THE BOX OF OINTMENT
"Six days before the Passover ceremonies began, Jesus
arrived in Bethany, the home of Lazarus—the man He had raised from the dead.
A dinner was prepared in Jesus' honor. Martha served, and Lazarus sat at the
table with Him. Then Mary took a twelve-ounce jar of expensive perfume made
from essence of nard, and she anointed Jesus' feet with it and wiped His
feet with her hair. And the house was filled with fragrance." John 12:1-3
Once more we visit in thought a peaceful and happy
home-scene in the same Bethany household. The severed links in that broken
chain are again united.
How often in a time of severe bereavement, when some
"light of the dwelling" has suddenly been extinguished, does the imagination
fondly dwell on the possibility of the wild dream of separation passing
away; of the vacant seat being refilled by its owner—the "loved and lost
one" again restored. Alas! in all such cases, it is but a feverish
fantasy, destined to know no fulfillment. Here, however, it was indeed a
happy reality. "Lazarus is dead!" was the bitter dirge a few brief
weeks ago; but now, "Lazarus lives!" His silent voice is heard
again—his dull eye is lighted again—the temporary pang of separation is only
remembered to enhance the joy of so gladsome a reunion.
It was on His final Sabbath evening, when Spring's
loveliness was carpeting the Mount of Olives and clothing with fresh verdure
the groves around Bethany, that our blessed Redeemer was seen approaching
the haunt of former friendship. He had for two months taken shelter from the
malice of the Sanhedrin in the little town of Ephraim and the mountainous
region of Perea, on the other side of the Jordan. But the Passover solemnity
being at hand, and His own hour having come, He had "set His face
steadfastly to go to Jerusalem." It is more than probable that for several
days He had been traveling in the company of other pilgrims coming from
Galilee on their way to the feast. He seems, however, to have left the
festival caravan at Jericho, lingering behind with His own disciples in
order to secure a private approach to the city of solemnities. They
were completing their journey on the Sabbath, just as the sun was sinking
behind the brow of Olivet, and, turning aside from the highway, they spent
the night in their old Bethany retreat.
Befitting tranquil scene for His closing Sabbath—a happy
preparation for a season of trial and conflict! It is well worthy of
observation, how, as His saddest hours were drawing near—the shadow of His
cross projected on His path—Bethany becomes more and more endeared to Him.
Night after night, during this memorable week, we shall find Him resorting
to its cherished seclusion. As the storm is fast gathering, the vessel seeks
for shelter in its best-loved haven.
Imagine the joy with which the announcement would be
received by the tenants—"Our Lord and Redeemer is once more approaching!"
Imagine how the great Conqueror of death would be welcomed into the home
consecrated alike by His love and power. Now every tear dried! The weeping
that endured for the long night of bereavement all forgotten. Ah! if Jesus
were loved before in that happy home, how, we may well imagine, would
He be adored and reverenced now. What a new claim had He established
on their deepest affection and regard. Feelingly alive to all they owed Him,
the restored brother and rejoicing sisters with hearts overflowing with
gratitude could say, in the words of their Psalmist King—"You have turned my
mourning into joyful dancing. You have taken away my clothes of mourning and
clothed me with joy, that I might sing praises to You and not be silent. O
Lord My God, I will give You thanks forever!"
But does the love and affection of that household find
expression in nothing but words? Supper is being made ready. While Martha,
with her usual activity, is busied preparing the evening meal—doing her best
to provide for the refreshment of the travelers—the gentle spirit of Mary
(even if her name had not been given, we would have known it was she)
prompts her to a more significant proof of the depth of her gratitude. Some
fragrant ointment of spikenard—contained, as we gather from the other
Evangelists, in a box of Alabaster—had been procured by her at great cost;
either obtained for this anticipated meeting with her Lord, or it may in
some way have fallen into her possession, and been sacredly kept among her
treasured gifts until some befitting occasion occurred for its employment.
Has not that occasion occurred now? On whom can her grateful heart more
joyously bestow this garnered treasure than on her beloved Lord. With her
own hands she pours it on His feet. Stooping down, she wipes them, in
further token of her devotion, with her loosened tresses, until the whole
apartment was filled with the sweet perfume.
And what was it that constituted the value of this
tribute—the beauty and expressiveness of the action? She gave her Lord
the best thing she had! She felt that to Him, in addition to what He had
done for her own soul, she owed the most valued life in the world—
"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 does supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Raves 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 Savior's feet
With costly spikenard and with tears."
What a lesson for us! Are we willing to give our Lord the
best of what we have—to consecrate time, talents, strength, life,
to His service? Not as many, to give Him the mere dregs and sweepings of
existence—the wrecks of a "worn and withered life"—but, like Mary, anxious
to take every opportunity and occasion of testifying the depth of obligation
under which we are laid to Him? Let us not say—"My sphere is lowly, my means
are limited, my best offerings would be inadequate." Such, doubtless, were
the very feelings of that humble, modest, yet loving one, as she crept
noiselessly to where her pilgrim-Lord reclined, and lavished on His weary
limbs the costliest treasure she possessed. Hundreds of more imposing
deeds—more princely and munificent offerings—may have been left unrecorded
by the Evangelists; but "wherever this Gospel shall be preached in the whole
world, what this woman has done shall be told for a memorial of her."
