The Interruption of Patriarchal Calculation by the Unnamed Female Other in Mark 14:3–9

The Gospel According to Mark—Exegetical Concerns

Mark's Gospel is surrounded by a host of exegetical issues. Such issues include questions concerning the authorship of the text, its genre, the date it was written (especially with reference to the destruction of the Temple in 70 ce), its central theological agenda (especially with reference to the role of paradoxical elements such as the so-called messianic secret), the relationship between this narrative and the other Gospels, among other queries. These issues notwithstanding, in what follows my main exegetical concern will be with the themes of the canonical text.

Mark's work is primarily a narrative about Jesus's message in both word and deed. Such is the function of the term gospel in his opening line: “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God” (Mark 1:1; NRSV; see Evan: lxv; Witherington: 7). The canonical text is a coherent narrative that draws from pre-existing strands of tradition (see Collin: 621–27; Boring: 9–14). Lamar Williamson notes the dual levels of this narrative. On the one hand it is a story in itself. On the other hand the story utilizes literary devices such as ambiguity, irony, and paradox to convey meaning to the reader (Williamson: 8). Given this claim, scholars such as R. T. France maintain that a literary critical approach to the text might yield more insight than form criticism (France: 1–2). At the very least, as Morna Hooker suggests, it is befitting to consider the manner in which Mark uses his sources to honor authorial intent (Hooker: 4). From these claims it follows that, when considering one pericope (such as the unnamed woman who anoints Jesus), it is important to note its place and function in the larger narrative.

Regarding the theological theme(s) of the narrative, scholars have suggested numerous central points. These include an apologetic intention in which the author aims to correct heretical positions. Such deficient positions include a christological corrective of Gnostic tendencies, an overemphasis on the centrality of the apostles, and a vision of Jesus as a religious sage. The accuracy of such themes is questionable (France: 20–23; Hooker: 12–13). Even if they are accurate, narratives seldom have one point. It is more likely that a host of themes occupy the author's concern with varying degrees of emphasis. As a narrative about the impact Jesus's life (and certainly his death) have on the world, two central themes are christology and discipleship, both related to the kingdom of God (Williamson: 8–9).

I see these themes in two reoccurring dimensions of the narrative. First, Mark frequently contrasts two forms of responses to Jesus: uncalculating awe and calculating dismissal. Second, these responses are related to the issue of authority, most frequently whether or not Jesus actually has any. To delineate what I perceive to be the significance of the pericope of the unnamed woman anointing Jesus, I must explore these dimensions further.

Themes in Mark: Uncalculating Awe and Authority

The newness of Jesus's teaching “astounds” (ekplésso) people (1:22). After Jesus heals the paralytic brought to him by four people, the people are “displaced” (exístemi). They marvel, “We have never seen anything like this” (2:12). After Jesus calms the storm, the narrator claims that the disciples “were filled with great awe” (phóbon mégan—4:41). Those who hear the witness of the healed demoniac are “amazed” (thaumázo) (5:20). The disciples are “utterly astounded” (thaumázo) at Jesus's walking on water (6:51). After the transfiguration, Jesus approaches a crowd, including his disciples, that are arguing with teachers of the law. When they see Jesus, all of them are “immediately overcome with awe” (ekthambéo) (9:15). The disciples are “greatly astounded” (ekplésso) at Jesus's teaching about the rich (10:26). Pilate is “amazed” (thaumázo) at Jesus's silence during his questioning (15:5).

