The Anointing at Bethany

Let us bear in mind the singular position which Jesus now occupies as He stands before us in this moment of seclusion. In looking at His Portrait at this time we seem to be listening to a duet. His life strikes the ear more than the eye. It seems to be sung in two parts — a minor and a treble. On the one hand it is very near its lowest pitch of fortune. The adherents who had clung to Him through personal love were very few. The Lazarus episode had produced converts, but they had been converts to His power, and would probably melt before His coming fire

1 The earlier accounts of this incident are vague. I believe they are designedly so. They aim at hiding the agency of the Bethany family — probably to screen them from persecution. I think the statement in Matthew and Mark, that the feast was ‘in the house of Simon,’ is the note of a transcriber who confused the event with the similar incident in Simon’s house jecorded in Luke vii. 36, et seq.

of tribulation. They would say, ‘It must have been a case of premature burial; if this man could raise another, he could prevent his own death!’ That death, indeed, was imminent; and to the eye of the world it was a sign of failure. Even to the eye of Jesus it was not yet a sign of triumph. He saw that He would survive it. He saw that in spite of it His present followers — those whom the Father had already given Him — would be supported and sustained for a second effort. But it still seemed to mar His work for the outside world — to aggravate in the sight of the Father that very unrighteousness which He had come to lessen and to expiate. From the physical side, every step of Jesus had been in the direction described by Paul’s ladder — a step downward. His life had steadily but surely descended from the height to the plain, from the plain to the valley. At the present moment He was actually in the valley; He was within sight of the common doom of men. That is the lower part of the life-duet to which the ear listens.

But on the other hand, there is a soprano part You will remember how Paul told us it must be so: ‘He humbled Himself, therefore God hath highly exalted Him.’ We have seen how the valley is the widest sphere, how the wants of the valley are the universal wants. Accordingly, this period of outward circumscribedness, this period of physical seclusion in the life of Jesus, is of all others that in which His gospel most touches the universal mind. Already have we seen the signs of that universality. Already have we beheld Him bursting the limits of Judaism. Already have we witnessed Him projecting a miracle which by revealing human immortality should justify the ways of God to united Man. Already have we gazed upon Him in the enjoyment of the social hour precisely on the ground that the social hour reveals those instincts in man which are the most uncon ventional and therefore the most natural and cosmopolitan. All this we have seen; and in proportion as the life stoops, we shall see greater things than these. The two voices

VOL. II. Mare not discordant voices; they are the parts of one song; they are a duet.

There is one point which has been coming prominently forth in this period — the ministrant power of Woman. Woman is the cosmopolitan side of Man — the side least affected by national differences. It is at this period of sunset that the influence of Woman, like that of other universal things, bursts into flower. In the Galilean ministry her influence was not unknown; Jesus had utilised her services for His missionary guild. But that which Woman wanted was recognition in her own sphere. It was all very well to be utilised for religious work; but that was not necessarily a compliment to the sphere of Woman, for it was really her incorporation in the sphere of Man. What she wanted was to be recognised in her peculiar province — not to be lifted out of that province. Hitherto, within her sphere she had been rather the helped than the helper. Her diseases had been healed; her tears had been dried; but it had not yet been pointed out to the world that her influence in the home was a potent force for the kingdom of God.

With the declining sun this new revelation came. We have seen how, side by side with the altar, there rose before the eye of Jesus a vision of the hearth. In the days when the sacrificial fire became visible, the domestic fire began to glitter and to glow; and in the centre of the temple of home the priesthood of Woman was revealed. The pictures of that time are nearly all female pictures — from the woman who violated the sacredness of her hearth to that mother of Zebedee’s children who consecrated her hearth to Jesus. Between them lay the sweet home of Bethany, with its memories of joy and its memories of sorrow, and alike in its joy and its sorrow lighting a holy fire. And to the trophies of that home there was about to be added yet another, which was to call forth from the lips of Jesus the mightiest tribute of gratitude for the service of Woman which has ever been pronounced upon her in any land or at any time. It is the imprimatur on a mere home service; 18o THE ANOINTING AT BETHANY

but that is its beauty, that is its glory; by that it has consecrated for ever the ties of family life.

