"I THINK there will be an unusual gathering of strangers at the Passover
this year," said Rabbi Reuben to Lazarus, as they came out together from
the city, one afternoon. "The number may even reach three millions. A
travelling man from Rome was in my shop to-day. He says that in the
remotest parts of the earth, wherever the Hebrew tongue is found, one
may hear the name of the Messiah.
"People pacing the decks of the ships, crossing the deserts, or trading
in the shops, talk only of Him and His miracles; they have aroused the
greatest interest even in Athens and the cities of the Nile. The very
air seems full of expectancy. I cannot but think great things are about
to come to pass. Surely the time is now ripe for Jesus to proclaim
Himself king. I cannot understand why He should hide Himself away in the
wilderness as if He feared for His safety."
Lazarus smiled at the old man, with a confident expression. "Be sure, my
friend, it is only because the hour has not yet come. What a sight it
will be when He does stand before the tomb of our long dead power, to
call back the nation to its old-time life and grandeur. I can well
believe that with Him all things are possible."
"Would that this next Passover were the time!" responded Reuben. "How I
would rejoice to see His enemies laid low in the dust!"
Already, on the borders of Galilee, the expected king had started toward
His coronation. Many of the old friends and neighbors from Capernaum had
joined their band, to go on to the Paschal feast.
They made slow progress, however, for at every turn in the road they
were stopped by outstretched hands and cries for help. Nearly every step
was taken to the sound of some rejoicing cry from some one who had been
blessed.
Joel could not crowd all the scenes into his memory; but some stood with
clear-cut distinctness. There were the ten lepers who met them at the
very outset; and there was blind Bartimeus begging by the wayside. He
could never forget the expression of that man's face, when his eyes
were opened, and for the first time he looked out on the glory of the
morning sunshine.
Joel quivered all over with a thrill of sympathy, remembering his own
healing, and realizing more than the others what had been done for the
blind beggar.
Then there was Zaccheus, climbing up to look down through the sycamore
boughs that he might see the Master passing into Jericho, and Zaccheus
scrambling down again in haste to provide entertainment for his honored
guest.
There was the young ruler going away sorrowful because the sacrifice
asked of him was more than he was willing to make. But there was one
scene that his memory held in unfading colors:--
Roses and wild honeysuckle climbing over a bank by the road-side.
Orange-trees dropping a heavy fragrance with the falling petals of their
white blossoms. In the midst of the shade and the bloom the mothers from
the village near by, gathering with their children, all freshly washed
and dressed to find favor in the eyes of the passing Prophet.
Babies cooed in their mother's arms. Bright little faces smiled out from
behind protecting skirts, to which timid fingers clung. As they waited
for the coming procession, and little bare feet chased each other up and
down the bank, the happy laughter of the older children filled all the
sunny air.
As the travellers came on, the women caught up their children and
crowded forward. It was a sight that would have made almost any one
pause,--those innocent-eyed little ones waiting for the touch that would
keep them always pure in heart,--that blessing their mothers coveted for
them.
But some of the disciples, impatient at the many delays, seeing in the
rosy faces and dimpled limbs nothing that seemed to claim help or
attention, spoke to the women impatiently. "Why trouble ye the Master?"
they said. "Would ye stop the great work He has come to do for matters
of such little importance?"
Repelled by the rebuke, they fell back. But there was a look of
displeasure on His face, such as they had never seen before, as Jesus
turned toward them.
"Suffer the little children to come unto me," He said, sternly, "and
forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven!"
Then holding out His hands He took them up in His arms and blessed
them, every one, even the youngest baby, that blinked up at Him
unknowingly with its big dark eyes, received its separate blessing.
So fearlessly they came to Him, so lovingly they nestled in His arms,
and with such perfect confidence they clung to Him, that He turned again
to His disciples. "Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive
the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein."
Met at all points as He had been by loathsome sights, ragged beggars,
and diseases of all kinds, this group of happy-faced children must have
remained long in His memory, as sweet as the unexpected blossoming of a
rose in a dreary desert.
At last the slow journey drew towards a close. The Friday afternoon
before the Passover found the tired travellers once more in Bethany.
News of their coming had been brought several hours before by a man
riding down from Jericho. His swift-footed beast had overtaken and
passed the slow procession far back on the road.
There was a joyful welcome for the Master in the home of Lazarus. The
cool, vine-covered arbor was a refreshing change from the dusty road.
Here were no curious throngs and constant demands for help.
Away from the sights that oppressed Him, away from the clamor and the
criticism, here was a place where heart and body might find rest. The
peace of the place, and the atmosphere of sympathy surrounding Him, must
have fallen like dew on His thirsty soul. Here, for a few short days, He
who had been so long a houseless wanderer was to know the blessedness of
a home.
Several hours before the first trumpet blast from the roof of the
synagogue proclaimed the approaching Sabbath, Simon hurried to his home.
