THINK ON THESE THINGS
The scent of freshly turned earth, mingled with the fragrance of citron
blossoms, hung on the air as a woman from a Galilean fishing town made
her way around a hill-path that overlooked the highway and entered into
it a little farther on. It was the time of plowing and sowing in
Palestine. In a field close by, a sower with a basket on his arm
scattered the seed broadcast. Farther down the hillside a peasant was
beating his seed into the soil with branches and thorns, and in the
valley could be seen a flock of goats being driven back and forth
across the field to cover the seed. But the woman was not interested
in the sowers. On a stone near a clump of citron she sat down to watch
the long roadway for a first sight of one beloved. Months before he
had bade her farewell and had journeyed to Judea. In his own Galilee
he was accounted a great and mighty teacher and wonder worker and
gladly had his message been heard by the common people who followed him
in throngs and oft would have proclaimed him king. But from Jerusalem
had come conflicting reports, and it was with a strange hope and a
strange fear the woman waited his return.
The sower with the seed bag had gone and the birds had come in his
place; the thorn branches had been cast aside by the man on the hill
and the goats were being driven from the valley field, when the figure
of the woman, who had been sitting like a statue on the gray stone,
suddenly became animate, and with eager step hastened into the highway
to meet an advancing pilgrim. Wearily he came as if even his staff
were too great a burden, until he saw the woman. Then his pace
quickened. With outstretched arms she greeted him, crying in joy, "The
God of our fathers bless thee, my son!"
Tenderly he embraced her, pressing the kiss of peace upon her cheek and
saying, "Blessed art thou among women!" Then putting her away he said,
"Is all well with thee, woman--my mother?"
"Yea, save that my heart hath grown hungry to starvation for a sight of
thee, my beloved son, and anxious have I been to hear news of thy
pilgrimage throughout Judea and beyond the Jordan. On thy long
journey, thou hast found friends, and rest and love?"
"Friends and rest and love," he repeated, and the expression of
weariness on his face gave place to a smile. "All these I found under
one roof, which was to me a home."
"And who were these kindly ones and generous?"
"A young man, Lazarus of Bethany, and his two sisters. And the one of
them is Martha, much given to cooking fine meats and sweeping for dust
where it is not."
The woman laughed and asked of him, "Doth this Martha love thee?"
"Yea, as she loveth her brother."
"And the other sister, doth she too brew gravy and seek the dust?"
"Nay. She doth make lilies grow and seek the pearl of greatest price.
At my feet hath she chosen the better way than that of meat and drink.
She is born into the Kingdom."
"Doth this sister, too, love thee?"
"Doth she love me?" he repeated. But he made no answer save as it was
written in the face he turned toward the distance beyond the plowed
fields.
"What is her name?" his mother inquired very softly, lest she dispel
some pleasant thought.
"There is but one name."
"But one name--and yet a world of women?"
"Mary," he repeated, as if to himself.
"Thy mother's name," and the woman laughed for joy.
"Yea--my mother's name."
For the time of a short walk the light of glad memories shone in the
face of the pilgrim. Then the expression that told of a heavy burden
came again. "Like sheep without a shepherd are my people scattered,"
he said wearily, "and there is no Zion. Rome alone is ruling there
through the Imperial Legions housed in the Tower of Antonio, over
against the city of David. Even the Sanhedrin hath turned wolf-hearted
so that for gain the people are fleeced like the ewe lamb, and with
none to succor--and my Father's house hath become a den of thieves."
"Even so do I remember," the woman replied sadly. "When thou wert my
tiny one close to my breast, I went to the Temple with my offering of a
dove. And lo, in the Temple were sellers of doves. One stopped me who
said of my offering, 'It hath a blemish.' And forthwith I was sold one
thrice blemished. Yea, I remember, for they took from me my last penny
for the ill-favored bird and at a dry breast didst thou, my little one,
struggle that night unsatisfied. But thy great and wondrous
teaching--thy new commandment that is to bring the Kingdom, will it not
make all these things right?"