Would that love to "that same Jesus" were with all of us
more paramount than it is! "Do you love Me more than these" is His own
searching test and requirement. Is it so?—Do we love Him more than self or
sin—more than friends or home—more than any earthly object or earthly good;
and are we willing, if need be, to make a sacrifice for His glory and for
the honor of His cause? Happy for us if it be so. There will be a joy in the
very consciousness of making the effort, feeble and unworthy as it may be,
for His sake, and in acknowledgment of the great love with which He has
loved us.
Let it be our privilege and delight to give Him our pound
of spikenard, whatever that may be; and if we can give no other, let us
offer the fragrant perfume of holy hearts and holy lives. That
religion is always best which reveals itself by its effects—by kindness,
gentleness, amiability, unselfishness, flowing from a principle of grateful
love to Him who, though unseen, has been to us as to the family of
Bethany—Friend, and Help, and Guide, and Portion. Mary's honor was great to
anoint her Lord, but the lowliest and humblest of His people may do the
same. We may have no aromatic offering, neither "gold, nor frankincense, nor
myrrh;" but My son, My daughter, "give Me your heart!" "The
sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O God,
You will not despise."
Nor ought we to forget our blessed Lord's reply, when
Judas objected to the waste of the ointment, "Let her alone; . . . . the
poor you always have with you, but you do not always have Me." Let us seek
to make the most of our Lord's visits while we have Him.
The visits of Jesus to Bethany were soon to be over—so
also with us. He will not always linger on our thresholds, if our souls
refuse to receive Him, or yield Him nothing but coldness and ingratitude in
return for His love. "You do not always have Me." Soon may sickness
incapacitate for active service! Soon may opportunities for doing
good be gone, and gone forever! Soon may death overtake us, and the
alabaster box be left behind, unused and unemployed; the dying regret on our
lips—"Oh that I had done more while I lived for this most precious Savior!
but opportunities of testifying my gratitude to Him are now gone beyond
recall."
Good deeds performed on Gospel motives, though unknown
and unvalued by the world, will not go unrecompensed or unowned by Him who
values the cup of cold water given in His name. "God is not unmindful
to forget our work of faith and our labor of love." The Lamb's Book of Life
registers every such deed of lowly piety; and on the Great Day of account
"it shall be produced to our eternal honor, and rewarded with a reward of
grace, though not of debt."
Let us bear in mind, also, that every holy service of
unostentatious love exercises a hallowed influence on those around us. We
may not be conscious of such. But, if Christians indeed, the sphere in which
we move will, like the Bethany home, be redolent with the ointment perfume.
A holy life is a silent witness for Jesus—an incense-cloud from the
heart-altar, breathing odors and sweet spices, of which the world cannot
fail to take knowledge. Yes! were we to seek for a beautiful allegorical
representation of pure and undefiled Religion, we would find it in this
loveliest of inspired pictures. Mary—all silent and submissive at the feet
of her Lord—only permitting her love to be disclosed by the holy perfume
which, unknown to herself, revealed to others the reality and intensity of
her love. True religion is quiet, unobtrusive, seeking the shade—its
ever-befitting attitude at the feet of Jesus, looking to Him as all in all.
Yet, though retiring, it must and will manifest its
living and influential power. The heart broken at the cross, like Mary's
broken box, begins from that hour to give forth the hallowed perfume of
faith, and love, and obedience, and every kindred grace. Not a fitful and
vacillating love and service, but ever emitting the fragrance of holiness,
until the little world of home-influence around us is filled with the odor
of the ointment.
"I ask You for the daily strength,
To none that ask denied;
And a mind to blend with outward life,
While keeping by Your side;
Content to fill a little space
If You be glorified.
"And if some things I do not ask
In my cup of blessings be,
I would have my spirit filled the more
With grateful love to Thee,
More careful not to serve You much,
But to please You perfectly."
Such is a brief sketch of this beautiful domestic scene,
and its main practical lessons—a green spot on which the eye will ever love
to repose, among the "Memories of Bethany."
It is unnecessary to advert to the controverted question,
as to whether the description of the anointing, which took place in the
house of Simon the leper, and where the alabaster box is spoken of, be
identical with this passage, or whether they refer to two distinct
occasions. The question is of no great importance in itself—the former view
(that they are descriptions of one and the same event) seems the more
probable. It surely gives a deep intensity to the interest of the narrative
to imagine the Leper and the raised dead man, seated at the same table
together with their common Deliverer, glorifying their Savior-God, with
bodies and spirits they felt now to be doubly His!
