concern for appearances or criticism, she breaks it open, pours it upon the feet of Jesus, and wipes them with her hair. John tells us that “the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume” (John 12:3). It is a beautiful detail, because true love cannot remain hidden. Like fragrance, genuine devotion fills every corner of the room.
Yet not everyone smells the fragrance in the same way. Judas watches the very same act and calls it waste. He speaks of the poor, but John, unwilling to let hypocrisy disguise itself as virtue, simply tells us the truth: “He said this not because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief” (John 12:6). Outside the house the chief priests are having a different conversation altogether. Lazarus has become living evidence that Jesus truly possesses authority over death, and rather than allowing the miracle to lead them to faith, they decide that both Jesus and Lazarus must die. It is one of the darkest moments in the Gospel. A man has returned from the grave, and instead of asking, “Who can command death except God?” they ask, “How do we silence the evidence?”
This scene has always fascinated me because everyone is looking at the same Christ, yet everyone sees something different. Mary sees infinite beauty worthy of every earthly possession. Martha sees a Master worthy of faithful service. Lazarus sees the One to whom he owes his very life. Judas sees lost income. The chief priests see a threat to their authority. The miracle is the same. The Teacher is the same. The words are the same. Only the hearts are different. That should cause every one of us to pause, because we often imagine that if God would only reveal Himself more clearly everyone would believe. John has already answered that objection. God stood before them in the flesh. The blind saw. The lame walked. The dead rose. Still many refused Him. The problem was never a lack of evidence. The problem was always the human heart.
Perhaps this also explains why sincere Christians sometimes speak about Jesus in different ways. One is captivated by His mercy, another by His justice. One constantly speaks of His friendship, another of His kingship. One finds Him most profoundly in the Eucharist, another in silent prayer, another in caring for the poor. None of these experiences is false. Rather, each reveals one facet of an infinite God. Yet our vision in this life is also clouded. We do not come before Christ as blank slates. We come carrying our fears, our wounds, our sins, our hopes, our personalities, and our experiences. Pride distorts our vision. Fear narrows it. Greed blinds it. Humility clarifies it. Love purifies it. St. Augustine often taught that we become like what we love. If our loves are disordered, then our vision is disordered as well. We begin to see Christ not as He truly is, but as our attachments allow us to see Him.
That realization raises another question, one that has occupied Christian thinkers for centuries. If each of us experiences Christ somewhat differently in this life, will Heaven simply continue those differences forever? The Catholic faith offers an answer that is both comforting and astonishing. No, because in Heaven every distortion caused by sin will disappear forever. St. Paul writes, “At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face” (1 Corinthians 13:12). St. John writes, “We know that when it is revealed we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is” (1 John 3:2). The Church calls this the Beatific Vision. There, for the first time, we shall not merely believe in God or think about Him. We shall behold Him directly. Every false image we carried throughout life will vanish before the overwhelming reality of His glory. Every doubt will disappear. Every fear will be consumed by perfect love. Every question will find its answer not in words but in the Person of Christ Himself.
Yet Heaven will not erase our individuality. God did not create billions of identical souls, nor does He intend eternity to be a place of sameness. Rather, each saint reflects something unique about the infinite beauty of God. St. Francis reveals His joyful poverty. St. Augustine reveals His truth. St. Thérèse reveals His childlike trust. St. John of the Cross reveals His purifying love. Together they do not compete with one another; together they reveal more of Christ than any one saint ever could. St. Thomas Aquinas compared the blessed to vessels of different sizes placed beneath an endless fountain. Every vessel is completely full. None lacks anything. Some simply have a greater capacity to receive. Yet because Heaven is perfect charity, no one envies another’s fullness. Instead, each rejoices in the glory given to everyone else. What is impossible on earth becomes natural in Heaven because love has finally become perfect.
Perhaps that is why John arranges this chapter as he does. It is not merely about Mary, Judas, Lazarus, or the chief priests. It is about us. Every person who encounters Jesus becomes known by the response he or she gives. Lazarus is forever remembered as the man whom Jesus raised from the dead. Mary is remembered as the woman whose extravagant love filled the house with fragrance. Martha is remembered for faithful service. Judas is remembered as the betrayer. The chief priests are remembered as men who loved their own authority more than the truth standing before them. History remembers them not because of what they claimed to believe but because of who they became after meeting Christ.
That may be the most unsettling question John asks in this chapter. How will we be remembered? If someone who knew us well were asked to describe us in a single sentence, would Jesus appear anywhere in that description? Would they say, “He loved Christ”? “She trusted God”? “Their home radiated peace.” “They forgave easily.” “They were generous.” Or would our accomplishments, careers, possessions, politics, and hobbies completely overshadow our faith? The saints were not remembered because they were extraordinary people. They are remembered because Christ became visible in them.Joshua stood before Israel and declared, “As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord” (Joshua 24:15). Notice that he did not say, “I will privately believe in God.” He made his household itself a public witness. Anyone entering his home would know to whom it belonged.
I wonder if the same could be said of ours. Have we become so careful not to offend anyone that we quietly suspend our Christian identity whenever we leave church? We pray silently so no one notices. We avoid speaking about Christ because someone may disagree. We soften the Gospel lest it seem unpopular. Little by little we become experts at blending into the crowd.Yet Jesus never called His disciples to disappear into the crowd. He called them to be salt that preserves, light that shines, and a city set upon a hill that cannot be hidden. Mary did not hide her devotion. The fragrance filled the entire house. Lazarus did not preach a sermon. His transformed life was the sermon. Even Judas eventually revealed what truly ruled his heart. So will we. Every day we proclaim a gospel. The question is whether it is the Gospel of Jesus Christ or the gospel of ourselves.It is striking that John places this scene immediately before Jesus enters Jerusalem. The crowds will soon shout, “Hosanna!” Within days many of those same voices will cry, “Crucify Him!”
Public opinion is one of the most unstable things in the world. We spend enormous amounts of energy trying to gain the approval of people whose opinions are constantly changing. We fear rejection, ridicule, and misunderstanding. Yet the crowd is never our final judge.One day the crowd will disappear. The voices that praised us will be silent. The voices that criticized us will also be silent. Our reputation will no longer matter. Our wealth will not speak for us. Our titles will not defend us. Our excuses will not comfort us. There will be no comparisons with other people because no other person will be standing in our place.
There will only be Jesus…and you.On that day He will not ask whether we managed to avoid offending the culture. He will not ask whether we were admired by strangers or applauded by the crowd. He will ask whether we loved Him, trusted Him, followed Him, and allowed His grace to transform us. He will ask whether His life became visible in ours. As St. Paul wrote, “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Galatians 2:20).Perhaps that has been John’s invitation all along. He has spent eleven chapters revealing who Jesus is. Now, in chapter twelve, he quietly turns the mirror toward us. The final question is no longer about Christ. It is about the disciple. Who am I becoming because I have met Him?
We begin this life surrounded by a crowd.
We end it standing before Christ alone.
Between those two moments, every choice we make is writing the answer.
The musings of Peter 