Extravagant Worship & The Anglican Liturgy

On Sunday, I preached through the beautiful passage of John 12:1–11, where we see Mary bowed low and anointing the feet of her Lord. This is an act of adoration, praise, and extravagant worship—an act that is over-the-top, unexpected, and, by any reasonable accounting, more than necessary.

Notice who objects. It's Judas, who calls the perfume "wasted" and insists it could have been put to more efficient use (John 12:4–6). John tells us that Judas didn't actually care about the poor—he was a thief. But his objection still names a real temptation that outlasts him: the instinct to measure worship by efficiency, to ask only "what's necessary?" and stop there. Mary isn't operating by that logic at all. She isn't doing the necessary thing. She's doing the loving thing, poured out at cost, with nothing held back.

Mary's actions are affirmed by Jesus himself and handed down to us as a model. How do we follow in her footsteps, as those who long to worship our Lord extravagantly?

That question led me to consider our Sunday liturgy—the Anglican service of Holy Communion. The more I've sat with it, the more I've come to see it as a service shaped for extravagant worship. Let me explain what I mean, and also what I don't mean.

What Is Essential?

What are the essential elements of Christian worship? That question is debated, but Acts 2:42 gives us something of an answer: "And they devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers." At minimum, we have preaching/teaching, fellowship, prayer, and Holy Communion—four essential elements, with others surely arguable from elsewhere in Scripture.

I want to be careful here. When I call these four "essential," I don't mean they're the plain, unadorned floor and everything else is decoration layered on top. Word and Sacrament aren't the bare minimum dressed up by ceremony—they're the substance. The rest of the liturgy doesn't elevate the gospel; it exists to serve the gospel, to hold it up so the congregation can see it more clearly and receive it more fully. A frame isn't more important than the painting. But a good frame does its job: it doesn't distract from the painting, it directs your eyes to it.

None of what I'm about to describe is commanded in the sense that Scripture requires this exact form. A church could strip a service to those four essentials and it would be a true and faithful service. But nothing in our liturgy is arbitrary either. What's added is added with theological intention and biblical rationale, in the spirit of Paul's instruction that in worship "all things should be done decently and in order" (1 Corinthians 14:40)—not to meet a bare requirement, but because our Lord is worthy of more than the bare requirement.

That is where Mary's example actually differs from ours, and I don't want to blur it. Mary's extravagance was personal and costly—a year's wages, poured out by her own hand, at her own expense. Ours, in the liturgy, is corporate and unhurried—it costs us time, attention, and the willingness to slow down rather than rush to the door. A different kind of extravagance, but the same refusal to ask only "what's the minimum here?"

Consider a Few Examples

The Gospel Processional and Recession: This is the moment of bringing the cross and the Bible before our eyes—a moment of wonder, of recollecting the words and works of Christ Jesus. It isn't necessary. But its presence elevates the service, the way Mary's perfume wasn't necessary either.

The Passing of the Peace: This is the moment when those who have received the peace of Christ share that peace with one another. It's not merely "say hello to your neighbor." Rooted in the risen Christ's own greeting to his frightened disciples—"Peace be with you" (John 20:19–21)—it's a small enactment of a large reality: reconciled people extending reconciliation to one another because they have first received it from him.

The Offering: Consider, too, how we take the offering. The plate doesn't sit at the back for you to drop something in on your way out. It's passed hand to hand—you have to hold it a moment and think before you pass it on. A song plays underneath, so nothing about it is rushed. The pragmatic version would be a box by the door, give if you remember. We don't do that. We ask the body to participate together, unhurried. And just before the plates move, we pray words that name whose it all was to begin with: "All things come from you, O Lord; and of your own have we given you." That's the ground of it—but Mary didn't stop at acknowledging what was owed. She gave what wasn't required, poured out past the point of expectation. So when the plate reaches you, let it ask more of you than acknowledgment. Let it ask what it would look like to give as she gave.

The Prayer of Humble Access: Before we come to the table, we pray: "We do not presume to come to this your table, O merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in your abundant and great mercies..." We didn't need to say any of that. We could simply say, "Let's take Communion now," and move on—efficient, clean, sufficient. Instead we linger at the threshold of the table, naming our unworthiness and God's mercy before we ever take the bread. It's the liturgical equivalent of Mary kneeling at Jesus' feet rather than simply handing him the perfume. We could approach the table quickly. We choose, instead, to approach it slowly with words that confess before they receive.

Singing: We could simply speak the truths of the faith. Scripture doesn't require song. But Paul tells the church to address "one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody to the Lord with your heart" (Ephesians 5:19). Song is truth that overflows its container—glorified speaking! Our words become, in a sense, more themselves when they're sung—more full, more offered, more extravagant.

These elements are not required. That's rather the point. A service doesn't demand a passing of the peace or a Gospel Processional. But we don't want to worship God only up to the point of what's required. We want to give him what Mary gave—something poured out, not measured out. Let us repel the Judas impulse of pragmatism, in our giving as much as in our liturgy. Instead, let us be like Mary: giving our best, unhurried, unembarrassed, in praise of our Triune God.