These examples of awe suggest an intuitive response to Jesus's presence and work: awe in the face of something mysterious. However, this sense of intuitive awe or displacement is itself displaced when people attempt to calculate Jesus and his interaction with the world. Frequently, this calculation takes the form of questioning the practices of Jesus because such practices challenge the status quo. When Jesus heals the paralyzed man, the crowd states, “We have never seen anything like this” (2:12). However, the teachers of the law engage in calculating reason (dialogízomai), asking “Why does this fellow speak in this way? It is blasphemy! Who can forgive sins but God alone?” (2:6–7). In the next episode of the narrative, Jesus eats with tax collectors and sinners, an activity that leads to another calculated question from the teachers, here identified specifically as Pharisees (2:16). In the presence of a man with a withered hand, some onlookers carefully observe (parateréo) Jesus “to see whether he would cure him on the sabbath, so that they might accuse him” (3:2). Here calculation overshadows the suffering of one in the community. Jesus heals the man, which elicits the Pharisees to plot (sumboúlion) with the Herodians to kill Jesus. After Peter's climatic declaration of Jesus's messianic identity (8:29), he rebukes Jesus for predicting his own passion (8:32). Jesus in turn rebukes Peter for his (mis)calculation about messianic identity, a common issue in Mark (see Williamson: 10).

Calculation also causes tension when Jesus's disciples direct it at others. While traveling on the road to Capernaum, they argue over who among them is the greatest (9:33–34). Jesus shows them a child as an example of authority. Further, he claims that anyone who welcomes such a child in his name, that one welcomes the divine. Ironically the disciples, ever calculating who is worthy of Jesus's presence, fail at welcoming children (see 10:13). In a shocking display of exclusivism, the disciples hinder (kolúo) an other person from healing people because in their calculations: “He was not following us” (9:38). It is difficult enough to calculate one's own greatness in reference to known quantities without the inclusion of unknown ones! But for Jesus, these unknown quantities exist and are welcomed as unknown. After all, Jesus does not recruit the man to follow him but still identifies him as “with us” (9:40). In a later episode, James and John attempt to secure a position of authority “in glory” (10:35–37). Their request evokes indignation from the other disciples (10:41). Jesus is once again forced to suggest that the authority of the kingdom interrupts the petty calculations of the disciples.

Calculation is a form of economic exchange. In the most egregious of markets, everyone and everything is calculable. Everyone and everything has its place, which is revealed by these calculations. Everything can be bought and sold, for everything has a price. Even in front of a man hanging on a tree, people can calculate the validity of his claims and cast lots to fairly divide the resources he leaves behind (15:24–32). Those who calculate Jesus's claims cannot find a place for him in the status quo. Their only option is to dismiss or remove him. Those who refuse to calculate Jesus, instead responding with awe, are displaced because his incalculability shatters the illusion of the status quo. Such is the Markan theme of uncalculating awe versus calculating dismissal.

A second theme is that of authority, which France connects to the themes of Christology (France: 25–26). Similarly, Hooker writes that while “Jesus nowhere preaches himself … his every action is characterized by authority” (Hooker: 20). Authority in Mark is intricately connected to the tension between awe and calculation. That is, calculation tends to lead to a rejection or dismissal of Jesus's authority. As France states, “Jesus appears from the outset of Mark's narrative as one who causes astonishment, as a figure of unprecedented authority” (France: 25).

Those dismissing awe and engaging in calculation often do so to maintain and evince their own authority, which is bound to the status quo that Jesus's incalculability shatters. On the other hand, those who are in awe of Jesus tend to acknowledge his authority. The people of Capernaum “were astounded at his [Jesus's] teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes” (1:22). They later echo the same sentiment: “What is this? A New Teaching—with authority” (1:27b). The narrator notes that, with this recognition of authority based on awe, Jesus's “fame began to spread throughout the surrounding region of Galilee” (1:28).

When people shift from the initial awe in Jesus's presence to calculation, however, Jesus's authority falls into question. Consider the narrative of Jesus in his hometown:

Note that the shift toward calculation—that is, the people know who Jesus is and where he fits in—corresponds to a rejection of Jesus's authority.

