Him when they saw Him speaking to His friends, they drew near to the
house where He had gone in, they brought their children to Him, they
blessed Him loudly, they touched His garment to be cured of their ills,
they were happy when they could serve Him. All of them might have cried
out to Him, like the woman who raised her voice in the midst of the
multitude: “Blessed is the womb that bare ye, and the paps which thou
hast sucked.”
Many followed Him to death. Salome, mother of the Sons of Thunder; Mary,
mother of James the less; Martha and Mary of Bethany.
They would have liked to be His sisters, His servants, His slaves; to
serve Him, to set bread before Him, to pour Him wine, to wash His
garments, to anoint His tired feet and His flowing hair. Some of them
were fortunate enough to be allowed to follow Him, and knew the still
greater good fortune of helping Him with their money ... “and the twelve
were with him, And certain women, which had been healed of evil spirits
and infirmities, Mary, called Magdalene, out of whom went seven devils,
And Joanna, the wife of Chuza, Herod’s steward, and Susanna, and many
others, which ministered unto him of their substance.” Women, in whom
piety is a native gift of the heart before it is acquired through desire
for perfection, were, as they have always been, more generous than men.
When He appears in the house of Lazarus, two women, the two sisters of
the man brought back from death, seem distracted with joy. Martha rushes
towards Him to see what He needs, if He wishes to wash, if He wishes to
eat at once, and, bringing Him into the house, she leads Him to the
couch that He may lie down, puts over Him a blanket lest He be cold, and
runs with a pitcher to get fresh cool water. Then, on her return, she
sets to work to prepare for the pilgrim a fine meal, much more abundant
than the ordinary dinner of the family. With all haste she lights a
great fire, goes to get fresh fish, new-laid eggs, figs and olives; she
borrows from one neighbor a piece of new-killed lamb, from another a
costly perfume, from another richer than she, a flowered dish. She pulls
out from the linen-chest the newest table-cloth, and brings up from the
wine-cellar the oldest wine. And while the wood snaps and sparkles in
the fire and the water in the kettle begins to simmer, poor Martha,
bustling, flushed, hurrying, sets the table, runs between the
kneading-trough and the fire, glances at the waiting Master, at the
street to see if her brother is coming home, and at her sister, who is
doing nothing at all.
For when Jesus passed the sill of their house, Mary fell into a sort of
motionless ecstasy from which nothing could arouse her. She sees only
Jesus, hears nothing but Jesus’ voice. There is nothing else in the
world for her at that moment. She cannot have enough of looking at Him,
of listening to Him, of feeling Him there, living, close to her. If He
glances at her, she is happy to be looked at; if He does not look at
her, she fixes her eyes on Him; if He speaks, His words drop one by one
into her heart, there to remain to her death; if He is silent, she draws
from His silence a more direct revelation. And she is almost troubled by
the bustling and stepping about of her sister. Why should Martha think
that Jesus needs an elaborate dinner? Mary is seated at His feet and
does not move even if Martha or Lazarus call her. She is at the service
of Jesus, but in another way. She has given Him her soul, only her soul,
but such a loving soul! And the work of her hands would be inopportune
and superfluous. She is a contemplative soul, an adorer. She will take
action only to cover the dead body of her God with perfumes. She would
move quickly enough if He should ask of her all her life-blood. But the
rest, all this business of Martha, is only material activity which is no
concern of hers.
Women loved Him and He requited this love with compassion. No woman who
turned to Him was sent away disconsolate. The sorrow of the widow of
Nain made Him sorrow, so that He brought to life her dead son; the
prayers of the Canaanite woman, although she was a foreigner to Him,
wrought on Him to cure her daughter; the unknown woman which had a
“spirit of infirmity” eighteen years, and was bowed together and could
in no wise lift herself, was cured, although it was on the Sabbath day
and the rulers of the synagogue cried, “Sacrilege!” In the first part of
His wanderings He cured Peter’s wife’s mother of fever and the Magdalene
of evil spirits. He brought to life the daughter of Jairus, and cured
that unknown woman who had suffered for twelve years from a bloody flux.
