Costumes of the Ego

And while He was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as He was reclining at table, a woman came with an alabaster flask of ointment of pure nard, very costly, and she broke the flask and poured it over His head. There were some who said to themselves indignantly, “Why was the ointment wasted like that? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii and given to the poor.” And they scolded her. But Jesus said, “Leave her alone. Why do you trouble her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them. But you will not always have Me. She has done what she could; she has anointed My body beforehand for burial. And truly, I say to you, wherever the Gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her” (Mk. 14:3–9).

Here is costly devotion—and the room erupts in phony moral outrage. Waste. Irresponsible. Think of the poor.

But notice: the only person actually doing good is the woman being scolded. The “indignant” critics contribute nothing but commentary.

Do I love the Lord—or do I love sounding like someone who loves the Lord?

This is one of the ego’s favorite tricks: replace obedience with ideas about obedience. We can sound compassionate while sacrificing nothing. Talking about “what should have been done” is a way to avoid doing anything ourselves while at the same time diminishing the real service of others as irresponsible and wasteful.

Perhaps deep down we’re offended because another’s sacrifice has dinged our conscience, exposing our illusions of faithfulness, so we must quickly become experts on “better” sacrifices.

That’s how we end up appointing ourselves the steward of someone else’s obedience. And we do it with moral-sounding language: “That could have been sold… given to the poor…” (Mk. 14:5).

And if we’re honest, we love a fantasy version of ourselves as not only the generous man, but the more generous man, the more thoughtful, understanding brother—even if it’s only in theory. Just so long as in practice, we get to keep our flask sealed.

This is one of the ways Mk. 14 challenges us. It forces me to ask: “Do I love the Lord—or do I love sounding like someone who loves the Lord?”

I love to pat myself on the back for kind intentions I never carried out. My loving intentions become a refuge wherein I salve my conscience. It lets a man feel compassionate while remaining isolated and inert. In other words, I get to feel like a loving person without actually loving anyone the way Jesus commands.

But if I’m honest with myself, Scripture will not let me hide there: “…whoever has worldly goods and sees his brother or sister in need, and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God remain in him?” (1 Jn. 3:17).

The Bible keeps pressing love out of the imagination and into the street, reminding me love is not proved by what I “intend” to do, but by what I actually do for my neighbor in front of me: “Little children, let’s not love with word or with tongue, but in deed and truth” (1 Jn. 3:18).

To the man who wants the reputation of compassion without the cost, service will always feel like theft.

A doctor once confessed that he could overflow with “love” for mankind, yet barely tolerate a single person up close. In his mind he could serve humanity in heroic ways. In real life, he couldn’t share a room more than ten minutes with the same individual without resenting him. “Humanity” never annoys you, never makes demands, never forgets to say thank you. Real people do. To the ego, a real person in need feels like an intrusion—a tax on comfort, control, and freedom. That’s how service feels to a prideful heart—but not to a grateful one.

To the man who wants the reputation of compassion without the cost, service will always feel like theft. But that’s not what love is. That’s what love looks like to the ego. This woman is different. She doesn’t treat love like a transaction. She sees an opportunity to honor Jesus, and she pours out her offering. What the critics call waste, Jesus calls beautiful. Jesus sees the moment very differently than the others.

The woman sees the moment differently because she sees Jesus differently. The critics see a commodity; she sees a King. All they could see was a price-tag; she sees an opportunity to honor Him. That’s the difference.

Christ outweighed everything, so sacrifice wasn’t waste—it was the most fitting way to say thank you.

She sees Jesus as worth it—so she sacrifices. When Christ is counted as surpassing value—His love, His cross, His mercy—service is no longer “payment” or “intrusion.” It becomes privilege.

That’s Phil 3:8 unfolding here: “What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them garbage, that I may gain Christ.”

For her, Christ outweighed everything, so sacrifice wasn’t waste—it was the most fitting way to say thank you.

When I see service and sacrifice, what rises up in me—gratitude, or resentment? Do I honor sacrifice, or do I rush to explain how it could have been done “better,” so I don’t have to face what I’m not doing at all?

And this is exactly where Jesus steps in. He doesn’t merely defend her efforts. He confronts their hearts. He doesn’t say, “Let’s all appreciate different approaches to service.” He says, “Leave her alone” (Mk. 14:6). That's rebuke.