"Esther," he called in great excitement, "I have seen Him! The Christ! I
have knelt at His feet. I have looked in His face. And, oh, only
think!--He has promised to sit at our table! To-morrow night, such a
feast as has never been known in the place shall be spread before Him.
Help me to think of something we may do to show him especial honor."
Esther sprang up at the news. "We have very little time to prepare," she
said. "Seth must go at once into the city to make purchases. To-morrow
night, no hireling hand shall serve him. I myself shall take that lowly
place, with Martha and Mary to aid me. Abigail, too, shall help us, for
it is a labor of love that she will delight to take part in. I shall go
at once to ask them."
The long, still Sabbath went by. The worshippers in the synagogue looked
in vain for other miracles, listened in vain for the Voice that wrought
such wonders.
Through the unbroken rest of that day He was gathering up His strength
for a coming trial. Something of the approaching shadow may have been
seen in His tender eyes; some word of the awaiting doom may have been
spoken to the brother and sisters sitting reverently at his feet,--for
they seemed to feel that a parting was at hand, and that they must crowd
the flying hours with all the loving service they could render Him.
That night at the feast, as Esther's little white hands brought the
water for the reclining guests to wash, and Martha and Abigail placed
sumptuously filled dishes before them, Mary paused in her busy passing
to and fro; she longed to do some especial thing to show her love for
the honored guest.
Never had His face worn such a look of royalty; never had He seemed so
much the Christ. The soft light of many candles falling on His worn
face seemed to reveal as never before the divine soul soon to leave the
worn body where it now tarried.
An old Jewish custom suddenly occurred to her. She seemed to see two
pictures: one was Aaron, standing up in the rich garments of the
priesthood, with his head bowed to receive the sacred anointing; the
other was Israel's first king, on whom the hoary Samuel was bestowing
the anointing that proclaimed his royalty. Token of both priesthood and
kingship,--oh, if she dared but offer it!
No one noticed when she stepped out after awhile, and hurried swiftly
homeward. Hidden away in a chest in her room, was a little alabaster
flask, carefully sealed. It held a rare sweet perfume, worth almost its
weight in gold.
She took it out with trembling fingers, and hid it in the folds of her
long flowing white dress. Her breath came quick, and her heart beat
fast, as she slipped in behind the guests again. The color glowed and
paled in her cheeks, as she stood there in the shadow of the curtains,
hesitating, half afraid to venture.
At last, when the banquet was almost over, she stepped noiselessly
forward. There was a hush of surprise at this unusual interruption,
although every one there was familiar with the custom, and recognized
its deep meaning and symbolism.
First on His head, then on His feet, she poured the costly perfume.
Bending low in the deepest humility, she swept her long soft hair across
them to wipe away the crystal drops. The whole house was filled with the
sweet, delicate odor.
Some of those who saw it, remembered a similar scene in the house of
another Simon, in far away Galilee; but only the Anointed One could feel
the deep contrast between the two.
That Simon, the proud Pharisee, condescending and critical and scant in
hospitality; this Simon, the cleansed leper, ready to lay down his life,
in his boundless love and gratitude. That woman, a penitent sinner,
kneeling with tears before His mercy; this woman, so pure in heart that
she could see God though hidden in the human body of the Nazarene. That
anointing, to His priesthood at the beginning of His ministry; this
anointing, to His kingdom, now almost at hand. No one spoke as the
fragrance rose and spread itself like the incense of a benediction. It
seemed a fitting close to this hour of communion with the Master.
Across this eloquent silence that the softest sound would have jarred
upon, a cold, unfeeling voice broke harshly.
[Illustration: "A DARK FIGURE WENT SKULKING OUT INTO THE NIGHT"]
It was Judas Iscariot who spoke. "Why was all this ointment wasted?" he
asked. "It would have been better to have sold it and given it to the
poor."
Simon frowned indignantly at this low-browed guest, who was so lacking
in courtesy, and Mary looked up distressed.
"Let her alone!" said the Master, gently. "Ye have the poor with you
always, and whensoever ye will, ye may do them good: but me ye have not
always. She hath done what she could: she is come aforehand to anoint my
body to the burying."
A dark look gleamed in the eyes of Judas,--there was that reference
again to His burial. There seemed to be no use of making any further
pretence to follow Him any longer. His kingdom was a delusion,--a vague,
shadowy, spiritual thing that the others might believe in if they chose.
But if there was no longer any hope of gaining by His service, he would
turn to the other side.
That night there was another secret council of some of the Sanhedrin,
and Judas Iscariot was in their midst.
When the lights were out, and the Temple police were making their final
rounds, a dark figure went skulking out into the night, and wound its
way through the narrow streets,--the dark figure that still goes
skulking through the night of history,--the man who covenanted for
thirty pieces of silver to betray his Lord.