She was not commended for sitting still but for sitting “at Jesus’ feet.”
The penalty which a great man lays upon the world,” said Hegel, “is to understand him.” The statement would be more accurate had he spoken not of a great man, but of a great saint. Saintliness always surprises. It baffles and vexes our common worldly minds. The men and women of deep and genuine holiness continually amaze us. They have kinder and wiser thoughts; they do more generous and self-sacrificing deeds; they are stronger and tenderer in character than we conceive; they are always rising to some new height of achievement and attaining some fresh triumph over themselves.
For this reason Mary of Bethany is not easy to understand. We sometimes picture her as a simple, almost unlessoned girl. But she was a great saint, a wonder to her household, a bewilderment to the whole village, a perplexity, almost a trial, to the disciples. In her spiritual beauty she was an offense to at least one of them. She rose into zones of faith and adoration and sacrifice in whose air others could not breathe.
Only One understood her. He had to defend her against Martha, had to become her advocate against the censure of His disciples. When we understand why Jesus sets Mary so high we shall know almost all that is worth knowing about saintliness.
Let us begin at the end of the record of her life, and go back to its beginning—from what may be called the outside and pass into its core. Let us begin with her gift of costly spikenard, and go back to the center and source of her moral loveliness.
We find ourselves face to face with three scenes that led to a secret.
The first scene is the breaking of the alabaster box of ointment. It is a scene of home. Mary of Bethany is a type of womanhood never found outside the distinctive people of God. She is in the great succession of Miriam and Deborah, Ruth and Hannah—the woman, who in spite of slips and falls, feared God above every other fear.
But this type of womanhood did not reach the bloom of its wisdom and insight and delicacy until it was touched by Jesus. It may be said with unassailable truth that it is in the soul of a woman like Mary that the word of Christ has free course and is glorified.
Christ can take the coarsest clay and fashion a vessel of honor. He can pluck a brand from the burning and make it bring forth the tender leaf again. But when a young, unstained soul, with a heritage of godliness stored in the heart, led from the earliest years into the house of God and taught His ways, gently nurtured in wise and restraining disciplines—when such a soul comes to Him He works, as a cunning workman will in precious material, His miracle of loveliness.
Mary of Bethany was the daughter of a home of wealth and refinement, as these were realized in the fashion of the time. The marks of its ease of circumstance are set in almost every sentence of the story. The lavish hospitality, the respect shown by sympathizing neighbors, the grave in the rock—a grave such as Joseph of Arimathea with his riches had bought for himself—the costly box of spikenard of Mary’s own, all indicate the affluence of the family. The courtesies and reticence of speech, the instinctive acts of gentlehood, the sense of taste which pervade the story, reveal the grace of the home. When Christ is received by faith into the heart of a woman trained as Mary was, you may expect wondrously lovely deeds.
So on that night in which He was looking forward to His death and burial, when Martha made Him a feast, Mary felt that it lacked something. When a king sat at a table, and men did him honor, not only were the viands rare and costly, not only did flowers lend their color and perfume, but his head was anointed with oil. Mary had only one King. Her eyes were fixed on Him. Her thoughts were busy with His honor. So she ran for her treasure, poured the oil on His head, and the house was filled with the aroma.
Now mark that this was an act of the home. The house was filled with the odor.
The significance of that statement is clear. We need not range far afield to find the deeds which follow in a succession to Mary’s gift, and fill our homes with fragrance. When a daughter pours out her youth and grace in the difficult ministries of the home; when she waits with patient care on the sick and aged, until the snow of her brow steals down and pales the blossom on her cheek; when a woman spends her thought and care in making her home a place of rest and peace for men who face the conflicts of the world; when she humbly accepts the narrow ways and constant humiliations of poverty and care; when she is quick to make the home the place of comfort and solace to those who are weary; when she makes a sacrifice in which she denies herself the dearest joy in life, she breaks something more costly than a box of alabaster—she breaks her woman’s heart, that she may honor Christ. There, as she serves, in her great way, she takes rank with Mary.
There are homes into which we enter today where we may hear Mary’s gentle footfall, see her pouring forth her ointment, and the whole house is filled with its odor. When you see a woman serving in the costly tasks of the household with this ineffable grace, you understand why Jesus set Mary in the place of honor.
The second scene is the act of adoration. We see Mary not far from her brother’s grave. We see the depths within her broken up, and we have revealed the tenacity of her affections. Martha had gone to meet Jesus, and stands to speak with Him. “But when Mary was come where Jesus was she fell down at His feet.”
An act like this where a human soul prostrates itself in adoration is almost too high for us to appreciate, and all that it means is difficult to grasp. With tender and sacred awe, Mary fell down at Jesus’ feet. We have no hint in her of a mind that could reason out the mysteries of the faith. We have no word from her which sets either truth or grace in a phrase. The very words she utters seem to be echoes of what she heard on Martha’s lips. The great words of Christ were too great for her. But to her, as to all who have entered into the heart of the Christian revelation, Jesus was all in all. Not what Christ said, not even what Christ did, but what Christ was. She beheld His glory. His declaration of God, His assurance of God’s love, His embodiment of God’s holiness, all that was pure and just and true and honorable, and lovely, and of good report was enshrined in Jesus. When she fell down at His feet, it was the posture which revealed the attitude of her soul.