Because the critics in the room aren’t really “disagreeing,” they’re performing. Jesus calls it what it is: “Why do you trouble her?” (Mk. 14:6). In other words, stop virtue-signaling to bully real devotion. Stop troubling the one who is actually serving. Stop pretending your outrage is righteousness.

I can be “concerned” and still be driven by pride, protecting my own comfort.

This is what posturing does. It’s meant to pressure—to shame. It’s meant to publicly put the sacrificial person back in her place. And pride loves that move, because it turns another person’s costly obedience into an opportunity for me to look wise, principled, and compassionate—without having to pour out anything myself.

Jesus will not allow it.

He will not allow people to take genuine obedience and hijack it for self-righteous display to exalt self.

Notice what He does next: He does not merely silence the critics; He relabels the act. They call it waste. He calls it beautiful (Mk. 14:6). Christ is weighing the hearts in the room, and He is not impressed with the ones who sound compassionate. He honors the one who is.

And this is where Mark 14 presses on us again: I can be sincere and still be selfish. I can be “concerned” and still be driven by pride, protecting my own comfort. The tell is not my vocabulary. The tell is how I view sacrifice.

If I won’t face the Truth about me, I’ll distort the truth about you.

Sometimes resentment can be dressed up as concern. And “concern” isn’t the only costume the ego wears. Sometimes it wears humility. Sometimes it performs sincerity. A man can admit the facts of his sin, not because he hates the sin, but because he loves the reputation of being “honest.”

He confesses just enough to be praised for transparency, while quietly protecting the idol underneath. Scripture warns about the false humility we flaunt only to serve self (Col. 2:18, 23).

That’s not repentance—it’s image-management. Confession is not damage-control, it is surrender. Repentance doesn’t merely admit wrongdoing; it turns from it. There's nothing about real, biblical confession and repentance that's meant to polish the ego. It's meant to put it to death (Pro. 28:13).

And this is the same root problem you see in that room in Bethany—just a different costume. Performing concern says, “I care about the poor,” while troubling obedience. Performing humility says, “Look how honest I am,” while keeping pride intact. Same ego. Different mask.

In both cases, the goal is the same: protect the image, quiet the conscience, and avoid the costly thing God is actually calling for. When real devotion exposes pretenders, the ego scrambles—either to look righteous by condemning someone else, or to look humble by “confessing” without changing.

We're in danger when we reframe someone’s obedience as irresponsible in the hopes that others won’t notice our own lack of devotion. If I won’t face the Truth about me, I’ll distort the truth about you (Matt. 7:3–5).

Jesus doesn’t just rebuke their spirit—He dismantles their argument.

He exposes the fraud: He doesn’t deny the duty to help the poor—He says they already have constant opportunities to do the good they insist on—“whenever you want” (Mk. 14:7). The real issue is not the poor. It is the will. They pretended that resources were the obstacle. In reality it was their resolve. Not, “Can you?” but, “Do you want to?”

That’s what makes their outrage hollow. They speak as if they’re passionate about serving, but Jesus points out the uncomfortable truth: You’ve had countless chances to serve. You could do it today. You could do it quietly and consistently. But instead, you waited until someone else sacrificed, then suddenly found your voice.

This is where “concern” becomes a convenient hiding place—a mask we wear. It allows a man to feel righteous without being obedient. A man can talk about “the poor” while remaining unmoved by someone’s actual need. It becomes a form of moral procrastination: I will do good… later. I will be generous… when it’s easier. I will serve… when I have more. But Jesus drags it into the light: actually, you can do it whenever you want.

So He confronts us again with another question: Do I actually want to do good—or do I just want to be the kind of man who sounds like he does?

Love always moves toward needs instead of talking about needs.

Scripture won't allow love to live in abstractions. Love has hands. Love has receipts in Heaven (Heb. 6:10–11). There’s another mercy in this: active love doesn’t just demonstrate genuine faith (Gal. 5:6)—it strengthens it: “We know that we have come to know him if we keep his commands” (1 Jn. 2:3). John isn’t saying obedience replaces the Gospel’s evidence, or that it earns God’s favor. But it does strengthen assurance—“We know…” Other Bible writers do the same. Peter, for instance, says, “…be all the more diligent to confirm your calling and election, for if you practice these qualities you will never fall” (2 Pet. 1:10).