Often (though certainly not always), those who calculate Jesus and thus challenge his authority are religious leaders (e.g., Pharisees, chief priests, scribes). Lawyers from Jerusalem calculate that Jesus's power of exorcism derives from Beelzebul, thus challenging his authority (3:22). After Jesus clears the Temple, the chief priests (for whom the Temple is a symbol of authority), scribes, and elders ask: “By what authority are you doing these things? Who gave you this authority to do them?” (11:28). When Jesus challenges the authority of the religious leaders by telling the parable of the vineyard and the violent and unfaithful tenants who calculate that if they kill the owner's son, they will inherit the land (12:1–9), those leaders “wanted to arrest him,” but do not because “they feared the crowd” (12:12). Here, the religious authorities, in the face of having their position challenged, desire to remove the challenge, but calculate that if they do so openly, their authority among the people might diminish. Even Pilate, who is “amazed” at Jesus and initially seeks to spare him (15:5–10), eventually hands him over because he calculates such a move will “satisfy the crowd” (15:15), thus vouchsafing his own authority by maintaining the status quo.

The disciples present a tension with regard to awe and calculation on the one hand, and recognizing and failing to recognize the manner of Jesus's authority on the other. Hooker describes the difference between the chief priests and the disciples as rejection from the former versus incomprehension from the latter (Hooker: 21). The disciples acknowledge with awe that “even the wind and the sea obey” Jesus (4:41). Yet, they consistently miss the nature of Jesus's authority. Williamson suggests that a “theme of failure” permeates the role of the disciples in the narrative (Williamson: 14–15). The clearest form is Peter's rebuke of Jesus's interpretation of messianic identity (8:31–32). Peter's calculations cannot fathom a “divine plan that makes no human sense” (France: 25). The disciples do not understand the nature of Jesus's authority and how it is different from those who flaunt it for self-recognition (see 12:38).

Together, these two themes suggest that Jesus's authority defies the calculations that uphold the status quo. This defiance has political overtones (Evans: lxxxii–xciii). When intuitive awe fades in the face of exacting calculation, the miracle worker becomes merely a threat to the system. Ultimately, the author presents a vision of Jesus's messianic kingship as a paradox of authority. His kingship defies the exacting calculations of first century power struggles, both religious and political. This defying continues until Jesus's death. It is, ironically, the death of Jesus that leads the Roman centurion to declare that he is God's son (15:39). The recognition suggests that Jesus's death reveals that true power is kenotic. Jesus was no more a weak pacifist than Gandhi. Jesus reveals that authority is not established through the grasping of fearful people that cannot live in a world that they cannot calculate—that does not fit into a clear system of economic exchange in which everyone and everything has its place and value. True authority operates with the tension of excess. It permits openness and mystery.

Women, Awe, and Authority in Mark

It is within the matrix of the aforementioned themes that the narrative of the unnamed woman takes on a fuller meaning. However, before detailing this meaning, it will be valuable to consider briefly the role other women play in Mark. This truncated examination serves only to acknowledge a framework for the pericope at hand.

Mary Rose D'Angelo notes twelve women present in Mark's narrative (D'Angelo: 137–38). Three she identifies as faithful “disciples” (Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joses, and Salome). Six are nameless (Peter's mother-in-law, Jairus's daughter, the woman with the blood issue, the Syrophoenician, the poor widow, and the woman who anoints Jesus). Two are villains (Herodias and her daughter). Finally, one is a “bit player” (she questions Peter during Jesus’ trial). Of these twelve women, I will briefly consider only three here, all of them among the unnamed.

First, the woman with internal bleeding (Mark 5:25–34). This episode is an example of the Markan sandwich, a device in which a narrative interrupts another unfolding narrative and in doing so provides theological import to the interrupted narrative (Edwards: 194). Jairus, a leader of the synagogue (note that he is named and his position of authority identified), approaches Jesus because his daughter is ill and likely to die. The religious leader seems unconcerned that Jesus has just come from a situation steeped in uncleanliness (e.g., dead bodies and tombs, a man who cuts himself because he is possessed by Legion, Gentiles, and a large herd of pigs) (D'Angelo 140–41). Jairus implores Jesus to come to his house and heal his daughter. Jesus obliges. On the way, the unnamed woman with internal bleeding that no doctor could cure fights through the crowd to touch Jesus, believing she would be healed. Her quest is successful. Jesus tells her, “Your faith [pístis] has made you well” (5:34). It is then that Jairus is informed that his daughter has died and that Jesus's services are thus no longer necessary. Jesus says to the leader of the synagogue, “Do not fear, only believe [písteue]” (5:36). In this set of pericopae, the nameless woman becomes an example of faith for the named leader of the synagogue.