"Nay, woman, nay. New wine in old bottles doth but burst them. So
will this new law of love, this new law of justice established in man's
heart, burst the old customs that hold men in bondage. Then much
fasting, long prayers, much saying of 'Lord! Lord!' will avail
nothing, but only man's duty to his fellow man. For how can man love
God whom he hath not seen, if he fail in duty to his brother? For this
teaching in the Temple did those pious assassins of the Temple take up
stones to kill me. Herein is my heart greatly troubled. I preach the
gospel of love and of justice; but bran for the belly and stripes for
the back beget brute creatures that know not how to love. Neither can
he love who withholds all save bran, nor stays the hand that holds the
scourge."
"My heart catcheth the sadness in thy face," the woman said softly as
the young man looked out into the gathering dusk. "And a fear doth
pain me lest my merry child hath gone from me forever. But yesterday
thou wert my little one. When first I heard thy cry, e'en though thy
cradle were a manger, it was as if angels sang, and the pressure of thy
lips against my breast brought to my heart great joy as if the glory of
the motherhood of all the ages were mine. When thou didst learn to
walk, thy baby feet made sweet music and thy wee hand on my cheek oft
drove away heartache. When thou wert older, thou went to the fields
with me. Dost thou remember the sloping hillsides red with lilies in
which thou didst roll thy body? And at the seashore--rememberest thou
the little tracks so soon washed away? And dost thou remember thy
first visit to Jerusalem and the valley of weeping where the dark
streams issued from the crags and many tombs were hewn from rocks?
Here it was we camped and thy father and I did miss thee. And dost
thou remember the questions thou wert asking when we found thee in the
Temple? Many times had thou asked them to me before. And
Nazareth--doth thy heart remember thy playmates--Jael and the others?"
"Jael? Yea, verily I remember Jael."
"Often I think of those days and remember that then, even as now, the
question oft asked was, 'Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?'"
"A cruel question and senseless. Can any good thing come out of hunger
and cold and fear of the Law?" he asked quickly.
"Ah, the long struggle--the bitter struggle that the poor know. Toiled
we not from sun to sun, yet ofttimes was our table bare of honey and
fat, and my heart ached that thy tiny garments must always be thin and
patched, that thou, my little Jesu, should be poor of the poorest."
"Poor? Nay, rich was I above all others, rich in the love of thee, my
mother! Woman, the richness of thy love hath blessed my life and
through my life, thy love shall bless the world."
There was a moment's pause. Then the woman said in tones of reverence,
"Yea, I love thee--love thee! And when thou art far away, all things
speak of thee, ofttimes with sadness. As I lay on my roof alone, the
waves that roll nightly against the near-by shore seem sobbing--ever
sobbing under the silent stars for that which can be no more. And as I
journey over the paths where once thou wert with me and thy hand lay
close in mine, the mourning dove calling from the cleft of the rock
bringeth to my heart the pain of unutterable longing for days that be
gone forever. Before thy ax and tools wert laid away thou didst make
many things, one day a cradle--the next a bier. And between these two
doth all life lie. Life, like the red lily--yesterday a bud hidden in
its green; to-day a flower reaching toward the sun; to-morrow a dried
leaf waiting for the oven. As I think on these things I grow sad and
fearful. Yesterday the throng would make thee king. To-day those of
the Temple would stone thee. To-morrow--to-morrow it may be the crown
and the Kingdom--or--it may be--" The woman's voice which had been
growing unsteady, ended in a sob and she hid her face against the
shoulder of the young man.
"Weep not, woman, nor fear thou death," he said reassuringly. "Verily,
verily, I say unto thee, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground
and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.
Hast thou not often thought of this as thou hast seen the sower and the
reaper in his season?"
"Aye, of the Kingdom thy words be comforting. But to my heart thou art
dearer than e'en the Kingdom."
"Fear not death. Death is but change. Change is but growth.
Growth--ah, growth is life. Didst not the infancy of thy babe give
place to the childhood of the boy who played in the market place?
Didst not childhood drop into the silence of the past as the youth
swung his ax on the hills of Nazareth? And the days of the
carpenter--are they not dead days? Is not the bench of the carpenter
deserted forever? Aye, hath the babe, the child, the youth all gone
that the man may live. And to-morrow will the man pass to yet another
higher form in my Father's plan of more Abundant Life. Verily, all
that hath gone on before must die that that which is, may live.
Verily, that which is, must die, that that which is to be, may be. But
ever the thread of Life goes on unbroken and always upward on the way.
Whilst thou liest alone at night and the waves of Galilee make moaning
in thy heart for that which can never return, think on these things."