The learned men of His time had no esteem for women in spiritual
matters. They tolerated their presence at the sacred festivals, but they
never would have thought of teaching high and secret doctrines to any
woman. “The words of the Law,” says a rabbinical proverb of that time,
“rather than teach them to a woman, burn them up!” Jesus on the other
hand did not hesitate to speak to them of the highest mysteries. When He
went alone to the well of Sichar, and the Samaritan woman who had had
five husbands came there, He did not hesitate to proclaim His message to
her, although she was a woman and an enemy of His people. “But the hour
cometh, and now is, when the true worshipers shall worship the Father in
spirit and in truth: for the Father seeketh such to worship him. God is
a spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in
truth.” His Disciples came up, and could not understand what the Master
was doing. “And marvelled that he talked with the woman.” They did not
yet know that the Church of Christ would make a woman the link between
the sons and the Son—the woman who unites in herself the two supreme
possibilities of Woman: the Virgin Mother who suffered for us from the
night in Bethlehem until the night of Golgotha.
WORDS WRITTEN ON THE SAND
On another occasion at Jerusalem, Jesus found Himself before a woman—the
Adulteress. A hooting crowd pushed her forward. The woman, hiding her
face with her hands and with her hair, stood before Him, without
speaking. Jesus had taught that wife and husband should be perfectly
one, and He detested adultery. But He detested still more the cowardice
of tale-bearers, the hounding by the merciless, the impudence of sinners
presuming to set themselves up as judges of sin. Jesus could not absolve
the woman who had brutally disobeyed the law of God, but He did not wish
to condemn her, because her accusers had no right to be seeking her
death. And He stooped down and with His finger wrote upon the ground. It
is the first and last time that we see Jesus lower Himself to this
trivial operation. No one has ever known what He wrote at that moment,
standing there before the woman trembling in her shame, like a deer set
upon by a pack of snarling hounds. He chose the sand on which to write
expressly that the wind might carry away the words, which would perhaps
frighten men if they could read them. But the shameless persecutors
insisted that the woman should be stoned. Then Jesus lifted Himself up,
looked deep into their eyes and souls, one by one: “He that is without
sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.”
We are all of us guilty of the faults of our brothers. From the first to
the last we are all daily accomplices, although too often unpunished.
The Adulteress would not have betrayed her husband if men had not
tempted her, if her husband had made himself better loved; the thief
would not rob if the rich man’s heart were not so hard; the assassin
would not kill if he had not been harshly treated; there would be no
prostitutes if men knew how to mortify their wantonness. Only the
innocents would have the right to judge; but on this earth there are no
innocents, and even if there were, their mercy would be stronger than
justice itself.
Such thoughts had never occurred to those angry spies, but Christ’s
words troubled them. Every one of them thought of his own betrayals, his
own secret and perhaps recent sins of the flesh. Every soul there was
like a sewer which when the stone is raised exhales a fetid gust of
nauseous vapor. The old men were the first to go. Then, little by
little, all the others, avoiding each other’s eyes, scattered and
dispersed. The open place was empty. Jesus had again stooped down to
write upon the ground. The woman had heard the shuffling of the
departing feet, and heard no longer any voice crying for her death, but
she did not dare to raise her eyes because she knew that One alone had
remained, the Innocent,—the only one who had the right to throw against
her the deadly stones. Jesus for the second time lifted Himself up and
saw no one.
“Woman, where are those thine accusers? hath no man condemned thee?”
“No man, Lord.”
“Neither do I condemn thee: go and sin no more.”
And for the first time the Adulteress dared to look in the face of her
liberator. She did not understand His words. What she had done was
evidently a sin in His eyes because he commanded her to “sin no more”;
and yet he had so acted that the others did not condemn her. And now He
also did not wish to condemn her. What man was this so different from
all the others, who hated sin but forgave the sinner? She would have
wished to turn to Him with a question, to murmur a word of thanks, to
reward Him at least with a smile, because her soul was weak and her lips
beautiful. But Jesus had begun again to write on the ground of the
court, His head lowered, and she saw only the silky waves of His hair
shining in the sun, and His finger moving slowly over the sunlit earth.