Second, the unnamed Syrophoenician (or of more general significance, Gentile) woman. The woman's daughter is demon-possessed. She humbly seeks Jesus's aid in this matter. Jesus, in turn, provides an opportunity for humility, referring to her as a kunárion (dog). According to Marie Saban, this response “reflects the typical wariness of a pious Jew toward a non-Jew” (Saban 191). It also represents one of the rare instances where Jesus is engaging in demeaning calculation of an other. However, the woman responds not indignantly, but with reverent and bold wit: “Sir [kúrie], even the dogs under the table eat the children's crumbs” (7:28). Jesus acknowledges the persuasiveness of the woman's “logos,” telling her that on account of her response her daughter will be healed. This episode lends validity to Sabin's claim that Mark tends to depict wise people as women (Sabin: 186).

Third, the unnamed and poor widow (Mark 12:41–44). In the midst of wealthy people making calculated contributions to the Temple treasury (calculated in that they make the offering “out of their abundance”), the widow gives an insignificant amount that, in Jesus's view, surpasses the other donations (12:42) because “out of her poverty [she] has put in everything she had” (12:44). This widow becomes an example of giving for the rich. Moreover, she provides a valuable teaching moment for Jesus's disciples. Not only so, she also stands in contrast with the scribes. Just before this episode Jesus levels an accusation against them: “They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance” (12:40). The honored scribes devour widows while the poor widow exceeds even the rich in generosity.

This brief exploration provides two points worthy of note. First, Mark's view of women is both diverse and overwhelmingly positive. Unclean women, Gentile women, poor women are examples of faith, wisdom, and charity for those with honor and authority. Second, the women, while in some sense timid (see 5:33), on the whole display a strong sense of authority (albeit an authority similar to Jesus and thus radically different from those who calculate within the status quo). The woman with internal bleeding pushes through a crowd. The Syrophoenician woman outwits Jesus. Lastly, while the narrative of the poor widow may conjure an image of a timid woman, bent over and lowly, quietly and shamefully making her pitiful offering, the text never suggests that such is her disposition. Indeed, the same Greek verb (bállo) is used for all those making contributions, including the woman. It is feasible that the woman made her kenotic offering with boldness.

The Anointing of Jesus by an Unnamed Woman

Having delineated the above dimensions of Mark's narrative, I am now able to explore, within these parameters, the pericope of Jesus's anointing. Like the woman with the blood issue, this narrative is part of a Markan sandwich. Thus, what follows includes a consideration of the pericope itself, the narrative it interrupts, and the theological significance expressed through the intertwining episodes.

The unfolding plotline around the pericope is the conspiracy of Jesus's arrest (14:1–2, 10–11). In vv 1–2, the chief priests and the scribes are discussing how they might “take” (kratéo, here the context suggests arresting Jesus) Jesus by “deceit” (dólos, here the context suggests doing so in secrecy) and kill him. The author thus makes explicit a desired end (Jesus's death) and the method of achieving that end (taking Jesus in secret).

Why this method of secrecy? In Mark's narrative, Jesus is now in Jerusalem for the first time (see 11:1–11). This geographical setting elicits a climax in narrative. It is accompanied by a key temporal setting: “It was two days before the Passover and the festival of Unleavened Bread” (14:1). The significance of this setting is twofold. The immanence of Jesus's death is growing with the approaching of the Passover (Evans: 356). And these combined liturgical celebrations brought a great host of people to Jerusalem. With this larger Jewish population gathering to remember their liberation from slavery, there was a great increase in the possibility of an uprising (Evans: 354; France: 548). Thus, the chief priests want to arrest Jesus in secret (as opposed to publicly during the festival) in order to avoid a thórubos (riot) among those gathered. The calculated secrecy is necessary to maintain the balance of power (Lane: 490). Collins notes that the chief priests “represent the priestly aristocracy, members of the noble families from which the high priest was selected.” She continues: “Under Roman rule, they chief priests were leading members of the Sanhedrin and of the internal government generally” (Collins: 640). She also notes that the scribes, subordinate to the chief priests, received their livelihood via Temple revenue. Thus both groups were tied to the Temple and shared a relationship of uneven benefits with Rome. In short, their power was dependent upon the Temple's safety, which was in turn dependent upon Rome's favor, which waned when rioting or rebellion occurred.

