1. One of the most pathetic utterances which Christ ever made about Himself is the single reference to His homelessness. “The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.” Christ never had a home of His own. From the time when He left His father's home in Nazareth where He was brought up, He was a wanderer. To all the comfort which the word suggests, to all the sacred joy associated with the name, He was a complete stranger. That His nature craved for fellowship is evidenced by the references He made to His loneliness, and by His frequent communion with the Father. That He needed the quietness and peace which others find within the privacy of their own homes is proved by His frequent retirements to the solitude of the desert or of the mountain. The home at Bethany appears to have been to Christ a haven of quiet and rest, where He sought refuge from the storms and tumult to which His Judæan ministry exposed Him. It was a land-locked harbour protected from the wild gusts of fierce passion and bitter malice which confronted Him as He steered His course amidst the angry billows and sunken rocks of the neighbouring Jerusalem. In Bethany there was always a home which offered a loving welcome, and there were hearts which responded with a sincere affection.
It was, as the whole history shows, a wealthy home. It consisted of two sisters-the elder, Martha (a not uncommon Jewish name, being the feminine of Mar, and equivalent to our word “mistress”); the younger, Mary; and their brother Lazarus, or, Laazar.
It was a beautiful friendship that united the Lord with this family. Their home was very evidently one of His favourite resorts. He turned to it for its friendly peace. Perhaps He found in this little circle a love that was not tainted with interested ambition. Perhaps He found a friendship that sought no gift and coveted no place. Perhaps He found a full-orbed sympathy, unbroken by suspicion or reserve. Perhaps He found a confidence which was independent of the multitude, and which remained quietly steadfast whether He moved in public favour or in public contempt. At any rate, Jesus was at home “in the house of Martha and Mary,” and here all unnecessary reticence was changed into free and sunny communion. He loved to turn from the heated, feverish atmosphere of fickle crowds to the cool and restful constancy of these devoted friends. When the eyes of His enemies had been following Him with malicious purpose, it was spiritually recreating to look into eyes that were just quiet “homes of silent prayer.” After the contentions of the Twelve, and their frequent disputes as to who should be greatest, it was good to be in this retired home where friends found love's reward in love's sacrifices, and the joy of loving in the increased capacity to love. It is therefore no wonder to read that Jesus went out to Bethany.
He was not there simply to eat, drink, sleep, and be let alone. He could not be hidden in that way. The overflowing soul must find expression. And among friendly hearts and kindred minds it would be a veritable “saints' rest,” a “heart's ease,” a garden of delights, refreshing to the soul as the work of Eden, to hold converse concerning the things of the Kingdom. Such work and fellowship, so like to those of heaven, would also be allied thereto in the rest involved.
The fellowship of kindred minds
Is like to that above.
2. The Gospels give us three scenes in the family life of the two sisters and their brother, in each of which Jesus is the central figure.
(1) The first is a picture of quiet life, and shows us that the Master was not always working at the highest pressure, but had His hours of rest. Weary with the discussions of Jerusalem, which He had been visiting at a Feast, Jesus, who had no love for cities, escaped to Bethany for rest. Whereupon we see the kindly Martha showing her affection in much serving, impatient with her sister because she thought she neglected the offices of a genial hospitality. We see there, too, the pensive and spiritual Mary sitting at Jesus' feet, earnestly drinking in the words that fell from His lips. We seem to hear the gentle but serious rebuke addressed to the one, and the language almost of benediction in which He commended the other who, He said, “hath chosen the good part, which shall not be taken away from her.”
(2) The second visit of Jesus to Bethany is associated with one of those swift and unexpected family calamities which affect the imagination by their poignant contrast, and invest life with a profound seriousness.
Lazarus lay dead; the light of his sisters' domestic life seemed extinguished for ever, and the whole world seemed desolate and blighted; their hearts sank within them under the cruel weight of a great sorrow. And in that hour of anguish and distress to whom did their thoughts turn? To the Man whom Martha had received. But the long hours creep slowly away, and still Jesus does not appear. “Oh, if He were here our brother would not die!” And then when the funeral is over, and the first intensity of the anguish has passed away, a rumour reaches them of His approach. Martha hears it. The Master is coming, and Martha, with her natural impulsiveness, rushes out to meet Him, and salutes Him with the words which had been rising in her heart over and over again all the time-“Lord, if thou hadst been here my brother had not died.” And there He stands gazing at her-oh, how tenderly-and she hears Him groaning in His troubled spirit. Mary has joined them now, and tears are flowing fast all round, and His eyes are dry no longer. What a moment it must have been for Mary and Martha when they knew that He who loved them so truly was weeping as with their tears, and sharing their sorrow! “Jesus wept”; and the friends around said, as well they might, “Behold, how he loved him!” Another moment and Jesus was standing by the closed tomb, lifting up His heart in that wonderful prayer, “Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me.” They stood looking on, wondering what was to come next. Then was heard the voice of power, “Lazarus, come forth,” and he that was dead came forth. The king of terrors yields his prey and gives back his victim to the glories of a new, a resurrection life. There he stands before them, the very Lazarus that they had lost, their own dearly loved brother still. What a moment it was when the man whom they had mourned as dead clasped his sisters to his bosom! One can imagine the joy too deep for words that filled their hearts and welled up in their brimming eyes, while He who was the Resurrection and the Life looked on, smiling on all the ecstasy which He had caused.
