When Mary is next introduced to our notice she is again at Jesus' feet, and this time she is at His feet as a mourner. “Then when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died” (Joh_11:32). And she did not say any more. She had placed the matter in Christ's hands, and there she lay at His feet in her sorrow. Blessed are those mourners whom sorrow gently leads to Jesus' feet!
The scene is described by Edersheim: It seems that the Master “called” for Mary. This message Martha now hasted to deliver, although “secretly.” Mary was probably sitting in the chamber of mourning, with its upset chairs and couches and other melancholy tokens of mourning, as was the custom; surrounded by many who had come to comfort them; herself, we can scarcely doubt, silent, her thoughts far away in that world to and of which the Master was to her “the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” As she heard of His coming and call, she rose “quickly,” and the Jews followed her, under the impression that she was again going to visit and to weep at the tomb of her brother. For it was the practice to visit the grave, especially during the first three days. When she came to Jesus, where He still stood, outside Bethany, she was forgetful of all around. It was as if sight of Him melted what had frozen the tide of her feelings. She could only fall at His feet and repeat the poor words with which she and her sister had these four weary days tried to cover the nakedness of their sorrow.
Not a word more is said of Mary at this time. She is left at the feet of Jesus, comforted.
There is a point beyond which neither the experience of others nor even the utterances of the inspired Word can instruct or comfort the heart; it must have rejoicing in itself and not in any other; it must learn of its Lord as none save Himself can teach. Its prayer is, “Make me to hear thy voice.” It knows much about Jesus, but it desires to know Him; it can no longer rest in opinions, in ordinances, in Christianity received as a system, in anything save in Christ, and in actual communion with Him.1 [Note: Dora Greenwell, The Patience of Hope, 103.]
III
The Worshipper
1. Jesus had arrived at Bethany six days before the Passover-that is, on a Friday. The day after was the Sabbath, and “they made him a supper.” It was the special festive meal of the Sabbath. The words of St. John seem to indicate that the meal was a public one, as if the people of Bethany had combined to do Him this honour, and so share the privilege of attending the feast. In point of fact, we know from St. Matthew and St. Mark that it took place “in the house of Simon the leper”-not, of course, an actual leper, but one who had been such. Perhaps his guestchamber was the largest in Bethany; perhaps the house was nearest to the synagogue; or there may have been other reasons for it, unknown to us-least likely is the suggestion that Simon was the husband of Martha, or else her father. But all is in character.
Again Martha is serving, but she no longer complains of her more impassioned sister; again Mary is worshipping, in a characteristic way pouring forth the great passionate love of her heart: both are rapt and adoring worshippers now. Memories of the past are crowding upon them. The solemn scenes of the Passover are just at hand, and their hearts are full of indefinable premonitions. Another Sabbath, and their Lord will have endured His Passion, and Mary will be weeping at the sepulchre.
Under some great impulse of love, Mary produces her precious box of ointment, and pours it upon the head and feet of her Lord.
Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits
But, he was dead, and there he sits,
And He that brought him back is there.
Then one deep love doth supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face,
And rests upon the Life indeed.
All subtle thought, all curious fears,
Borne down by gladness so complete,
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet
With costly spikenard and with tears.
Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure;
What souls possess themselves so pure,
Or is there blessedness like theirs?1 [Note: Tennyson, In Memoriam.]
This was no ordinary anointing. It was distinguished by the costliness of the perfume, and by the lavish generosity with which it was poured out. Not a word was said; the act itself said all that was necessary to those who were worthy to understand it. An ancient Greek poet describes his poems as “having a voice for the intelligent,” and this woman's act has the character of a poem. It has the “loveliness of perfect deeds, more strong than all poetic thought.” In some way it must have come from a sense of debt to Jesus. Mary owed to the Lord what she could never repay. She had sat at His feet and heard His word. She had received her brother again from the dead; she had herself received the life eternal. She had a finer sense than others that Jesus could not be with them long, and she must do something to give expression to her feelings. The ointment was nothing; she was pouring out her heart at Jesus' feet.
2. If no more were said, then the incident would remain lovely and beautiful, and we should turn to it with that delight which we feel in any narrative that kindles fine emotion. But the true interest of the incident lies in Christ's interpretation of it. There is nothing that happens in human conduct that has not some relation to eternal truths and principles, and Christ at once puts the whole episode into relation with these truths and principles. Let us observe, therefore, precisely what it is that He says and does.