Simon, it is evident, must have been cured of his
disease, else, by the Jewish law, he dared not have been associating with
his friends at a common meal. How was he cured? How else may we suppose was
that inveterate malady subdued but by the omnipotent word of Him, who had
only to say—"I will, be made whole!" May we not regard him as a standing
miracle of Jesus' power over the diseased body, as Lazarus was the
living trophy of His power over death and the grave. The one could
testify—"This poor man cried, and the Lord saved him, and delivered him out
of all his troubles." The other, "Unless the Lord had been my help, my soul
must now have dwelt in silence!"
In order to explain the circumstance of this family
meeting being in the house of Simon, there have not been lacking advocates
for the supposition, that the restored leper may have been none other than
the parent of the household. It is not for us to hazard conjectures, where
Scripture has thrown no light. Even when sanctioned by venerated names, the
most plausible hypothesis should be received with that caution requisite in
dealing with what is supported exclusively by traditional authority. Were,
however, such a view as we have indicated correct (which is just possible,
and there is nothing in the face of the narrative to render it improbable),
it certainly would impart a new and fresh beauty to the picture of this
Feast of gratitude. Well might the parent's heart swell within him with
more than ordinary emotions!—Himself plucked a victim from the most
loathsome of diseases! He would think, with tearful eye, of the dark dungeon
of his banishment—the leper-house, where he had been gloomily excluded from
all fellowship with human sympathies and loving hearts. His own children
condemned by a severe but righteous necessity to shun his presence—or when
within sound of human footfall or human voice, compelled to make known his
presence with the doleful utterance—"Unclean! Unclean!" He would think of
that wondrous moment in his history, when, shunned by man, the
GOD-MAN drew near to him, and with one glance of His love, and one utterance
of His power, He bade the foul disease forever away!
Nor was this all that Simon (if he were, indeed, the
father of the family) must have felt. What must have been those emotions,
too deep for utterance, as he gazed on the son of his affections, seated
once more by his side! A short time ago, Lazarus had been laid silent in the
adjoining sepulcher—Death had laid his cold hand upon him—the pride of his
home had been swept down. But the same Almighty Friend who had caused his
own leprosy to depart, had given him back his lost one. They were rejoicing
together in the presence of Him to whom they owed life and all its
blessings. Oh, well might "the voice of rejoicing and salvation be heard in
the tabernacles of these righteous ones!"
Well might the head of the household dictate to Mary to
"bring forth their best" and bestow it on their Deliverer—the costliest gift
which the dwelling contained—the prized and valued box of alabaster, and
pour its contents on His feet! We can imagine the theme, if not the words,
of their joint anthem of praise—"Bless the Lord, O our souls, and do not
forget all His benefits, who forgives all our iniquities, who heals all our
diseases, who redeems our lives from destruction, and crowns us with
loving-kindness and with tender mercy."
But be all this as it may, that same great Physician of
Souls still waits to be gracious. He heals all our diseases.
Young and old, rich and poor, every type of spiritual malady has in
Him and His salvation its corresponding cure. The same Lord is rich to all
who call upon Him. To the ardent Martha, the contemplative Mary, the aged
Simon, Lazarus the loving and beloved—He has proved friend, and help, and
Savior to all; and in their several ways they seek to give expression to the
depth of their gratitude.
Happy home! may there be many such among us! Fathers,
brothers, sisters, "loving one another with a pure heart fervently," and
loving Jesus more than all! Seeking to have Him as the ever-welcomed guest
of their dwelling—feeling that all they have, and all they are, for time or
for eternity, they owe to Him who has "brought them out of the horrible pit,
and out of the miry clay, and set their feet upon a rock, and established
their goings, and put a new song in their mouth, even praise unto our God!"
Yes! having the Lord, we have what is better and more
enduring than the best of earthly ties and earthly homes. This must have
been impressed with peculiar force on aged John, as in distant Ephesus he
penned the memories of this evening feast. Where were then all its
guests?—the recovered leper, the risen Lazarus, the devout sisters, the
ardent disciples—all gone!—none but himself remained to tell the
touching story. No, not all!—ONE remained amid this wreck of buried
friendship—the adorable Being who had given to that Bethany feast all its
imperishable interest was still within him and about him. The rocky shores
of Patmos, and the groves around Ephesus, echoed to the well-remembered
tones of the same voice of love. His best Friend was still left to
take loneliness from his solitude. He writes as if he were still reclining
on that sacred bosom—"Truly our fellowship is with the Father and
with his Son Jesus Christ!"
Reader! take "that same Jesus" now as your Friend—receive
Him as the guest of your soul; and when other guests and other friendships
are vanished and gone, and you may be left like John, as the alone survivor
of a buried generation—"alone! and yet you will not be alone!"—lifting your
furrowed brow and tearful eye to Heaven, you may exclaim, "Who shall
separate me from the love of Christ?"