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The Power of Total Surrender and Extravagant Worship
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We're gathered here as the Brookplace family, and tonight God has led me to share a message about what it truly means to give God your all. The story we're exploring comes from Matthew 26:6-13, and it's a message that will challenge how we understand worship and surrender.
When Jesus was in Bethany at the house of Simon the leper, a woman came to him having an alabaster flask of very costly fragrant oil and she poured it on his head as he sat at the table.
There's something profound in the fact that Jesus went to the house of Simon the leper. In Bible times, lepers were considered unclean and had to live outside the camp. Yet here was Jesus—the divine—choosing to dine in the home of a man marked by his past condition.
Simon was a man who had been delivered but was still known by his former state. His name carried the weight of isolation and shame. Yet Jesus went there. This matters because Jesus visits the unclean. He wasn't afraid of people with histories, with pasts that others found derogatory.
The point Matthew was making is this: to understand the alabaster box, we must first understand why it breaks—and that has to do with the character of those involved: a leper and a woman, both considered second-class in their society.
Now, let's talk about what the woman brought. An alabaster flask is not just any container. The word alabastron refers both to the material and the flask itself. This material is translucent and was specially designed to store precious perfume—with a tiny opening at the top that prevented the aroma from escaping.
But here's what's remarkable: the alabaster itself was extremely expensive. It came primarily from Egypt, which means this woman had to acquire it from a foreign land. She didn't buy a local flask from the next shop.
The oil inside was equally extraordinary: spikenard (or nard), an aromatic plant whose root had to be harvested, crushed, and processed under high temperature and pressure. This plant grew only in India. To obtain it, merchants had to travel by boat for weeks and months across dangerous waters.
Listen to this: both the flask and the oil were foreign to where they were. They came from Africa and Asia—transcendent sources. This wasn't convenience worship. This was deliberate, costly, extravagant worship.
When the disciples saw what happened, they were indignant:
"Why this waste? For this fragrant oil might have been sold for much and given to the poor."
But here's the key: In Matthew's account, she poured the oil. In Mark's account, she broke the flask. That's the crucial detail.
The alabaster box, once broken, cannot be repaired. It cannot be covered again. This means the woman's intention was not to use some and save the rest. Her intention was to give all.
Let me ask you something: What are you giving God today—waste or worship? Are you giving Him your best, or your all?
Worship is not giving God your best. That's poor theology. Worship is giving God your all. Not just the best parts, but everything. Not holding anything back.
She didn't come to church and worship 45% because she had to go home and sleep. She came willing to pour herself out totally. She broke the flask. She couldn't use it again. She couldn't save some for later. She gave everything.
Mark tells us the oil was worth 300 denarii—one full year's wages. In today's money, if your annual income is £60,000, she spent all of it on perfume. Not gradually. All at once. On one bottle of oil.
She saved an entire year's salary, traveled to distant lands to get materials that weren't local, and poured it all out. The disciples called it waste. But when people don't understand your worship, they will call it a waste. They don't understand the aroma you're creating.
John gives us the full picture. In John 12, we learn that Mary (as she's identified here) didn't just anoint Jesus's head—she anointed His feet. And then she did something remarkable:
She wiped His feet with her hair.
Now, in that culture, a woman's hair was her glory—her most precious adornment. The feet would have been covered in dust from the desert roads. Jesus's legs would have been extremely dirty from traveling through Galilee and the Judean wilderness.
But as beautiful as Mary was, as anointed as she was, her glory couldn't stand His death. Her righteousness before Him was a filthy rag. The dust on Jesus's feet was holier than the glory of her hair.
Mary understood the quality of Jesus. She understood that what qualifies to anoint the divine cannot be local. It has to come from transcendence. It has to cost something. It has to demand a journey.
Abraham understood this when he took Isaac three days' journey to Mount Moriah to sacrifice him. Why would he have to go three days when he could kill the boy in his backyard? Because Abraham understood that worship requires process. It requires leaving convenience. It requires the journey.
When Mary poured that perfume, something happened. Listen to what John says:
The entire house was filled with the fragrance of the oil.