Let us stand in the gallery again and interpret the scene as it is painted. Martha and Mary make another feast. ‘What! ’ says the spectator, ’ so soon after the death of Lazarus! ‘Yes, but the picture is true to itself. It vindicates the good taste of the sisters by reminding us that between the dying and the feasting something has occurred — the rising again. The picture is a consistent unity; it puts Lazarus at the feast beside Martha and Mary. What a breach of art it would have been if Lazarus had been absent — if this had been a supper over his dust! It would have been one of the most ghastly portraitures which the brush of the painter has ever delineated! The raising of a man from the dead is an act with which the artist intermeddleth not; it is beyond the stroke of his pencil. But the making of a great feast in the house of a brother, who a few days ago was carried from its portals to the grave, is against the stroke of his pencil; to describe it on the canvas would be to portray a monstrosity. This feast of the sisters of Bethany, commonplace as it is, demands in the interest of art the presence of Lazarus.

It is, indeed, a thanksgiving for Lazarus. There are some whose hymns of praise are secular songs. Amongst those, methinks, were these sisters of Bethany. Whenever their hearts were full of God they rushed into social hospitality. Their hearts were full of God now, and they poured them out in the old way. They invited guests from far and near to be sharers in their joy. But there was one whose presence they solicited above all others — the true object of their thanksgiving — Jesus. They were not afraid to offer Him a thing otherwise unconsecrated — an hour of purely secular hospitality. And Jesus was not afraid to come — not even from those solemn shadows of death which encompassed Him. Did not these shadows themselves unite Him to that which was universal in Man — below creeds, beyond nationalities? Did they not join Him to that want which lies at the root of human brotherhood, and which causes the sons of men to gather into social fellowship? They did; therefore Jesus came — came to a seemingly incongruous scene. He issued from His place of seclusion near the Judaic wilderness. There, in the lonely village called Ephraim — a spot unrecognised by the modern traveller — He had spent these intermediate days. Now He reappears — in the home of festivity, in the vicinity of danger; and here is enacted a scene which He predicted would become historical, and which has actually realised the expectation.

Outwardly, what happened was a very simple thing — not the kind of action of which one prophesies immortality. It was merely an excessive expression of personal gratitude. In a moment of rapturous thanksgiving for the restored life of her brother, Mary deliberately broke a box of the most precious ointment, and, instead of contenting herself with the method of greeting commonly received by honoured guests, she anointed the very feet of Jesus, and wiped them with the hairs of her head! It seemed a deed of extravagant profusion. It was an expenditure of fireworks — brilliant but evanescent. It was love squander ing upon an illumination a sum of money that might have been spent in beneficence; and it awakened something like a thrill of horror. The treasurer Judas said, and the other disciples thought, ‘To what purpose is this waste! ’

But Jesus said: * I tell you this is the most permanent thing that has yet been done for me. You think it a fugitive act, a wasteful deed. It is, on the contrary, a deed that bears the stamp of immortality. Wheresoever this gospel is preached — and it will be preached everywhere — there shall the act of this woman be proclaimed. Other deeds record the good done by me; this will tell of the good done to me. I have influenced the world but this woman has influenced me. She hath wrought a good work in me; she did it for my burial.’

I have here followed the form of the narrative given by St. Matthew, because I think the rendering there is more correct as regards the ground of Mary’s commendation. Adopting, then, this reading, what does Jesus mean by the words, ‘She did it for my burial ‘? As I have said, Mary’s motive was not the anointing of Jesus for His burial. That would have been an offering of her sorrow. This was unmistakably an offering of her joy. She was thinking, not of the burial preparing, but of the burial baffled. The breaking of the alabaster box was a tribute, not to death, but to life. It was an offering of thanks to God for the restored life of her brother Lazarus. Jesus knew it to be so, and He accepted the motive even while He saw a deeper use for the deed. He put more into the box than Mary had originally put into it; but He did not refuse what had been originally inserted. He saw in Mary’s action more than she saw herself; but He beheld also the amount she beheld. And I cannot but remark in passing, that, to those followers of the Christian faith who are seeking from their Scriptures a solace in the hour of bereavement, I can imagine no greater comfort than a statement of the fact that Jesus once accepted a costly offering as a tribute of gratitude for annulling the separation wrought by death.