THE SINNER
But no woman loved Him so much as the woman who anointed Him with nard
and bathed Him with her tears in the house of Simon the Pharisee. Every
one of us has seen that picture in imagination; the weeping woman with
her hair falling over the feet of the Wanderer; and yet the true meaning
of the episode is understood by very few, so greatly has it been
disfigured by both the ordinary and the literary interpretations. The
decadents of the last century, careful workmen in lascivious preciosity,
who swarm to the scent of corruption like flies to filth and crows to
carrion, have sought out in the Gospel those women who are redolent of
sin. And they have made such women their own, adorning them with the
velvet of adjectives, the silk of verbs, the jewelry and precious stones
of metaphors; the unknown repentant woman, named Mary Magdalene, the
unknown adulteress of Jerusalem, Salome the dancer, the sinister
Herodias.
The episode of this anointing has been profoundly misrepresented by such
writers. It is simpler and infinitely more profound. The praise of Jesus
for the woman who brought Him nard is not praise of carnal sin, or of
common love as it is commonly understood by men.
This sinning woman who silently entered the house of Simon with her box
of alabaster was no longer a sinner. She had seen Jesus, had known Him
before that day. And she was no longer a woman for hire; she had heard
Jesus speak, and was no longer the public woman, flesh on sale for
masculine desires. She had heard the voice of Jesus, had listened to His
words; His voice had troubled her, His words had shaken her. The woman
who had belonged to every one had learned that there is a love more
beautiful than lust, a poverty richer than clinking coins. When she came
to the house of Simon she was not the woman she had been, the woman whom
the men of the countryside had pointed out sneeringly, the woman whom
the Pharisee knew and despised. Her soul was changed, all her life was
changed. Now her flesh was chaste; her hand was pure; her lips no longer
knew the bitter taste of rouge, her eyes had learned to weep. From now
on, according to the promise of the King, she was ready to enter into
the Kingdom.
Without taking all this for granted it is impossible to understand the
story which follows. The sinning woman wished to reward her Saviour with
a token of her gratitude. She took one of the most costly things left to
her, a sealed box full of nard, perhaps the gift of a chance lover,
thinking to anoint her King’s head with this costly oil. Hers was an act
of public gratitude. The sinning woman wished publicly to thank Him who
had cleansed her soul, who had brought her heart to life, who had lifted
her up out of shame, who had given her a hope more glorious than all
joys.
She went into the house with her box of alabaster clasped to her breast,
timid and shrinking as a little girl on her first day of school, as a
released prisoner in his first moment outside the prison. She went in
silently with her little box of perfume, raising her eyes for only a
moment to see at a glance where Jesus was reclining. She went up to the
couch, her knees trembling under her, her hands shaking, her delicate
eyelids quivering, because she felt they were all looking at her, all
those men’s eyes were fixed on her, staring at her beautiful swaying
body, wondering what she was about to do.
She broke the seal of the little alabaster flask, and poured half the
oil on the head of Jesus. The large drops shone on His hair like
scattered gems. With loving hands she spread the transparent ointment on
the curls and did not stay her hand till every hair was softened, silky
and shining. The whole room was filled with the fragrance; every eye was
fixed on her with astonishment.
The woman, still silent, took up the opened box and knelt by the feet of
the Peace-bringer. She poured the remaining oil into her hand and
gently, gently rubbed the right foot and the left with the loving care
of a young mother who bathes her first child, for the first time. Then
she could control herself no longer, she could restrain no longer the
great burst of tenderness which filled her heart, made her throat ache
and brought tears to her eyes. She would have liked to speak, to say
that this was her thanks, her simple, pure, heartfelt thanks for the
great help she had received, for the new light which had unsealed her
eyes. But in such a moment, with all those men there, how could she find
the right words, words worthy of the wonderful grace, worthy of Him? And
besides, her lips trembled so that she could not pronounce two words
together; her speech would have been only a stammering broken by sobs.