The entire house. Not just the room where Jesus was. The aroma spread everywhere.
Here's what I want you to understand: I don't need the entire church to be broken. I just need one person. If one alabaster box cracks, the whole house smells of that fragrance.
Mary understood the power of intercession. She understood that she could stand in the gap for her family, her house, her community. Her brokenness became a sweet aroma that changed the atmosphere.
She wasn't just wealthy. She was an intercessor. And intercessors understand something: I am willing to be broken so that my family can experience the fragrance of God's presence.
Listen, there's a difference between being broken and being contrite. The Hebrew word shaba means to break into pieces. But contrite—the word for a contrite heart—means to break into dust. To powder. To be so broken that you can be blown away.
The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. (Psalm 51:17)
Some of you are broken, but you're still holding a grudge. You're still fighting. You haven't reached that contrite level yet. A contrite heart doesn't have energy for enemies. It's so crushed that it simply surrenders.
Mary didn't just break the flask—she poured it out. Brokenness and surrender. Both.
Here's what Paul writes:
We have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God and not of us. (2 Corinthians 4:7)
Why would God put such incredible treasure in such weak, flawed vessels? Because if the vessel were perfect, we'd get the glory. But if God puts His power in something broken, when that power is manifested, everyone knows it's God.
I'm a cracked man. I'm broken on every side. But God isn't looking for perfection; He's looking for cracked ones—people willing to let His fragrance pour out through their brokenness.
The reason the church wasn't born until Jesus was broken on the cross is this: God had to be cracked to release the most expensive fragrance—blood and water.
Paul writes:
For we are to God the fragrance of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing. (2 Corinthians 2:14-15)
Your fragrance is your gospel. You don't have to preach. You just have to smell. When you enter a room, people sense something. It's not because you announced yourself; it's because you carry an aroma—the aroma of Christ.
When I spend time with you, I want you to feel valued. When I tell you I love you, I want you to know you're loved. That's fragrance. Your consistency speaks louder than your words. Your brokenness for others' sake creates an atmosphere.
Hebrews 12 teaches us that God chastens those He loves. The word chastening comes from pedagogy—it means training, not punishment.
If you endure chastening, God deals with you as sons... (Hebrews 12:7)
One way to know if you're truly a son or daughter of God is this: Do you endure chastening, or do you fight back? Do you stay the course when correction comes, or do you become bitter?
Sons endure. They don't go back and fight. They understand that training is painful, but it produces the peaceable fruit of righteousness.
The pain of brokenness is real. This isn't sweet theology. But after the pain comes the fruit—the character, the depth, the maturity that only comes through the breaking process.
Paul writes to the Philippians:
My God shall supply all your need according to His riches in glory... (Philippians 4:19)
Notice: not out of His riches, but according to His riches. God doesn't supply your need based on what you ask for or what you think you need. God supplies your need according to the entirety of His infinite wealth.
When you give to God, He doesn't give you a small portion back. He gives you according to His abundance. But here's the thing: if you're asking God for what your boss can give you, that's not a miracle. A miracle is beyond human capacity, beyond expectation.
Ask God for what only God can give.
As we close, I want to speak something into this season. We're moving from this year into 2027, and God has spoken to me about what He's preparing.
God sees your work. You may feel invisible, but unknown doors are about to open. Phone calls from unexpected sources. Opportunities you didn't even pray for because you thought they were impossible. Nations will gather for your sake.
But understand this: the doors that open will be in proportion to your brokenness. When you're willing to be cracked, when you're willing to pour yourself out, when you're willing to give God your all—that's when the fragrance spreads.
From this day forward, activate your sleeping destiny. Wake up, prophecies spoken over you. Activate, wealth and influence and acceleration. Step into your new level.
You are not stuck. You are not stagnant. From this day, you step into new measures of divine provision. Put an end to repetition, to going in circles, to the works of the enemy.
Your aroma is about to spread abroad. As you leave this place, carry the fragrance of what God has done in you. Be broken. Be poured out. Be the sweet smell of Christ in every place you go.