Those who believe in Jesus may weep for their dead, for Jesus wept. But they may not doubt His love in suffering them to die; they may not doubt that for them the transition is blest. Still may we treasure that of them which is dear.
We make them a hidden, quiet room
Far in the depth of our spirit's gloom:
Thither, O thither, wrung with woe,
In yearning love we often go:
There, O there, do the loved abide,
Shadowy, silent, sanctified!
But they in their true life are with the Lord.
It is they who lament for us who are
From the eternal life so far.
And therefore we will take up the language of faith and hope, and say-
If this be so, we shall look no more
At the night of the former gloom:
We shall not stay and make sad delay
At the dark and awful tomb,
But rather take to our mourning hearts
The balm and blessing this trust imparts-
What the Scripture saith in the ear of Faith
Of the excellent joys that crown the head
Of every one of the faithful dead.1 [Note: A. Russell, The Light that Lighteth every Man, 230.]
(3) Once more we see Jesus with His friends, and now the circumstances are less harrowing, and still more beautiful. As Jesus has arrived for the Passover-His last feast before all things should be fulfilled-He goes to stay with them during Passion Week, so that, whatever may be the controversy and dispeace of the day in Jerusalem, He may cross the Mount of Olives, and rest in Bethany. To celebrate His coming, and as a sacrifice of thanksgiving for a great deliverance, the family give a feast, and each member thereof fills a natural place. Lazarus, the modest head of the household, now surrounded with a mysterious awe, sits with Jesus at the table; Martha, as was her wont, was superintending the feast with an access of zeal; and Mary was inspired of the spirit of grace, and did a thing so lovely and so spiritual that it will be told unto all time, and will remain the picture of ideal devotion. With a wealthy family it was customary to have in store a treasure of fragrant ointment for the honouring of the dead; but there came into Mary's mind a more pious use for it. Why pay the homage to a dead body, and render it when the person can receive no satisfaction? Far better that in their lifetime our friends should know that they are loved, and should be braced for suffering by the devotion of loyal hearts. Before His enemies have crowned Him with thorns, Mary will pour the spikenard on His head, and before they have pierced His feet with nails she will anoint them with her love, so that the fragrance of the precious ointment may be still on His hair when He hangs upon the cross.
The odour of ointment filled the room, and two persons passed judgment. One understood and condemned-Judas, who was arranging the betrayal of Jesus, and had lost an increase for his bag. One understood and approved, and that was the Master, who, with the shadow of the cross falling on His soul, was comforted by a woman's insight and a woman's love. Her own heart taught her the secret of sacrifice; her heart anticipated the longing for sympathy; and so beautiful in its grace and spiritual delicacy was her act that Jesus declared it would be told to her praise wherever the Gospels were read.
The Onyx is the type of all stones arranged in bands of different colours; it means primarily, nail-stone-showing a separation like the white half-crescent at the root of the fingernail; not without some idea of its subjection to laws of life.… Banded or belted stones include the whole range of marble, and especially alabaster, giving the name to the alabastra, or vases used especially for the containing of precious unguents, themselves more precious; so that this stone, as best representative of all others, is chosen to be the last gift of men to Christ, as gold is their first; incense with both: at His birth, gold and frankincense; at His death, alabaster and spikenard.… These vases for precious perfume were tall, and shaped like the bud of the rose. So that the rosebud itself, being a vase filled with perfume, is called also “alabastron”; and Pliny uses that word for it in describing the growth of the rose.1 [Note: Ruskin, Deucalion, vol. i. chap. vii. § 15 (Works, xxvi. 172).]
The vulgar irritation of the apostles at the “waste” involved in this beautiful and significant act of the anointing of the Messiah-those very apostles from whom had come Peter's confession and who had seen the Transfiguration ecstasy-gives us the measure of the disharmony, the utter want of comprehension, the creeping conviction of failure, now existing amongst them. Romantic enthusiasm has been transformed into prudence and “common sense”: perhaps the worst form of degeneration with which any leader of men has to contend. Through their unworthy and unloving criticisms strikes the solemn and tragic comment of Jesus on this, probably the greatest spontaneous acknowledgment of Messiahship which He received-“She hath done what she could. She is come aforehand to anoint my body to the burying.” They are the loneliest words in literature. Removing their speaker by a vast distance from the common prudent life of men, from all human ideals and hopes, they bear within themselves the whole mystery of the Cross, the “King reigning from the Tree.”1 [Note: Evelyn Underhill, The Mystic Way, 131.]