Then not being able to speak with her lips, she spoke with her eyes: her
tears fell down one by one, swift and hot on the feet of Jesus, like so
many silent thank-offerings.
Weeping freed her heart of its oppression; the tears relaxed the
tension. She saw and felt nothing now but an inexpressible delight which
she had never known on her mother’s knees or in men’s arms; it ran
through all her blood, made her tremble, pierced her with its poignant
joy, shook all her being in that supreme ecstasy in which joy is a pain
and sorrow a joy, in which pain and joy become one mighty emotion.
She wept over her past life, the miserable life of her vigil. She
thought of her poor flesh sullied by men. She had been forced to have a
smile for them all, she had been forced to offer her luxurious bed and
her perfumed body to them all. With all of them she had been forced to
pretend a pleasure she did not feel. She had been forced to show a
smiling face to those whom she despised, to those whom she hated. She
had slept beside the thief who had stolen the money to pay her. She had
kissed the lips of the murderer and of the fugitive from justice; she
had been forced to endure the acrid breath and the repellent fancies of
the drunkard.
Never, on a kindly summer night when the eastern sky is all a flashing
splendor, had she known the welcoming kiss of a husband who had chosen
her, virgin among virgins, that she should be one with him till death.
She was outside the community and the laws. She was cut off from her
people. She was separated from them all. Women envied her and detested
her; men desired her and defamed her.
THE SECOND BAPTISM
But at the same time the tears of the weeping woman were tears of joy
and exaltation. She was weeping not only because of her shame, now
forever canceled, but because of the poignant sweetness of her life
beginning anew.
She was weeping for her virginity restored, for her soul rescued from
evil, her purity miraculously recovered, her condemnation forever
revoked. Her tears were the tears of joy at the second birth, of
exultation for truth discovered, of light-heartedness for her sudden
conversion, for the saving of her soul, for the miraculous hope which
had released her from the degradation of the material and raised her to
the illumination of the spirit. The drops of nard and her tears were so
many thank-offerings for this incredible blessing.
And yet it was not alone for her own sorrow and her own joy that she
wept. The tears which bathed the feet of Jesus were also shed for Him.
The unknown woman had anointed her King like a king of olden times. She
had anointed His head as the high priests had anointed the kings of
Judea; she had anointed His feet as the lords and guests anointed
themselves on festal days. But at the same time the weeping woman had
prepared Him for death and burial.
Jesus, about to enter Jerusalem, knew that those were the last days of
His life in the flesh. He said to His disciples, “For in that she hath
poured this ointment on my body, she did it for my burial.” Still
living, He was embalmed by a woman’s compassion.
Christ was to receive before His death a third baptism, the baptism of
infamy, the baptism of the supreme insult; prætorian soldiers were to
spit upon his face. But He had now received the baptism of glory and the
baptism of death. He was anointed like a king about to triumph in His
celestial kingdom. He was perfumed like a corpse about to be laid in the
tomb. This anointing unites the twin mysteries of His Messiahship and of
the crucifixion.
The poor sinning woman, mysteriously chosen for this prophetic rite, had
perhaps a confused presentiment of the appalling meaning of this
premonitory embalming. Love’s second-sight, stronger in women than in
men, the foresight of exalted and deep emotion, may have made her feel
that this body perfumed and caressed by her was in a few days to be an
icy, blood-stained corpse. Other women, perhaps she herself, were to go
to the tomb to cover Him for the last time with aromatics, but they
would not find Him. He who was now feasting with His friends was at that
time to be at the doors of another Hell. Feeling this presentiment, the
weeping woman let her tears fall on Jesus’ feet to the astonishment of
all the others, who did not know and did not understand.