He points us to visible, practiced obedience—a life we can actually examine. The key word is “confirm” (often rendered “make sure”), and he puts that responsibility on the Christian: “be all the more diligent.” Assurance is not treated as a mystical, better-felt-than-told experience, but as something realized through faithful obedience. Assurance grows where faith is exercised.

Hebrews makes the same point: “And we desire each one of you to show the same earnestness to have the full assurance of hope until the end…” (Heb. 6:11). Hebrews is a book of warnings against drifting away, hardening the heart, and shrinking back. So when the writer speaks of “full assurance of hope,” he is not describing a momentary emotional high. He is describing a settled confidence that endures—“until the end.” But this is impossible without “your work and the love that you have shown for His name in serving the saints…” (Heb. 6:10). Love in action bolsters our assurance, but neglected love produces drift, self-deception, and shrinking hope.

Love always moves toward needs instead of talking about needs (1 Jn. 3:17–18). And when we know the good we ought to do, and keep finding reasons not to do it, that isn’t merely “busyness.” It’s disobedience: “If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them” (Jas. 4:17). Jesus’ words in Mark 14:7 don’t just correct the critics; they expose a category of self-deception that lives in all of us.

I dread the thought of discovering too late that what I call “extra,” Christ simply calls faithfulness.

For instance, one of the most common forms of self-deception is this imaginary category Christians call “extra.” As if discipleship comes in two tiers: the required basics—assemble, sing, take the Lord’s Supper, give, avoid certain sins—and then the optional add-ons: studying outside the assembly, visiting the sick, pursuing the weak, teaching others, etc.

The trouble is neither Jesus nor James recognizes that category. Calling it “extra” is often just a polite way of saying, “I don’t want to.” It’s conscience-management. It lets us keep the reputation of being faithful while we quietly sidestep the very life Christ calls us to live.

Someone will object: “So if I miss Men’s Study, or Ladies’ Bible Class I’m sinning?” Not necessarily. I am not binding a calendar as law, and I am not saying every missed opportunity is sin. No disciple can do every good work in every place. The apostles said, “It is not right that we should give up preaching the word of God to serve tables” (Acts 6:2).

The question isn’t whether you participate in this or that study or organized effort (taking food to shut-ins). The question is whether you are obeying the commands these gatherings and efforts are meant to fulfill. Christ commands a life of encouragement, edification, worship, hospitality, prayer, burden-bearing, and active good (Heb. 10:24–25; Gal. 6:2, 10; Rom. 12:13; Jas. 1:27). A Saturday study may be one way to do that—but it’s not the only way. If you don’t do it there, where are you doing it? The method is optional; the obedience is not.

James doesn’t let us hide behind “I could have” and “I meant to.” I might try to salve my conscience by calling some service or sacrifice “extra,” but I dread the thought of discovering too late that what I call “extra,” Christ simply calls faithfulness. This is exactly the kind of self-deception James exposes (Jas. 4:17).

So here’s the get: if my heart is always full of “better ideas” for service, or dismissing some service as “extra stuff,” yet my life is barren of actual service, then the problem is not a lack of opportunity. It is a lack of will. Jesus said, “Whenever you want.” The question isn’t whether the opportunity exists. The question is whether we will obey.

Which means the next question is unavoidable: What do I do with what I have? Not what I would do with more. Not what I would do if my schedule changed. Not what I would do if life got simpler. What do I do now—with the goods, time, strength, and opportunities God has already placed in my hands (Gal. 6:10; Eph. 2:10; 1 Pet. 4:11)?

While waiting for “perfect” circumstances we become our own worst enemy. Do what you can. And do it now.

Jesus’ own words reveal how He measures faithfulness: “She has done what she could” (Mk. 14:8). Jesus does not say, “She did what was most efficient.” He does not say, “She did what everyone agreed was the best use of resources.” He says something far more searching: she did what was in her power to do.

He exposes two common forms of self-deception.

First, the perfection excuse—the habit of waiting for the ideal opportunity, the ideal schedule, the ideal bank account, the ideal energy level, the ideal plan. Some people never obey because they’re always waiting to obey perfectly. But Jesus honors what is real, not what is imaginary. She didn’t do everything. She did what she could.

