A Story of Gratitude

Students of the Christian Science text-book have noted that its author, Mrs. Eddy, chose for the introduction to that wonderful chapter entitled, “Christian Science Practice,” the narrative of the loving service rendered by Mary Magdalene to the Master in her gift of the alabaster box of ointment, as told in the seventh chapter of Luke. In its expression of loving gratitude, steadfast loyalty, and fruitful endeavor for the Master, this story enshrines a living message. When, in the noonday of his prosperity, Jesus was the guest of honor at the home of Simon the Pharisee, she poured forth her gratitude in the gift of precious ointment. At the midnight hour when hate was exultant, because it had nailed innocence to a cruel cross, she was an unwearied watcher, and when dawned the world’s new, glad day, she was first to find an open tomb, first to greet the risen Christ, first to herald the good news of the resurrection.

There is little said of Mary Magdalene previous to her visit to anoint the feet of the Master. Reared in a Hebrew family, the child must have often heard the sacred story of the long-expected Messiah. In the thought of her people he was to be the great king who would throw off the cruel yoke of bondage to a foreign foe and make her nation free. He would rebuild the fallen temples and restore the departed glory of her nation. He was to be Immanuel, God with us. He would “heal the broken-hearted,” recover the sight of the blind, “set at liberty them that are bruised,” and “preach the acceptable year of the Lord.” No doubt she shared the common faith that his coming was nigh at hand, and with the devout, the little maid thought much of his glorious manhood. It may be that her silent prayer was to be worthy to look upon his face and at least touch the hem of his garment. These were the fair dreams of childhood. The world into which womanhood ushered her had little of the Christ spirit. There were few to heal; there were many to break and lacerate the tender-hearted. There were few to set at liberty the bruised; there were many to take them captive. Mary Magdalene became the victim of those who, like wolves, stand waiting to destroy the weak and hold high carnival upon the ruin of innocency. Those who might have saved, visited upon her their bitter hatred and cruel scorn.

There were moments, doubtless, when pictures of the dear old home came back to her. There were, perhaps, memories of youthful dreams of the glorious Messiah who was to redeem the lost and restore the fallen. But no longer was she the fair flower of her childhood home; she was but a bruised reed by the dusty roadside. The bright flames of faith and hope had long since died out, but there was still the spark of that holy fire which nothing could wholly quench. The world of her day preached of the Saviour who was to lift up the fallen; but it remained for the coming Messiah to put in practice the prophecy, “A bruised reed shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not quench.”

It is fair to surmise that her visit to Simon’s house was not her first interview with the Master. She is numbered among “certain women, which had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities.” So great a transformation had been wrought in her through Christ that she is spoken of as one “out of whom went seven devils.” Her perfumed offering to the Master we accept as the heart’s deep gratitude for the peace and purity which were hers through his gracious words and works.

The Master’s tender but pointed words to Simon will recall the story. Said he, “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.”

It is a graphic picture presented in the few words which introduce the story: Mary “stood at his feet behind him weeping.” Her tears were those of gratitude, not of vain regret. The radiant dawn of a new day shed its luster on her path. The torture and the tumult which had surged about her were gone. The hour was sweet and fair with prophecy. A great peace and holy calm were hers. She had found the Christ, and in his presence there was no room for aught that was unlike him.

In the Saviour’s company “Mary stood.” How unlike her thought of her Redeemer was that of Simon. The Pharisee rested in a satisfied sense of his own worth. For him to receive Jesus was an act of condescension, the bestowal of a favor. Mary had no sense of self. A blessing had been given her so rich that her only thoughts were those of gratitude and service to the donor. Heaven could bestow upon her no higher favor than that of ministry to him who had wrought so much for her. Before the anointed one, it was meet that she should stand. Was not this the ambassador of the King of Kings? Was he not the chosen one to establish among men the dominion of right and the reign of peace? Was not in him enshrined all the bright hopes of her nation? Greater than governor or king, mightier than priest or prophet, was he to whom she brought her choicest gift. To Mary, overflowing with the flood-tides of gratitude, it was joy unspeakable to be allowed to stand in his presence.