(1) The first thing that He does is to receive the gift without embarrassment. We do not always remember that it requires a certain magnanimity of nature to accept a gift as well as to bestow one. There is a stubborn sourness of nature in many of us which masquerades as independence of character, and which makes us uncomfortable under benefaction. The chief reason why men reject the grace of God is because they cannot endure the thought of a gift. Could they earn eternal life, could they add virtue to virtue till they had built up their claim to the heritage of God, this they would do; for this they would struggle, sacrifice, and aspire; for this they would macerate the body and crush the heart in a ligature of iron rules and regulations; and men have done it in every age. If a new crusade were proclaimed to-morrow, and men could be brought to believe that its rewards were real, and that by enduring its sacrifices they might win a place in Paradise, millions would flock to its standard, as millions are still ready to obey the call of Muhammad. But human nature has not magnanimity enough to accept God's free gift; and thus the great hindrance in the salvation of men is not the crimes and sins of men, but the diabolical force and persistency of human pride. Christ sets us an example of how to receive as well as of how to give. He might have resented an honour so sudden and public; He might have felt in it a certain embarrassing indelicacy, and have shrunk from its seeming ostentation and from the position in which it placed Him in regard to the spectators. He does nothing of the kind. He receives the gift with perfect simplicity, grace, and courtesy, and raises the whole episode into a light unutterably solemn and affecting when He says: “She hath done what she could: she is come aforehand to anoint my body to the burying.”
Our actions always perform a ministry beyond our immediate intentions. “It is impossible,” says Mark Rutherford, “to limit the effect which even an insignificant life may have.” You speak a kindly word, for example, to someone, and, if you think at all about what you have done, you attach little importance to the episode. But the person whom you have treated in that manner has an inner history of his own, and you have affected him in relation to experiences that you know nothing about. The things that wear a different appearance for him in consequence, the temptations you have helped him to overcome, the difficulties you have encouraged him to face, are recorded in a book which is sealed to your eyes. And not only is such a person's own life influenced to a degree and in a variety of ways that you never anticipated, but also the lives of others with whom he comes in contact participate indirectly in the beneficent effects of what was to you a simple, and soon became a forgotten, incident. “Never was a sincere word utterly lost,” says Emerson, “never a magnanimity fell to the ground, but there is some heart to greet and accept it unexpectedly.” There is a promise and a potency in deeds and words, in looks and hand-grasps and thoughts of kindness and love, far exceeding our poor imaginations.
“She is come aforehand to anoint my body to the burying.” Not many of us are beforehand with our love; most of us are behindhand. Joseph and Nicodemus were behindhand; they loved Jesus, but they were men, wise men, strong men, unsentimental men, and so they saved their spices for the dead body of Christ. They did not bring any love to Him before He died, but as soon as He was dead Joseph became bold, and went in and craved His body, and wrapped it in fine linen, and they brought myrrh and aloes, a hundred pounds' weight, for its anointing. How much better the woman's alabaster box of costly oil, the fragrance of which the living Christ scented! Does not our love need to learn to be beforehand? The most of us have some love, but we take care that it blossoms too late, and its fragrant exhalations often perfume only the grave of the beloved.
It was from Seoul, in Korea, that Mrs. Bishop sent out the New Year's card on which she quotes the ancient Persian proverb of “Three things that never return”:
The Spent Arrow,
The Spoken Word,
The Lost Opportunity.1 [Note: A. M. Stoddart, The Life of Isabella Bird (Mrs. Bishop), 330.]
In the summer of 1901 Tolstoy had a serious illness. After he had somewhat recovered, the doctor recommended his removal to a warmer and more genial climate. Accordingly he and his family left Yasnaya Polyana for the Crimea. From Sevastopol the party drove to Yálta by road. At the first station, where they stopped to change horses, Tolstoy walked on ahead, and met a young fellow (apparently a shop-assistant or small tradesman), of whom he inquired the name of some place on the shore below. The stranger answered the poorly and strangely clad old man contemptuously; and, when the Countess drove up, was amazed to see him get into the carriage and drive off. Turning to P. A. Boulanger (Tolstoy's friend), who was waiting for a second carriage, the fellow asked who that old man was.
“Count Tolstoy,” was the answer.
“What? Count Tolstoy, the writer?… Oh, my God, my God!” exclaimed the other in despair, flinging his cap into the dirty road. “I would have given all I possess to see him; and how I spoke to him!2 [Note: Aylmen Maude, The Life of Tolstoy: Later Years, 591.]
Early they came, yet they were come too late;
The tomb was empty; in the misty dawn
Angels sat watching, but the Lord was gone.
