The image illustrates the traditional attributes of St Luke: a book and quill, the icon of Theotokos, a medicine bag with the Caduceus symbol, and an ox peeking through the window. The ox or calf represents the sacrificial and priestly character of Luke’s portrayal of Christ in his gospel, which opens with the scene in the Jewish Temple, where the priest Zechariah offered a sacrifice to God.

Today we celebrate the feast of St. Luke, the patron saint of healthcare professionals, artists, and writers. He is traditionally identified with Paul’s beloved physician named in Colossians and the companion who remained with him during his imprisonment in Rome. “Only Luke is with me,” we hear in Second Timothy 4:11: a brief but moving acknowledgment of companionship and care. Luke is also traditionally credited with writing the Gospel that bears his name and the Acts of the Apostles. According to a much later tradition, unsupported by historical evidence but lovely nonetheless, he was also a visual artist who painted some of the earliest icons of Mary and the Christ Child.

These three associations make Luke a particularly interesting saint to celebrate in connection with healing. A physician attends to the body and/or mind. A writer gives shape to experience and preserves stories that might otherwise go unheard. An artist communicates aspects of human experience that words cannot adequately express. Each can contribute to healing through attention, presence, and recognition of a person as more than a collection of symptoms or problems to solve. The Gospels present Jesus as such a healer, but this year I thought we might consider an episode in which Jesus himself receives care. Every Gospel preserves a version of the story about a woman who pours perfumed oil over Jesus’ head or feet in a gesture both prophetic and personal.

Since ancient times, oil has been associated with tending wounds and soothing the body, as well as hospitality, blessing, and spiritual healing. Last year, on St. Luke’s Day, we introduced anointing into our services. It has remained part of our weekly worship, becoming a meaningful experience for those who receive it. I imagine Jesus was moved by the woman’s gesture too, and that his followers continued to reflect on it, even if its meaning took time to unfold.

The Gospels may or may not describe the same event, and differences in their accounts likely reveal each author’s own interests and theological concerns. Yet Luke’s version [click here to read Luke 7:36-50] almost seems out of character for someone associated with healing and inclusion. He introduces her as a sinner, as no other evangelist does, and emphasizes her self-abasement. The woman stands behind Jesus, weeping, repeatedly kissing his feet and wiping them with her hair, which I find difficult to read and unnecessarily humiliating. Also, Luke never identifies her sin, yet his telling leaves room for readers to supply familiar judgments about a woman who acts freely and does not know her place. Following Simon the Pharisee’s reaction, generations of interpreters have assumed that her sin must have been sexual. Later Western tradition, shaped by a homily of Pope Gregory the Great, conflated this woman with Mary Magdalene and, through that association, gave Magdalene a reputation as a sex worker, without historical basis for identifying either woman as such.

I cannot help wondering how much of this portrayal reflects the encounter and how much reflects the storyteller’s theological imagination. Despite Luke’s stated intention to “investigate everything carefully and write an orderly account” (Luke 1:3), his historical framework sometimes departs from what is generally accepted. For example, the census mentioned in Luke is dated to 6 CE, roughly a decade after the birth year commonly proposed for Jesus, whereas Luke uses it to give the Holy Family a reason to travel to Bethlehem where Jesus’ birth takes place. This is not a problem for me when it comes to honouring Luke today as a writer and evangelist. For him, creating “an orderly account” may have meant writing the strongest theological account, rather than the most historically accurate one. So perhaps his portrayal of the woman as a sinner of the “worst kind” was intended to reinforce his themes of forgiveness and reintegration (but I still find it hard to read!).

In any case, in Luke, just as it is in every other gospel, Jesus defends the woman. Here, Simon objects to Jesus allowing her to touch him; in the other accounts, people object to what they consider a waste of money. In Matthew and Mark, he interprets her action as preparation for his burial and declares that she will be remembered. In Luke, he asks Simon, “Do you see this woman?” Of course Simon has been watching her, and he knows what he thinks she is, though he has scarcely considered who she is. Was she a prophet? Could we consider her a healer?

She did not change Jesus’ circumstances in any physical sense. But there are dimensions of suffering that medicine alone cannot address: the fear setting in after a diagnosis, the realization that the end of life now has a more concrete timeline, or the uncertainty. We need reassurance that we remain loved and valued when our bodies or circumstances are beyond our control. The Gospels do not tell us that her gesture brought Jesus comfort or courage, or communicated something he had not previously understood. But her touch and presence communicate something to us, observing the scene from outside: what we might offer those who need affirmation of their value and purpose, even when we cannot change their circumstances.