Given the above points, the cautious calculation of these religious leaders regarding the killing of Jesus betrays a desire to maintain a particular kind of power and authority. (Here is an example where the “in-house” nature of the conflict of Jesus and his later Jewish-Christian followers and non-Christian Jews is important. That is, we have here not a condemnation of Jews as power hungry but rather a question of how true authority manifests within God's chosen people). The theme of authority is further evident here in the Greek word kratéo, which can denote to grasp, arrest, or retain. The chief priest and scribes want to kratéo Jesus in such a manner that their power and authority are not damaged. Kratéo derives from krátos, which denotes power, might, or rule (Trenchard 1998). The leaders in this narrative kratéo in order to preserve their own krátos.

The form and aim of this taking provides juxtaposition between Jesus's authority and that of the religious leaders throughout Mark's narrative. The verb kratéo occurs fifteen times in the text. Of these occurrences, two are innocuous references by the narrator to Jews “holding” certain traditions (7:3, 4). Another neutral use of the verb refers to Peter, James, and John “keeping” the event of the transfiguration to themselves (9:10). Apart from these usages, the verb denotes positive and negative forms of authority.

Negatively, Jesus accuses the Pharisees and teachers of the law of “holding” to the tradition of humans rather than the divine commandments (7:8). Equally (if not more) negative are instances when the subject of the verb is a group attempting to control or overtake John the Baptist and Jesus. In the midst of the ever-growing crowd gathered around Jesus, his family seeks to “restrain” him. The reason for this restraint is the calculation that Jesus “has gone out of his mind” (3:21). When John the Baptist challenges Herod's authority on account of his illicit relationship with Herodias, Herod “arrests” him (6:17). After Jesus tells the parable of the vineyard tenants (12:1–11), the religious leaders desire to “arrest” him. When Judas aids the plot to arrest Jesus, he tells those sent by the religious authorities to “arrest” the one he kisses (14:44), which they do (14:46). Jesus notes that they did not “arrest” him in public (14:49), no doubt highlighting their fear of the people. Finally, those arresting Jesus also attempt to “seize” the young man wearing a linen garment (14:51). In all of these cases, the subjects of kratéo are seizing in a calculative manner so as to maintain their beneficial disposition. Herod takes John because he is challenging the legality of his actions. The religious authorities take Jesus because he challenges their authority.

In contrast to these eight negative examples of kratéo, the author uses the verb three times with Jesus as the subject. In each case, Jesus “takes” someone's hand in order to heal them or help them stand. Jesus heals Simon's mother-in-law and takes her hand to help her stand (1:31). After Jairus's daughter is pronounced dead, Jesus takes her by the hand and remedies her illness (5:41). Finally, when Jesus exorcises the unclean spirit that causes a boy to convulse, the boy appears “as a corpse” (9:26). Jesus takes the boy's hand and lifts him up.

The disparity could hardly be clearer and is unlikely a coincidence. Mark's narrative seems to juxtapose the relationship between kratéo and krátos. Significantly, the juxtaposition is not power versus kenosis; rather, it is a calculating and oppressive power versus an uncalculating and freeing power. Hence, in 14:1–2, the chief priests and scribes are presented as ones that cautiously calculate the best way to maintain their krátos. To do so, they must kratéo Jesus, but in such a way that does not disrupt their krátos over the people.

It is Judas who presents these religious leaders with just such an opportunity. In vv 10–11, Judas seeks out the chief priests in order to betray (paradídomi) Jesus to them. The narrator tells the reader that the priests rejoice at the news. After all, Judas's cooperation might serve two purposes. First, it could give those who desire to find Jesus guilty inside information about his teaching (Evans: 365). Second, and more importantly, it could provide intel about Jesus's location apart from the crowd (and at night).

