When Surrender Smells Like Broken Perfume

There is a woman in Luke 7 whose name we are never given.

We know what the city called her. A sinner. That is how she enters the story.

Not by her name. Not by her family. Not by her achievements. Not by what she had survived or what had happened to her.

By her reputation. She walks into the house of Simon the Pharisee carrying an alabaster jar of perfume, and everybody in that room knows exactly who she is.

Or at least they think they do. And perhaps that is the first thing about surrender that moves me so deeply. She came anyway. She knew the room. She knew the whispers. She knew the looks. She knew respectable religious people were sitting around that table.

She knew what they thought of women like her. But Jesus was there. And when you have finally understood who Jesus is, there comes a moment when what people think about you becomes considerably less important than getting to His feet.

That woman had reached that moment. She had no speech Luke tells us: “As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears.”
Luke 7:38

I keep coming back to that. She did not arrive with a theological argument. She did not defend herself.She did not explain her past. She did not give Simon her side of the story.

She did not tell Jesus why she had become the woman everybody whispered about. She wept. Sometimes surrender has no vocabulary. Sometimes you have prayed all the intelligent prayers already. Sometimes you have explained yourself until you are exhausted. Sometimes there are no beautiful Christian sentences left.

There is just you. And Him. And tears. I think we underestimate how sacred that place can be. Psalm 56:8 gives us this extraordinary picture of God taking notice of our tears. They are not meaningless to Him.

So perhaps tears at the feet of Jesus are not evidence that faith has failed.

Perhaps sometimes they are what remains when performance finally has.

Then she let down her hair This part would have been deeply vulnerable. Luke says she wiped His feet with her hair.

Think about what that required. She had to get low. Very low. There is no dignified way to wash somebody’s feet with your tears and dry them with your own hair.

And maybe that is exactly the point. Surrender eventually costs us our need to look composed. I can worship while maintaining appearances. I can attend church while maintaining appearances.

I can preach while maintaining appearances.

I can say “God is good” while maintaining appearances.But surrender? Surrender eventually brings me to the floor.

It says: Jesus, I am finished pretending with You. Here is the fear. Here is the sin.Here is the disappointment. Here is the thing I cannot fix. Here is the relationship. Here is my reputation. Here is my anger. Here is my grief. Here is my calling.

Here is the future I keep trying to control. Here is the version of my life I thought I would have by now. Here is the prayer You still haven’t answered.

Here is my alabaster jar. It is Yours. And then came the perfume She poured perfume on His feet. This was not casual worship. Perfume was valuable. And surrender that costs nothing is easy to romanticise.

We sing about giving God everything until He touches the thing we actually do not want to give Him.

We say: “Take my life.” But then He reaches for our plans. “Anything, Lord.” Except that relationship.

“Use me.”Except there. “I trust You.” Except with this outcome. “I surrender.”
Except my timeline.

And suddenly we discover how much of our surrender had terms and conditions attached.

The woman in Luke 7 did not give Jesus a sample.

She poured. That word challenges me.

Because I often want measured surrender.

Enough obedience to feel faithful. Enough sacrifice to feel spiritual. Enough vulnerability to appear authentic. But still keeping something in reserve.

Something I can control. Something that remains mine. And then this woman walks into Scripture and pours.

The room smelled like what surrender had cost her
Perfume does something interesting. Once it is poured, you cannot pretend it wasn’t.

The fragrance fills the room. Everyone becomes aware of it.

John describes a different anointing by Mary of Bethany and says:

“The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.”
John 12:3

I love that image.

A whole house filled with the fragrance of something poured out on Jesus.

Maybe surrendered lives are like that. You can smell when somebody has been with Jesus. Not because they are louder. Not because they quote more Scripture.

Not because they have perfected Christianity. There is simply something about them.

Less ego. More mercy. Less performance. More grace.

Less obsession with being seen. More willingness to serve unseen.

Less judgement of broken people because they remember exactly where Jesus found them.

Surrender leaves a fragrance.

You do not know what they have been forgiven for.

You do not know what happened in the room when nobody else was there and Jesus met them.

So be careful judging somebody else’s alabaster jar.

You don’t know what their worship remembers.

This is where surrender becomes personal for me

Because I have jars too.

Things I hold tightly.

My plans.

My reputation.

My need to understand.

My need for answers.

My family.

My future.

My ministry.

My disappointments.

My expectations of God.

Even my exhaustion.

And I am beginning to realise that surrender is not saying, “Lord, I don’t care anymore.”

It is saying:

“Lord, I care deeply. But I trust You more.”

That is different.

Surrender is not indifference.

Surrender can cry.

Surrender can grieve.

Surrender can ask why.

Surrender can tremble.

Surrender can desperately wish the story were different.

And still open its hands.

Maybe that is what I have misunderstood.

I thought surrender would feel peaceful immediately.

Sometimes surrender hurts.

Sometimes surrender smells like expensive perfume poured onto feet.

Sometimes surrender looks like tears running down a face.

Sometimes surrender means admitting:

I cannot carry this anymore, Jesus. So I am putting it here.

At His feet

That phrase keeps following me through Scripture.

At His feet.

That is where this woman weeps.

That is where Mary of Bethany later sits and listens.

That is where Jairus falls when his daughter is dying.

That is where people place the sick.

That is where worshippers fall.

Maybe I have spent too much time asking Jesus to bless what I am carrying instead of putting it at His feet.

There is a difference between asking God to help me carry something and finally admitting:

Maybe this was never mine to carry.

So today, I bring the jar.

I bring the thing I have protected.

The thing I have feared losing.

The thing I keep trying to control.

The prayer I keep trying to answer myself.

The future I keep rehearsing.

The hurt I keep revisiting.

The person I cannot change.

The outcome I cannot guarantee.

The calling I cannot sustain in my own strength.

And I pour.

Not because it does not matter.

Because He matters more.

Let people misunderstand.

Let Simon whisper.

Let the room stare.

There comes a point where surrender becomes more important than dignity.

I want Jesus more than I want control.

I want His presence more than I want people’s approval.

I want His will more than I want my carefully written version of the story.

And if all I have today is tears, then Jesus…

I will wash Your feet with those too.

Because nothing surrendered to You is wasted.

Not the perfume.

Not the tears.

Not the years.

Not the broken pieces.

Not even me.

I am done standing at a distance trying to look composed.

I am coming to Your feet.

With my whole story.

With my whole heart.

With whatever is left in the jar.

And this time, Lord,

I am not giving You a little.

I am pouring it out.

My prayer

Jesus, here is my alabaster jar.

I have held it long enough.

I surrender what happened.

I surrender what did not happen.

I surrender what I understand and what makes absolutely no sense to me.

I surrender the people I love.

I surrender the things I cannot fix.

I surrender my yesterday.

I surrender tomorrow before I even get there.

I surrender my need to be understood.

I surrender my need to control the ending.

And Lord, I surrender myself.

Let my life carry the fragrance of somebody who has been forgiven much, loved deeply and finally stopped running.

If tears come, let them come.

If surrender costs me, let it cost me.

If people misunderstand my worship, let them misunderstand.

I know whose feet I am at.

And Jesus…

there is nowhere else I would rather be

Love
V.L