When I look closely at the life of an artist, a difficult question often rises within me: Is this creative work a waste of life?
As artists, we give so much—our time, our energy, our deepest emotions, and our limited money. And yet the “return” on this investment rarely looks like financial security or public recognition. In our younger years, passion carries us. We experiment freely, fail often, and begin again. But as we grow older, life gains weight. Responsibilities to family, community, and basic survival settle in. In this season, art can begin to feel like a luxury—something cool on the shiny stage, perhaps, but difficult to justify when there are bills to pay and people to care for. Quietly, we begin to ask: Is my work worth the life it costs?
In Mark 14:3-9, Jesus was sitting at a table in a home in Bethany when a woman (Mary) entered the room. She carried an alabaster jar—crafted from beautiful and costly stone. Inside was pure nard, a perfume imported from far away. In those days, a jar like this was worth a year’s wages. For many, it would have represented an entire lifetime of savings. It was likely her most precious possession. And then came the moment.
She broke the jar.
By breaking its neck, she made it clear that nothing was being saved for later. She poured everything out in one single, irreversible, extravagant moment. As the perfume flowed, the whole house was filled with its rich fragrance.
Almost immediately, those at the table began to object. “Why this waste?” they asked, clearly offended by what they had witnessed. They saw the spilled perfume as a loss. They argued that the money could have been used for something more sensible—like helping the poor. Their reasoning was practical, even morally persuasive, and it fit well within the religious logic of the day.
But Jesus stopped them.
“Leave her alone,” he said. “Why are you troubling her? She has done a beautiful thing to me.” Jesus called her act beautiful—kalos in Greek. He did not describe it as efficient or profitable. He named it a good work. What the critics missed, Jesus saw clearly: she alone understood the moment. She was preparing his body for burial. Her act—her embodied expression of love—was the most faithful response possible.
For artists today, the world often looks at the “broken jar” of our lives—the long hours in the studio, the ideas that never quite land, the money spent on supplies, and the rejected proposals—and calls it waste. We are told to be more practical, more productive, more easily monetized. We are urged to justify our work by measurable outcomes.
Yet there are moments when love demands more than calculation. Moments when beauty must be fully honoured, without guarantee of return. God sees hearts willing to break the jar—to offer their lives, their work, and their creativity without reserve. Your work may not feed a thousand people today, but if it flows from a place of deep love, it is a kalos work—one that Jesus defends and receives.
In God’s eyes, an extravagant moment is never wasted.