There is a faith which is based on a sure-footed reason, and a clear apprehension of God’s wisdom and righteousness. That is the faith which ruled in the heart of Pascal and Edwards and Butler. There is a faith which serves itself heir to the promises of God and is saved by hope. Many of the holiest lives and most self-denying ministries find their dynamic here. All of these our Father, who is patient with His children, accepts and owns. But the faith which captivates the heart of God is that which longs, and reaches out, not so much through clear doctrine, or high obedience, or mystic feeling, or uplifting hopes, but through and for Himself. That sets Mary on high, with Abraham, and Moses, and David, and Peter, and John, and Paul. They were held not merely by His works or by His words. They were held by Himself, and all of them have fallen down in adoration at His feet.
The third scene is that of Mary sitting and hearing His word. This must not be thought of as describing the attitude of a single hour. It sets forth the habit of her life. As Paul sat at the feet of Gamaliel, learning his wisdom, entering into his ideals, so Mary was a scholar in the school of Christ. The strictest Pharisee could have declared, as they marked her ways, that she had been with Jesus, and had learned of Him.
Do you realize how high this habit of Mary’s life is? There may be a certain suspicion of this seemingly idle posture. You are tempted to think that Mary was lacking in the more difficult activities of every day—a creature too wise and good for human nature’s daily food. Or it may be the picture you cherish is that of some pale-faced nun such as you see her in the streets, bound about with the white napkin of her cloister tomb.
No. Mary had no idle hand. She was not a mere guest at life’s feast. Martha would not have spoken so bitterly, and demanded that Mary be bidden to rise and serve, had service not been the custom of her days. The drudgery of household duties bent her back. The constancy of household tasks soiled and coarsened her hands, as much as Martha’s. But she knew what was highest and best in life. She had heard Jesus say, “The life is more than meat, and the body is more than raiment.” She had heard Him repeat, “The words that I speak unto you, they are spirit and they are life.” She had heard Him appeal, “This is the work of God, that ye believe on Him whom He hath sent.”
Why should it concern her to gain all that glittered before the eye. The whole world might cry, “Who will show me any good?” Her prayer was, “Lord, lift Thou up the light of Thy countenance upon me.” That is the mind which men may deride. Jesus ranks it with the highest.
This, whatever may be your life and its fashion, you know to be highest. No man will think lightly of the daily toil and task. No man will sneer at honest success in his calling. But you know in your hearts that no such toil or gain is enough to satisfy a human soul. To sow and to reap, to buy and to sell, to plan and to build, to make the roads and dust the flaunty carpets of the world, is not the highest. What is it all for? What is it all to end in? Is it enough for a man to do some great work, to be a master of some high calling in the world’s estimate, and to win a name and a place among men? How brief is his glory! How vanishing is his work!
You find men who are immersed in this world’s care forming themselves into a club where they may escape from the treadmill of life and give their minds to things that lift their thoughts above the common passions. You find men hungry for a music, when, at the touch of some master, they may rise out of their sordid life, into a spiritual atmosphere. “Man cannot live by bread alone.” He must have the Word of God.
These are the souls who make it the habit and passion of their lives to learn His word, and to enter into His wisdom. These rank with Mary when they cast themselves at Jesus’ feet.
We have seen Mary at the feast in her act of grace. We have seen her falling down at Jesus’ feet in her adoration. We have seen her in the very habit of her life and passion of her heart, hearing Christ’s word. Now we come to the secret of it all, and it is set in a word of Jesus. He sets the deep motive of Mary’s deeds, and the true source of her grace, in the declaration, “Mary hath chosen that good part which shall not be taken from her.” Mary had chosen. He takes us back to an hour of definite and determining choice.
The Gospels do not disclose the solemn hour of decision for Christ in many cases. With the delicacy they had learned of Christ, they rather veiled that experience, so unspeakably wonderful, that it is not always lawful to utter. Here we have only a hint of an event, which was the supreme decision in the history of Mary, as it is, and shall be, in the history of all believers.
It takes us back to a day which was the beginning of all days. I venture to think that it was on that night when first Jesus became the Guest of the household of Bethany. When the evening lamp was lit, He spoke, as His manner was, of His heavenly Father and His care, of the easy yoke and light burden of His service, and of the Good Shepherd seeking His own.
The young, shy, silent girl sat and heard His words. Wonder and fear had long possessed her heart. Her thoughts about God and His ways were darkened by the family sorrow. She had endeavored to keep the commandments, but had to confess her failure with the shame that purity always feels. She felt at times even the desire to be holy fading within. She did not venture to tell out her troubled spirit to self-reliant, clear-minded Martha. She would not whisper her doubts and fears to Lazarus. But as Jesus spoke, she saw the truth of God and His grace. She heard the call to trust and obey, and in a single silent decision, she chose the good part.
The quality of our lives depends upon our choices. The man whose days are full of shame, whose character is daily becoming more degraded, has made his choices, time and time again. The man whose faith and zeal are withering has ceased to make that succession of fresh decisions which shall turn his feet, with every morning light, anew to God’s testimonies. The man whose heart is becoming purer, whose life is becoming nobler, has also made his choice. Even now, if you will have your life abound in deeds which will fill your house with fragrance, and call forth Christ’s high encomium, choose, in an act of faith and of reverence, and your new obedience will be gladdening in the Master’s eyes.
Do we ever labor at serving
Till voices grow fretful and shrill,
Forgetting how to be loving,
Forgetting how to be still?
Do we strive for “things” and possessions,
And toil for the perishing meat,
Neglecting the one thing needful—
Sitting at Jesus’ feet?
Service is good when He asks it,
Labor is right in its place,
But there is one thing better—
Looking up into His face;
There is so much He would tell us,
Truths that are precious and deep;
This is the place where He wants us,
These are the things we can keep.
—Annie Johnson Flint