But, as I have said, Jesus put more into the box than He found there. This is a case of imputed righteousness. Mary was doing more than she knew. The very form of the words of Jesus suggests to me that this was in His mind. ‘Mary, you wish your offering to point back to the vacant tomb of your brother; but it also points forward to another tomb — my own. You have meant your deed to have a bearing on the burial of Lazarus; it has had an additional bearing — on my burial. You have meant it to be simply retrospective; it has been prospective too. It has raised issues you have not dreamed of. You designed it for only a village thanksgiving; you have performed a deed which will be more potent in its consequences than all the conquests of Caesar.’

What, then, was this deed? What was that good work which she wrought in Jesus? If you would arrive at the answer, remember what was at this time the deepest thought of His mind. It was what He calls His burial, by which He means the coming of death. Remember that at the very moment when He was preparing His disciples for the great catastrophe, there was a side of that catastrophe which to Himself was still dark — a side of which He could not yet say, ‘O death, where is thy sting! O grave, where is thy victory! ‘What it was we have seen before and shall see again. Meantime, it is sufficient to remind you that death for Him had still a valley, still a shadow. You will remember also what I have pointed out as the law of man’s nature and pre eminently a law of the nature of Jesus — that the best help for a valley and a shadow is a previous joy. We have seen how it was after a great joy that Jesus took up the burden of the labouring and the heavy-laden. We have seen how it was after a great joy — His Transfiguration joy — that He set His face steadfastly to go to the dreaded Jerusalem. And now there comes to Him the same preliminary stimulus. The devotion of this woman was like a draught of strong wine, like a blast of military music. It strengthened Jesus for the battle. It did not make clearer the dark side of the sepulchre, but it lifted the eye of Jesus to the side which was not dark. It said, ‘Your Father has already accepted from you a few flowers which will not wither even when planted on your grave; even in the depth of His winter you have brought some bloom to the heart of your Father.’

Therefore it was that Jesus said, ‘She has done me good; she has strengthened me for my burial.’ She had not His burial in her mind; but without meaning it she braced Him for His destiny. Without such gleams of light Jesus would have broken down before the time; we shall prove this in the sequel. Without such gleams of light we should all break down before the time. We do not reach our destiny by the strength with which we started; we should never come near the goal but for the alabaster boxes which, by seeming accident, meet us on the way. No wonder Jesus imputes to this box more than was in it! There was in it only the grateful devotion of a single human soul; but on the strength of that devotion Jesus walked for many hours. It propped up His sinking frame — sinking all the faster because it was carrying a burden unseen. It spoke a word of recognition to His weariness, of appreciation to His sleepless love. The gift it bestowed was spent in a few minutes, but its influence has travelled to heaven; Jesus imputed to it the whole length of the way.

so with me also, O Lord! Put into my box of ointment more than is there! My box holds very little; but my wish holds much; impute my wish to my deed! The little I can do is lost in an hour. The coin I gave the beggar is spent in riotous living; the substance I shared with the prodigal is squandered amid the swine. But when I gave the coin, when I shared the substance, I breathed a silent prayer too — a wish of the heart. And the wish went beyond the poor gift, beyond the meagre coin; it asked for the beggar, it asked for the prodigal, a length of happy days. Put that wish into my alabaster box, O Christ! Impute to the mean offering not what it gives but what it would fain bestow! Impute to the material brass the spiritual gold! Count among the pieces of silver the coins that were only in my heart! Reckon amongst my charities the treasures I spent in imagination for Thy poor — the treasures I would have spent had they been mine! Put down to my credit not what I gave, but what I willed to give! Then shalt Thou say of me, as Thou saidst of Mary. * Thou hast wrought a good work in me.’