The Church has always understood prayer as one way to offer such care. Our reading from Sirach honours physicians, medicines, and the practical work of healing, while placing prayer alongside them in our response to human vulnerability. So just as we introduced anointing at this service last year, today we are introducing another opportunity for spiritual care in our community: personal prayer with members of our prayer ministry. Personal prayer complements anointing: sometimes anointing brings an emotion to the surface; at other times, it offers a sense of completion after prayer and Communion. Two people will be available during Communion to pray with anyone who wishes. You may bring a concern for yourself or someone you love: illness, grief, anxiety, a dilemma, a need for strength and peace, or thanksgiving. You do not need an urgent crisis, and you need not explain more than you wish. Those praying with you are there to listen, receive what you entrust to them, and bring it with you before God. They are not there to diagnose, advise, or promise an outcome.

For this kind of intercessory prayer, we can learn two things from the woman who anoints Jesus. First, when someone comes to us in need, we can all too easily begin with what we think is wrong, what we imagine would help, or how we might explain it. We offer suggestions or reassurance before listening. Our eagerness to make things better can leave little room for someone to describe what they are experiencing. But the woman reminds us that attentive presence can itself bring healing. This begins with recognizing someone as more than their illness, grief, difficulty, or reputation, and receiving their experience without immediately trying to change it.

In the accounts that connect her action with Jesus’ burial, we might understand her as acknowledging the danger he faces and offering support within it. He lived out his calling to love and proclaim God’s kingdom, and died because of how people received that message. The woman did not try to dissuade him from that calling. Her gift can be understood as strengthening him in it, much as anointing at baptism affirms our vocation, while also acknowledging his approaching death, as we do when we anoint people at the end of life. (Then, of course, there is the anointing for healing that we practise as part of our liturgy.)

In only a decade of parish ministry, I have already offered anointing at the time of death more times than I can count. Each encounter remains special and mysterious, even when we offer it to acknowledge an approaching death rather than change the outcome. Sometimes dying resembles labour: we wait beside someone who seems actively engaged in the work of leaving. Anointing connects that ending with the beginning marked in baptism, and the person offering it becomes something like a midwife. Perhaps this woman acts like a “death doula” who accompanies Jesus toward acceptance. As such, rather than preventing his death, as we would expect a healer to do, she offers recognition and an affirmation that his life and work matter. Likewise, we can never fully understand another person’s experience, and we certainly cannot fix everything or always ease their fear. But we can accompany someone through difficult times while affirming their purpose, without suggesting that suffering is necessary to that purpose. There was more to Jesus’ life than his death, just as each person’s purpose encompasses much more than their suffering.

Second, what makes the woman’s gesture especially memorable is that perfume is an extravagant gift, which, once poured out, cannot be gathered back into its container. So the woman exemplifies offering something precious without controlling how it will be received or returned. Likewise, we cannot reclaim the care we have offered if it goes unappreciated, nor know in advance what will come of it. Love may be judged by others, returned abundantly, appreciated without being reciprocated, or scarcely acknowledged. Illness, death, or changing circumstances may interrupt relationships into which we have poured ourselves. We cannot make ourselves entirely safe from disappointment or loss without also closing ourselves off from deep connection.

And much like love and care, prayer is also something we pour out without controlling what happens next. We offer hopes, fears, and gratitude, entrusting people’s concerns to God while knowing we cannot guarantee recovery, prevent every loss, or make every relationship whole. Those who pray with us also offer something precious: attention, compassion, time, and a willingness to share our burdens. Neither person knows exactly what will follow, but the encounter itself can be a gift, the effects of which may extend well beyond that encounter. Like perfume lingering in the air, kindness and prayer may remain with someone long after we have forgotten offering them. We rarely know how far their influence will travel or how the care someone receives will shape what they later offer others.

During Communion today, whether or not you receive anointing or personal prayer, you are invited to spend time with the painting in your leaflet, our stained glass, or other artwork in the nave. You might also listen to the music and consider the words of the hymns, especially the second Communion hymn, which tells this story of the woman who anointed Jesus. Remember something you have offered in love, whether or not you knew what became of it. Consider, too, what it might be like to receive care without needing to earn or reciprocate it. May we become a community where people bring their needs without shame, receive care with gratitude, and offer love without needing to know what will come of it.