Continuing the theme of calculation, nothing is for free. Thus, the priests promise to give (dídomi) Judas money. Judas's action is another example of miscalculation: “The collaboration of Judas belongs to the pattern of misunderstanding and failure that has characterized Jesus’ family and friends … his disciples, and especially the Twelve” (Williamson: 247).

In the middle of this frenzy of plotting calculation falls the episode of the unnamed woman who anoints Jesus. The woman enters the scene during the meal. France notes that this detail suggests the woman is—as opposed to John's account—“not a fellow guest” (France: 551). That is, she is not a participant in the meal. Her interruption is quite literal in this sense. In Hooker's words, she “flouts convention” (Hooker: 328), appearing as an unknown quantity from the outside. She is “totally anonymous” (Williamson: 247). From a modern perspective, Elaine Wainwright notes that the woman enters a “gendered and colonized space” (Wainwright: 133).

The woman bears an alabaster jar of pure perfume (nárdo pistikês). Here, the narrator engages in calculation, noting that the contents of the jar are “of surpassing value.” Without speaking, the woman breaks the jar, suggesting an irrevocable action in which all of the contents will be used in this one gesture (Witherington: 367), and pours the perfume on Jesus's head. The act is both extravagant and gratuitous. Says France, “Jesus is not so much anointed as drenched” (France: 552).

The narrator's general calculation of the perfume's value is intensified by an ambiguous group who sternly reproach the woman for wasting the precious substance. In Matthew, the group is identified specifically as Jesus's disciples. Such is a reasonable inference in Mark (Evans: 360; France: 550). Indeed, later manuscripts so identity the group (Collins: 641). Furthermore, Pheme Perkins suggests that the disciples’ chastisement of her “fits a typical pattern of the disciples, who push others away from Jesus” (Perkins: 695).

Regardless of the group's composition, it is able to calculate the exact worth of the perfume: three hundred denarii. In the midst of its interruption, calculation will not be easily undone. The calculators are “indignant in the face of the gift event” (Wainwright: 136). Within the flow of economic exchange, this precious substance could be sold and the money could have been “given” (dídomi) to the poor (14:5). Wainwright notes the irony that the “indignant ones” frame the gift in terms of both the poor and “commodity exchange,” a system which “renders no account of the poor” (Wainwright: 138). At any rate, the suggestion points to a noble task that Jesus himself mandates earlier (10:21). In the feeding of the five thousand, the disciples claim that two hundred denarii would provide bread for the crowd (6:37). Thus, this perfume could have provided food for thousands of people (Boring: 382). The calculations of the accusers seem legitimate. This unnamed woman who interrupts their meal and wastes a valuable substance requires their calculative wisdom concerning prudent use of her goods. As such, the group reprimands the woman.

Jesus, however, defends her, significantly claiming her deed was a kalón érgon (see Boring: 382–83). She senses the tone of the occasion in a manner that all of the others miscalculate. Jesus's end is near (14:7). In terms amenable to the theme of calculation and excess, Perkins states that the woman's action “forms a foil to the cheapness of Jesus’ life in the eyes of those who seek to destroy him” (Perkins: 698). Jesus goes on to interpret the action as an anointing for his burial. Furthermore, he states, “Truly I say … wherever the good news [euangélion] is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her” (14:9). Jesus's proclamation is notably odd on two accounts. First, no other person has received such an honor. After all, this dimension of remembrance in the Gospel is not for Jesus, but for her. Second, paradoxically, the woman remains unnamed. In what way then can she remembered? Yet, it is just this tension that will open the door to apply this interruption of calculating male patriarchy to interreligious dialogue.