She took her place at his feet. It was not for her to be seated at his right hand. Yet there was something within which told her that she would be welcome at the feet of Jesus. Of another Mary who sat at his feet, the Master said, “Mary hath chosen that good part.” She was not coveting a position of dignity and honor. She humbly sought the privilege of lowly service. He who takes his place at the feet of the Master is destined for higher tasks. Heaven’s call comes not to the worldly great, but to those who rejoice to stand in the presence of God’s anointed.

When she made her offering she came behind him. The self-righteous would have gone before. The self-satisfied would have taken their places beside him. The grateful Mary was happy to stand behind him. She realized the mighty work he had in hand. She would not intrude her personality, but would rather hide it. She came to serve, and in that service she would not attract attention.

It is related that she washed his feet with her tears and wiped them with the hairs of her head. The offices which the selfish Simon had neglected, it was her privilege to perform. In Palestine, where the sandal was the only covering of the feet, the first mark of hospitality to the guest was to provide water with which the feet could be washed. She had been cleansed of her impurity. She had been lifted from materiality to spirituality. The tears of joy with which she washed his feet were a symbol of the purity to which her life was dedicated.

She “kissed his feet.” The kiss which the subject imprints upon the hand of his sovereign is the visible sign of his unswerving loyalty. Simon gave no kiss. He acknowledged no superior worth. He confessed to no feeling of consideration due his invited guest. He felt not his power. He loved but little. Said Jesus, “This woman since the time I came in hath not ceased to kiss my feet.” What the lily owes to the sunshine, that Mary felt was due to Jesus. Through him she had been lifted from the mire of impurity into the sunshine of his spotless life. The beauty and the sweet odor of her new life was his gift, and to serve him loyally, to advance his cause, was to be her highest joy.

To anoint the head of the guest with rare perfume was a gracious courtesy. It carried with it the acknowledgment of his exalted place. Upon the head of kings and priests when ordained to high office was poured the holy oil. Simon gave no ointment. To him Jesus was neither Master nor Lord; neither teacher, leader, nor friend. Simon might have anointed the Saviour’s head with oil, but, blind to this precious privilege, he neglected his opportunity. Mary felt her own unworthiness too much to touch the head of her loved Lord, but it was a holy privilege to perfume his feet with ointment. Mary knew it not, but in evidencing her appreciation of the Anointed One, she witnessed to her own anointing. Within her heart she had crowned the Christ-man King and Lord, and his coronation made the Christ regnant in her own life. She was no longer passion’s slave, but its master. She worshiped no other God than divine Love. Her entire being was consecrated to Christ and to Christ alone.

These were the fruits of the Spirit, which Mary brought as her grateful offering to the Saviour. Of her, it might well have been said, in the words of the Master, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.” The joy of her Lord, into which she would in due time enter, was heaven’s reward for her measureless gratitude.

We have but scanty records of Mary Magdalene until the time of the crucifixion. For two years she was privileged to be of the company which went with the Master from city to city, preaching the glad tidings of the kingdom of God and healing the sick. We learn in the eighth chapter of Luke that she, with the twelve disciples and with many others, “ministered unto him of their substance.”

The days of sunshine were of brief duration. The interest aroused by the raising of Lazarus intensified the bitter hatred of the enemies of Truth, who plotted for the over-throw of him who spake as never man spake. His betrayal by a trusted friend placed him in the hands of his enemies and led to his crucifixion. At the cross, in the trial hour, Mary Magdalene is named as being with him. Matthew tells us in the twenty-seventh chapter of his Gospel, that “many women were there beholding afar off, which followed Jesus from Galilee, ministering unto him: among which was Mary Magdalene.” The faithful Mary lingered as near the cross as the Roman soldiery would permit. No hatred was so deep, no malice so bitter as to separate her from her beloved Master. Let it be recorded that in the trial and crucifixion hours there was one who never wavered in her steadfast adherence to her revered Teacher.