Second, it destroys the comparison excuse—the habit of measuring our service against what others can do, and then using that to justify doing little. “I’m not as free as him.” “I can’t give like her.” “I don’t have that personality.” “I’m not trained.” But Jesus isn’t grading on someone else’s abilities. He is weighing your faithfulness with what you have.

Discipleship is personal and concrete. What have you done with what you have? What have you done with your time? Your strength? Your attention? Your money? Your opportunities? Your household?

True sacrifice is not a transaction.

“She has done what she could” means Christ commends obedience—not heroic fantasies. He acknowledges the disciple who says, “This is what I have, and this is what I can do,” and then pours it out. In a room full of critics, He is looking for faithful people. While waiting for “perfect” circumstances we become our own worst enemy. Do what you can. And do it now.

Jesus’ words uncover something else that hides in the ego: the praise-bargain. Some are willing to do good—as long as it comes with immediate payoff—thanks, recognition, public affirmation, the warm feeling of being seen as the good man.

But look at this woman. She pours, and not only does the room not erupt with applause, it scolds her. She does not receive instant gratitude. She receives public criticism. So what? The only approval that matters to her belongs to the One she is worshipping. And she receives it.

There is a kind of “service” that is really an exchange (Matt. 6:1–4). A man may give and give generously, but in his “giving” he intends to buy something—approval, reputation, status. And Jesus calls that reward cheap: if human praise is what you wanted, human praise is all you get. The woman in Mark 14 isn’t buying applause. She is honoring a King. She is doing good even when it costs her not only 300-denarii perfume, but public ridicule as well.

True sacrifice is not a transaction. It is not “I’ll serve if I’m thanked.” It is service rendered unto God—gladly, freely, without keeping a ledger.

So “she has done what she could” confronts me on this level too: do I need immediate repayment in order to obey? Do I only serve when it makes me feel appreciated? Do I give only when I’m noticed? Do I help only when I’m affirmed? Or can I pour out love even when the room scolds, the work is unseen, and nobody says thank you—because Christ sees, and Christ is worthy?

Jesus ends the scene with a promise that should sober every spectator in the room: “Wherever the Gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her” (Mk. 14:9).

Jesus remembers the woman who quietly honored Him at great cost. That’s what mattered to Him. Critical noise feels powerful, but it fades. Faithfulness often feels small, but it endures—because Christ sees it, and Christ remembers it.

The room in Bethany is still with us. It lives wherever people talk about what “should” be done while doing little themselves; wherever sacrifice is criticized because it exposes the conscience.

The Gospel remembers a woman anointing Jesus. It remembers the unglamorous kindness no one tweets about. It remembers what never trends or hits your feed. It remembers visits to the sick, prayers offered in secret, meals given, burdens carried, patience, truth spoken, and faithfulness in ordinary places (Matt. 6:3–4; Heb. 6:10). It remembers the person who did what they could.

If you read this and feel only annoyance, that means you need the rebuke. But if you read this and feel real grief—if you hear Mark 14 and think, “I’ve been the talker; I’ve been the critic; I’ve been the man with the sealed flask”—don’t turn conviction into despair.

When you stop living on imagined virtue, you suddenly see how thin your love has been. That moment can feel like failure—like you’re farther from Christ than you thought. But that realization is actually mercy. It’s the first moment you’re seeing clearly. God is not absent when He exposes you; He is near enough to correct you. The ancient promise still holds true in Christ: “Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart. I will be found by you, says the Lord, and I will bring you back from your captivity…” (Jer. 29:12-14).

Jesus’ commendation to the woman is also an invitation to us. Start where you are. Use what you have. Do the good that is in front of you. You cannot do every good work in every place. But you can do something. And the Gospel does not ask you for heroic fantasies; it asks you for faithful steps. The cure for self-deception is honest self-examination and obedience (2 Cor. 13:5).

If you have goods, give. If you have time, spend it. If you have strength, pour it out. Christ is worthy, and the Gospel is not advanced by spectators—it is carried forward by obedient disciples, so that Christ may be glorified (1 Pet. 4:11). So don’t settle for sounding like someone who loves the Lord. Love Him. Let your faith have hands. Be grateful. And when you see costly devotion in others, don’t trouble it—imitate and join it.