Though Jesus interprets the woman's act in light of his imminent death, the detail that the woman poured the perfume on Jesus's head suggests a complimentary reading. “In anointing Jesus’ head, she acts the role of Samuel anointing Saul and David; as a prophet, she designates him as the messianic (anointed) king” (D'Angelo: 143). This prophetic role opens up the possibility for a greater interpretation of the woman's authority (though Boring rejects this reading). Witherington suggests that Mark adjusts a received tradition in which Jesus's feet are anointed. He keeps the substance (nard), but exchanges Jesus's head for his feet, evoking a royal connotation (Withergton: 367–68). Hooker maintains that, proper to Mark's love of paradox, the anointing signifies both burial and kingship (Hooker: 327–28).

The Interruption of Patriarchal Calculation: Women and the Unnamed

I have up to this point attempted a balance between exegetical exploration and theological interpretation. Indeed, throughout the project my hermeneutical lens has never disappeared—nor would a feminist methodology permit such a façade! Here, I would like to delve more daringly into the possibilities of this pericope with regard to the interruption of patriarchal calculation and interreligious dialogue. My investigation will take two paths: first, the significance that it is a woman who interrupts this calculation; and second, the significance that she is unnamed.

After reading Mark's portrayal of women, D'Angelo argues that Mark maintains the status quo of ancient gender roles (D'Angelo: 143–45). Contrarily, Sabin argues that episodes in Mark's narrative are “reflective of the new attitude toward women that was emerging in Early Judaism” (Sabin: 186). In my opinion, there is another way of framing the author's contribution. He does not dismantle such roles; yet, it is possible to claim that Mark's narrative (literally) interrupts them. The Twelve are indeed all men; yet an unnamed woman interrupts the scheming of powerful men (including the disciples) and anoints Jesus as king.

In the midst of male religious leaders (the chief priests and Judas, explicitly identified as “one of the twelve”) participating in the calculation of economic exchange (i.e., the struggle to maintain power and significance via plotting and exchanging in the precarious cause and effect atmosphere of a Jerusalem under Roman occupation), a woman interrupts all the systems of measurement and all the games of power and reveals the heart of authority. Says France, “Those who ought to know better are now determined to stop at nothing to get rid of a troublesome rival, while an unnamed woman is held up as a model of true devotion which even Jesus' closest disciples are not able yet to appreciate” (France: 547–48).

Nowhere does the author identify her as poor or suggest this perfume is all that she has (contra Witherington: 367). In fact, the reader might more easily assume from her possession of the perfume that she is wealthy. Perkins goes so far as to argue that she is the “antitype of Queen Herodias” (Perkins: 699). The point is that her gift is not simply a kenosis. Rather, this episode represents an excessive reciprocity between two authorities rightly acting out their authority. Jesus is the king; she is the authoritative antithesis of the chief priests and Judas (Perkins: 700). They calculate to maintain their own power. She provides an uncalculated gift and thereby reveals the heart of the gospel: the interruption of such calculation with “the beauty and goodness of uncalculating love” (Williamson: 249). They seek to kratéo Jesus's life. She exemplifies krátos in preparing Jesus for his death.

Among many males (including Jesus's closest followers) who consistently fail to comprehend the nature of Jesus's authority—specifically because they attempt to calculate it—this woman becomes the paragon apostle. Sabin argues that her anointing “fulfills an apostolic role” akin to the authority Jesus gave the Twelve in 6:13 (Sabin: 193). Collins, noting others who have expressed this comparison, states, “A named member of the Twelve brings on the passion of Jesus, whereas an unnamed woman illustrates true discipleship, whose act of love prepares for Jesus’ burial” (Collins: 641). She gives a gift. The calculators “negate the gift event by naming it as waste” (Wainwright: 137). It is in this manner that she surpasses the apostles. Her “devotion to Jesus leaves no room for pious calculation” (France: 550). She embraces the mystery. In doing so, she becomes “part of the good news” (France: 551). More than that, she becomes part of the gospel for Jesus. As Wainright notes, “Power is in the gift … to bestow something that is lacking.” The gift “remedies the lack in Jesus so that he is able to face death” (Wainwright: 135).