When hate had spent itself, and the pierced form was taken from the cross by Joseph of Arimathea and laid “in his own new tomb, which he had hewn out in the rock,” there was Mary Magdalene, “sitting over against the sepulchre.” As one beholds this unswerving adherence to the Master, as he contemplates this persistent demonstration over the so-called powers of evil, he is tempted to ask, “What would have been the results had his other students and followers manifested like fidelity?” In Gethsemane, when called upon by their Master to stand guard, had they been faithful in watching and working, would the traitor have succeeded in his evil plan? Is it not possible that alertness, strict adherence to his oft-repeated instructions, would have thwarted the conspiracy of the secret foe and open enemy, and saved the great Exemplar from the agony of the cross? Upon this question, the answers of mankind may differ, but we know that our success or failure, for the time being, depends upon our stand in the trial hour.

The tomb wherein rested the body of the Master had been sealed two days. The dawn of the third day was at hand. The little flock without its Shepherd was scattered. The shock and horror of the crucifixion had overpowered them. They had not yet learned to rise above the seeming triumph of envy and malice. The disciples had forgotten his promise that on the third day he would rise again. To them the career of Jesus was ended. Their high hopes were blasted. The heavenly kingdom he came to establish had come to naught. To them the cross was the symbol of disaster, the sealed tomb the evidence of failure. While he was with them, they were full of courage. For three years he had served them. They had been carried forward by the strong tide of his glorious presence. When hungry he had fed them. When tossed by wind and wave he had brought peace. When confronted by failure in their efforts to heal, he had transformed their defeat into victory. They professed to be his helpers, while in fact they had been but pensioners on his bounty. In the hour of his sorest need, when their steadfast support would have been a solace and a balm, they were found wanting.

The Revelator has said, “Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.” Mary Magdalene gave proof of this fidelity. Unto her was awarded a crown of life, and the bestowal of this crown, in the revelation of the risen Christ to her spiritual consciousness, was by progressive stages. We are told, “The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, when it was yet dark, unto the sepulchre” Be it recorded to the eternal glory of womanhood that at this momentous hour there was a faithful sentinel at the post of duty. There was a watcher who was awake and at work. There was no delay in waiting for others to act first. There was no failure because of reliance on the faithless. “While it was yet dark” this watcher began her work. Dark was the day, but darker the gloom about her. It seemed the hour of hate’s triumph, yet she went forth upon her mission of love. We learn from the last chapter of Mark that she with other women “had bought sweet spices, that they might come and anoint him.” Not even death itself could hinder her gentle ministry to her Lord. She proved that she was not overcome of error, but was its master. The seed of Truth sown in her heart had dropped into rich soil, and its ripening was to be “an hundred fold.”

On reaching the rocky tomb she saw the stone which had been securely sealed before the entrance had been rolled away, and she found that the body of Jesus was gone. In despair and grief she came to Peter and John and made known her startling discovery. Thus an empty tomb was heaven’s first announcement of the resurrection. By Mary and the disciples it was misinterpreted. It spoke to them, not of victory, but of further defeat. They thought that their enemies, not content with crucifixion, must perforce have stolen away the body. How often have we likewise misread the signs from heaven. Our hearts have been heavy when they should have been glad. The message of the Resurrection is, that Christ, Truth, is not in matter. The empty tomb was the witness of the spiritual man’s escape from the thraldom of the flesh. Herein Jesus gave the proof of his words, “The flesh profiteth nothing.”

With the coming of Peter and John, there is the discovery of “the napkin, that was about his head, not lying with the linen clothes, but wrapped together in a place by itself.” This was not the method of an enemy, but the work of a friend. An enemy would have removed the garments or left them in disorderly array. The day was dawning, and with more light would come a fuller revelation. The linen clothes and the napkin had been the winding-sheets of death. Their orderly disposal made them the witnesses of life not death. Mind could not be confined in a tomb. Hate is not a victor. These discarded winding-sheets proclaim that “Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.”

“The disciples went away again unto their own home.” Not so did the faithful Mary. She “stood without at the sepulchre weeping.” Looking within the tomb, she saw “two angels in white, sitting, the one at the head, and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain.” Mary perceived more than did Peter and John, for the angels were unseen to their unawakened consciousness. There were coming to Mary new and higher thoughts of the Master whom she loved. The message given by these angels was another step in the progressive revelation. Their words came to her as an awakening rebuke. Said they, “Woman, why weepest thou?” In her hour of gloom, what could she do other than weep? The one she loved had gone from her sight. He “who went about doing good” had been nailed to the cross. Her heart was breaking. Why should she not weep? But in the light of Jesus’ resurrection, hers was the hour of rejoicing, not of despair. A new day was dawning — a day in which she and all mankind were to put off the works of darkness and to radiate the light of Life.