Beyond earth's clouded day-break far was He,
Beyond the need of their sad ministry;
Regretful stood the three, with doubtful breast,
Their gifts unneeded and in vain their quest.
The spices-were they wasted? Legend saith
That, flung abroad on April's gentle breath,
They course the earth, and evermore again
In Spring's sweet odours they come back to men.
The tender thought! Be sure He held it dear;
He came to them with words of highest cheer,
And mighty joy expelled their hearts' brief fear.
Yet happier that morning-happier yet-
I count that other woman in her home,
Whose feet impatient all too soon had come
Who ventured chill disfavour at the feast,
'Mid critics' murmur sought that lowliest Guest,
Broke her rare vase, its fragrant wealth outpoured.
And gave her gift aforehand to her Lord.1 [Note: Sophie W. Weitzel, From Time to Time.]
(2) Christ receives the gift, rightly interpreting its spirit, but He does more: He proceeds to defend it from the charge of extravagance. “Why this waste?” said the jealous bystanders-for you will observe that this was not the saying of Judas only, it was the comment of “some that had indignation among themselves.”
Probably there is no subject on which we have such unjust and muddled notions as what constitutes extravagance. We do not call a man extravagant who spends a thousand pounds on horses and wine, provided his income justifies him; but if the same man were to spend one hundred pounds on books he would be called extravagant, because we grudge any expenditure on the things of the mind, but none whatever on the pleasures of the body. We do not call a man extravagant who spends a large sum on the building of a mansion for himself, but if the same man spent a tithe of the sum on building or beautifying a house for God, his children would feel that he had robbed them. Or to come to lesser matters, there are those who would not accuse themselves of extravagance if they spent a considerable sum on seats at the theatre, the opera, or the concert hall, but would never dream of giving any such sum for a seat in a church, and would think long before they devoted such a sum to any purpose of charity.
Calmly, and with majesty, Christ rules that love's prodigality is blameless; that there are times when the practically useful must be set lower than the morally beautiful. And this act He praised for its beauty. It was beautiful even as a work of art is beautiful, namely, as the clear and apt and forcible outward expression of a noble inward feeling.
Nor in this does Christ judge alone. The judgment of human nature has pronounced in the same sense before and since. When David pours out unto the Lord the water, of which he would not drink, from the well of Bethlehem-for “is not this the blood of the men that went in jeopardy of their lives?”-might we not exclaim, “What waste of the hard-won luxury!” But we love him the more for his magnificent chivalry. What waste of treasure, time, and labour it was that chased the sculptured masses of masonry on the cathedral fronts! Yet, who grudges? For in a great critic's words, those ancient builders “have taken with them to the grave their powers, their honours, and their errors; but they have left us their adoration.” When some poor worthless creature is plucked from the clutch of fire or water by some strong and gallant fellow who gets his own death-hurt in doing it, we murmur, perhaps, for a moment (who can help it?) to think that gold should be thrown away to redeem dross, the hero to save the weakling; yet we feel the loss had been sadder if the brave man had paused to weigh values and saved himself for better uses.
And precisely here, not elsewhere, is the great contribution Christ has made to morality, or the department of duty. He inaugurates, in fact, a new Christian morality, quite superior to the natural ethics of the world. Not a new morality as respects the body of rules, or code of perceptive obligations,-though even here He instituted laws of conduct so important as to create a new era of advancement,-but new in the sense that He raised His followers to a new point of insight, where the solutions of duty are easy, and the otherwise perplexing questions of casuistry are for ever suspended; even as this woman friend of Jesus saw more through her love, and struck into a finer coincidence with His sublime future, than all the male disciples around her had been able to do by the computations of reflective reason. Nay, if Judas, who, according to John, was the more forward critic, had been writing just then a treatise on the economics of duty, her little treatise of unction was better.
As well might they have looked on the summer fields and asked to what purpose this waste in the growth of lily and rose? Might not all this fertility of nature, instead of running to waste on useless flowers, have gone to grow provender for cattle or food for man?
Alexander the Great, when a child, was checked by his governor Leonidas for being overprofuse in spending perfumes: because on a day, being to sacrifice to the gods, he took both his hands full of frankincense, and cast it into the fire: but afterwards, being a man, he conquered the country of Judæa (the fountain whence such spices did flow), he sent Leonidas a present of five hundred talents' weight of frankincense, to show him how his former prodigality made him thrive the better in success, and to advise him to be no more niggardly in divine service. Thus they that sow plentifully shall reap plentifully. I see there is no such way to have a large heart as to have a large heart. The free giving of the branches of our present estate to God, is the readiest means to have the root increased for the future.1 [Note: Thomas Fuller.]