Now the feet of the Saviour, the feet of the condemned one, are all
bathed with tears, the salt of the tears mingling with the perfume of
the nard. The poor sinning woman does not know how to dry those feet,
wet by her tears. She has no white cloth with her, and her garment does
not seem to her worthy to touch her Lord’s flesh. Then she thinks of her
hair, her long hair which has been so much admired for its fine
silkiness. She loosens the braids, slips out the pins, unclasps the
fastenings. The blue-black mass of her tresses falls over her face,
hiding her flushed face and her compassion. And taking up the masses of
these flowing curls in her hands, she slowly dries the feet which have
brought her King into that house.
Now her tears are ended. All her tears are shed and dried. Her part is
done, but only Jesus has understood her silence.
SHE LOVED MUCH
Among the men who were present at this dinner there was no one except
Jesus who understood the loving service of the nameless woman. But all,
struck with wonder, were silent. They did not understand, but they
respected obscurely the solemnity of the enigmatic ceremony. All except
two, who wished to interpret the woman’s action as an offense to the
guest. These two were the Pharisee and Judas Iscariot. The first said
nothing, but his expression spoke more clearly than words. The second,
the Traitor, presuming on his familiarity with the Master, ventured to
speak.
Simon thought to himself, “This man, if he were a prophet, would have
known who and what manner of woman this is that toucheth Him, for she is
a sinner.” The old hypocrite had for the paid woman the scorn of those
who have had much to do with them, or of those who have never known them
at all. Like his brothers he belonged to the endless cemetery of white
sepulchers, which within are full of foulness. It is enough for such men
to avoid physical contact with what they think is impure, even if their
souls are sinks of iniquity. Their morals are systems of ablutions and
washings; they would leave a wounded man to die, abandoned on the road,
for fear of staining themselves with blood; they would let a poor man
suffer hunger to avoid touching money on the Sabbath day: like all men
they commit thefts, adulteries, and murders, but they wash their hands
so many times a day that they imagine them as clean as those of babes.
He had read the Law, and there were still ringing in his ears the
execrations and anathemas of Old Israel against prostitutes. “There
shall be no whore of the daughters of Israel.... Thou shalt not bring
the hire of a whore, or the price of a dog, into the house of the Lord
thy God for any vow: for even both these are abomination to the Lord thy
God.” And Simon, the wise burgher, remembered with equal satisfaction
the admonition of the author of the Proverbs: “For a whore is a deep
ditch; and a strange woman is a narrow pit.... For by means of a whorish
woman a man is brought to a piece of bread.” The old Jew would perhaps
not have felt so bitterly about prostitutes, if they cost nothing! But
they are capable, those shameless women, of eating up a patrimony! The
old proprietor could not be reconciled to one of those dangerous women
in his house, to the fact that she had touched his guest. He knew that
the prostitute Rehab had made victory possible for Joshua and that she
was the only one to escape from the massacre of Jericho, but he
remembered that the invincible Samson, terror of the Philistines, had
been betrayed by a worthless woman. The Pharisee could not understand
how a man acclaimed by the people as a prophet should not have
understood what sort of woman had come to bestow on Him this
discreditable honor; but Jesus had read in the heart of the sinning
woman and in the heart of Simon, and answered with the parable of the
two debtors. “There was a certain creditor which had two debtors: the
one owed five hundred pence and the other fifty. And when they had
nothing to pay, he frankly forgave them both. Tell me therefore, which
of them will love him most? Simon answered and said, I suppose that he,
to whom he forgave most. And he said unto him, Thou hast rightly
judged.”
And he turned to the woman, and said unto Simon: “Seest thou this woman?
I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet: but she
hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her
head.
“Thou gavest me no kiss: but this woman since the time I came in hath
not ceased to kiss my feet.
“My head with oil thou didst not anoint: but this woman hath anointed my
feet with ointment.
“Wherefore I say unto thee, Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for
she loved much; but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.
“And he said unto her, Thy sins are forgiven.... Thy faith hath saved
thee; go in peace.”