The rebuke of the angels was preparing Mary to see more of the Christ. As she turned from the tomb, she “saw Jesus standing.” “Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?” Mary “knew not that it was Jesus” but supposed him to be the gardener. How often does the Christ speak to men and they know him not. Blessed is he who shall have an open eye and ear, when Christ (Truth) comes, though it be in lowly guise. Said Mary, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.” How simple and how beautiful her words. She came to the sepulchre with no thought that she would see the crucified one alive. In this hour of deep bereavement, she was thinking only of loving service. Here was an affection so genuine that it had cast out all fear. Here was a thankfulness so lasting that it craved the sweet boon of service. Heaven hears this unselfed petition. The sun has risen. A new day dawns. The morning light falls full upon the form of him she loves. She hears the first word of Truth’s revelation to an awakened consciousness as “Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto him, Rabboni.” Mary had found the risen Christ. O priceless discovery! Ring out, ye bells of heaven, “Death is swallowed up in victory.” Henceforth life, and life alone, shall be the eternal heritage of man.

In her joy at the discovery of her risen Lord she sought to lay hold upon him. Again, as in the house of Simon, would she pour forth her love upon the visible form. She has yet to learn the true meaning of the resurrection. She is to know that a new epoch has come to human consciousness. No longer is the personal Jesus to be adored, but the risen Christ, the spiritual idea which is one with the Father, is to be understood and demonstrated. Hence “Jesus saith unto her, Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father: but go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father, and your Father; and to my God, and your God.” “Go to my brethren.” They are more than disciples, nearer than friends. They are brothers of the risen Christ. “I ascend unto my Father, and your Father.” In the transcendent glories of the resurrection hour, the risen one reveals his Father as the one and only Father of all. The living God who in Christ Jesus robbed death of its sting and the grave of its victory, is our God, who unseals our tombs of death, unwinds our grave-clothes of matter, and calls us forth to life everlasting.

Did ever a message-bearer go forth on so joyous an errand! What a revelation did she carry to the heavy-hearted and despondent! She went to proclaim for Christ’s spiritual kingdom, not defeat, but victory. She heralded for the spiritual man, not failure, but eternal triumph. She brought the proof that “There is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God.” No longer is hate enthroned nor does malice wield a scepter. The false usurpers are expelled and Love reigns supreme. Let fear depart and her minions—sin, sickness, and death—be cast out. The deathless Christ, who abideth forever, has come to set men free in accord with his words, “Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

As Mary, impelled by love, sped to proclaim her glad message, she might well have expected that her words would bring the whole world to Christ. She had seen him, and she knew whereof she spake. But to the unawakened and unenlightened dwellers in matter, her “words seemed to them as idle tales, and they believed them not.” They were still in the dark. For them the new day had not yet dawned. But her words were true. Her discovery of the risen Christ could never be taken from her. Mary’s revelation was to become the heritage of all, for every child of the Father is to hear the words of the Son, “Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.”

Mary’s life was a psalm of gratitude. In her gift of the alabaster box of ointment, gratitude’s gracious offering is portrayed. At the cross, in the hour of adversity, we behold gratitude’s devotion. At the empty tomb, in the light of a new day, seeing with clear vision the risen Christ, gratitude’s reward is revealed. Gratitude’s offering is the gift of self. It makes no reservations, but pours forth all. It measures not its service in wages. It is paid in the privilege of serving. Gratitude’s devotion is the spontaneous expression of the heart’s deep love. Success does not increase, nor failure lessen it. In adversity it grows stronger, and in the darkest hour it shines most bright. Gratitude’s reward comes unsought. It is the new birth; it is the discovery of the risen Christ by the pure in heart; it is the abiding presence of the Life which is Love. The angelic song is again heard, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”