Lying in the field this July day I take up a tall grass stem in flower. Its delicacy, grace, the poise of its head, are lovely beyond speech. But the whole field, ten acres of it, is covered with tall stems equally delicate, graceful, and with the same perfect poise. For whom does this beauty exist?2 [Note: Mark Rutherford, Last Pages from a Journal (1915), 293.]
(3) The third point in the defence is contained in the words, “She hath done what she could.” Unfortunately this expression is capable of being misunderstood, and has indeed been widely understood in a sense exactly the opposite of that which it was intended to bear. In our modern idiom, “She hath done what she could” is almost as much apologetic as eulogistic. The undertone is, “It was not much, of course, but what more could one expect? There is no room for reproach or censure.” This is precisely the reverse of what the words mean. The disciples did not reproach the woman for doing so little, but for doing so much; and Jesus justified her, not by reducing her act to smaller proportions, but by revealing it in all its depth and height, and showing that it was greater than she herself knew.
She did what she could because she did it in faith. The guests at the feast of Bethany, most of them, notwithstanding the recent miracle which had summoned Lazarus from his grave to a seat at that very table, were living as most men live: they were living in the present, without a thought of the future; they were living in the visible, without a thought of the unseen. Mary looked higher than the world of sense, deeper into the future than the passing hour. She know what Jesus had said about His personal claims to be before Abraham, to be One with the Father; and she took Him at His word. She knew that He had foretold His death and burial and resurrection; and she took Him at His word. As He sat at that board, eating and talking like everyone else, it was not every soul that could set aside what met the eye of sense and discern the reality; not everyone who could see that there was that beneath the form of the Prophet of Nazareth which is worthy of the most passionate homage of the soul; not everyone who would reflect that, ere many days had passed, that very Form would be exposed upon a cross to the gaze of a brutal multitude, while life ebbed slowly away amid overwhelming agony and shame. Mary did see this. “In that she hath poured this ointment on my body, she did it for my burial.”
We are more apt to see the comfort in the words, “She hath done what she could,” than the solemnity of them. They are a tender recognition, but a tremendous challenge. “What she could” means all she could. The Master compares us, not with others, but with ourselves. There is the mercy. But with our best selves, with our possible selves, there is the rub.-What I did, subtracted from what I might have done, gives the bad remainder, the immoral debit, the moral discredit. “There's a kindness in His justice that is more than liberty.” Thank God for it, but let us not misunderstand the truth and think we are at liberty to do what we happen to feel like. Did the Lord say of Sapphira, “She hath done what she could”?1 [Note: M. D. Babcock, Thoughts for Every-Day Living, 43.]
It was her best, and yet how poor
That cruise of spikenard sweet and rare!
She entered in at Simon's door
With trembling, though familiar there.
What could she give to Him whose call
Had brought her brother back from death?
It was her best, yet poor and small
For Him, the Lord of pulse and breath!
He took the fragrant gift: a wreath
Of praise He twined about her name.
It lit for Him the cave of Death:
“Against my burial she came!”1 [Note: George T. Coster.]
(4) The great words in which Jesus justified the breaking of the alabaster box on His own behalf embody a principle which should run through all wise life. The words were these: “The poor ye have always with you; but me ye have not always.” The principle is this-that opportunities differ in value and importance, and that wisdom consists in reading their value aright and in selecting the one which will not be always with us. Certain things may be done at any time; certain other things must be done now or never. Certain privileges may be enjoyed at any time; certain others now or never. Every life is confronted at many points with this strange contrast-between the ordinary opportunities which come with every day, and some great opportunity which, if not grasped at once, may vanish for ever. The poor and Jesus! There is the living contrast which is symbolical of so much in our life. The presence of the poor we can depend on; the pathetic commonplace is ever about us; but unique opportunities are not always with us. They are rare. Sometimes they come to us but once; and though we should wait for a century, they would never come again.
For no man knows what the gods may send,
Or the day when the word will come
That shall change the ways of his life, or lend
A voice to a soul born dumb.
And never man shall plumb
The depths of a sleeping past.2 [Note: D. H. S. Nicholson, Poems, 2.]
Marcus Aurelius says: “To the better of two things, if thou findest that, turn with thy whole heart: eat and drink ever of the best before thee.”3 [Note: Walter Pater, Marius the Epicurean, ii. 37.]