In the midst of much talk concerning gifts (note the use of dídomi in vv 5 and 11), she exemplifies the impossible: a gift. While the strictly impossible terms for Jacques Derrida's pure gift are not met (nor could they be), the woman's gift is not identified as such by anyone (not even Jesus or the narrator). Further, the woman's identity is veiled, thus making the giver unknown. While Jesus reciprocates her gift with a commemoration, this reciprocity is never actualized because she is unknown. This unnamed woman reveals an uncalculated giving (dídomi) in the midst of calculated taking (kratéo). She thus interrupts economic exchange, unhinging the status quo. The famous apostles stand on the sidelines and watch her become part of the gospel. Thus, the woman, as an authority, teaches the powerful men that they need “a new model of gifting,” one in which they become “givers rather than exchangers” (Wainwright: 138).

The woman therefore becomes the paragon apostle. But she is not just woman; she is unnamed. This latter aspect of her character opens a more creative reading of the text, one that admittedly requires a move beyond the probable authorial intent of the narrative. I have already noted that the woman was not a guest at the dinner. She enters as an unknown quantity—though apparently the value of her possessions is obvious to all. Perkins identifies her as a “sympathetic outsider” (Perkins: 695). She interrupts the calculation of patriarchal economic exchange. The scheming to kratéo by those of Jesus's own religion is disrupted by this mysterious variable. She is the unnamed. Moreover, she is the unnamed who is the positive opposite of the named (Judas) and titled (the Twelve, the chief priests, and the scribes). She is the one who comes from outside (as an other, a non-guest at the meal) and reveals the truth that the guests themselves cannot see.

Perkins notes, “The disciples have failed to understand Jesus’ words about his death. But now a woman has recognized the truth without such instruction” (Perkins: 698–99). But more can be said. Yes, it is a woman who recognizes, in some mysterious sense, the occasion. But she is unnamed, an outsider, an interruption to titles and names. Not merely as a woman, but as an outsider, she senses the truth without instruction. She reveals to the insiders that which they either will not or cannot see.

Thus, it is possible to see something powerful in the woman's namelessness. Perkins holds that her namelessness is evidence that Mark maintains “cultural conventions” about women, which in turn grinds against feminist interpretations that Mark includes women among the disciples (Perkins: 699). Witherington claims she is unnamed because her identity is unimportant in comparison to her deed for Jesus (Witherington: 366). Contrarily, I contend that, in light of the paradox of Jesus's promising her unique honor, her namelessness creates an open space for the outsider, the nameless and those without recognized title. That is, Jesus has openly recognized a space for the nameless within the gospel itself. But the nameless one does not simply fit into the gospel; she elicits an expansion of its content. She is more than a “summary of the gospel” (Hooker: 328). She adds to it. Jesus welcomes her authority as complimentary to his own. Unlike the chief priests and disciples, Jesus does not begrudge the other her place of authority, even if that means sharing his own authority with the unknown, the mysterious, the unnamed. Jesus welcomes the disruption of calculation. And rightly so. He knows its cost all too well. He will not silence her, nor let those with name and title, the insiders, do so. He accepts that she has something to reveal, something beautiful, good, and new.

As a woman, the anointer interrupts a calculative economic exchange aimed at maintaining the status quo. In doing so, she disrupts patriarchal kratéo for power by revealing true kratos. As unnamed, the anointer interrupts the titled players engaging in the calculative economic exchange. In doing so, she opens a space for the outsider, a space that both reveals and augments the gospel. In short, the unnamed woman reveals the beauty of incalculable mystery and the space that it opens up—a space that can house those on the margins and those on the outside. Such is the gospel.

Conclusion

My aim in this article was to examine the Gospel writer's narrative of the unnamed woman who anoints Jesus in order to elucidate the manner in which the episode interrupts the dominance of patriarchal calculation. Engaging critical methods, especially literary criticism, I have suggested that this interruption is meaningful for both feminist concerns and issues regarding interreligious dialogue. Within a narrative containing themes of awe, calculation, and authority, the woman reveals the true heart of authority by interrupting the calculation of men grasping for power. As the unnamed, she expands the gospel and opens a space for others without name and title. In this sense, it can be said that she interrupts the calculation of exclusivism on two levels: patriarchy and the rejection of a space for the religious other.