Jesus feet

At Jesus’ Feet

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Now it came to pass, as they went, that he entered into a certain village: And she had a sister called Mary, which also sat at Jesus' feet, and heard his word. But Martha was cumbered about much serving, and came to him, and said, Lord, dost thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone? And Jesus answered and said unto her, Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things: But one thing is needful: Then Jesus six days before the passover came to Bethany, where Lazarus was which had been dead, whom he raised from the dead. There they made him a supper; and Martha served: Then took Mary a pound of ointment of spikenard, very costly, and anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped his feet with her hair: And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left.

Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. And they parted his raiment, and cast lots. And, behold, there was a man named Joseph, a counseller; and he was a good man, and a just: The same had not consented to the counsel and deed of them; he was of Arimathaea, a city of the Jews: This man went unto Pilate, and begged the body of Jesus. And he took it down, and wrapped it in linen, and laid it in a sepulchre that was hewn in stone, wherein never man before was laid.

And that day was the preparation, and the sabbath drew on. And the women also, which came with him from Galilee, followed after, and beheld the sepulchre, and how his body was laid. And they returned, and prepared spices and ointments; and rested the sabbath day according to the commandment. But Mary stood without at the sepulchre weeping: And they say unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? She saith unto them, Because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid him. And when she had thus said, she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus.

I next note this as a concentrated sorrow—she for whom Jairus had come to the feet of Jesus was an only daughter. This sorrow, though mingled, was not shared; it savored much of an essence—an essence of woe. If the only daughter died—then all was gone. This woe was well defined indeed. And in this aspect of it—it found its fittest place at Jesus' feet. His own course of sorrow was well defined enough; He was continually coming into contact with facts, often in relation to His own closest disciples and friends, which grieved Him; He could have well-defined feeling for well-defined trial.

Let us remember this, for we are often thinking that our particular trial is infinitely more to us —than it is to Christ ; that He does not see it to be as large as it really is; that He cannot feel it as we feel it, or understand it as we do; that His sympathies are so scattered and diffused, He cannot gather them into the focus of our one grief. Jesus can cause the rays of His sympathy to converge on one point, until He makes it glow and burn with a light and heat of love.

We must not fear, then, being intrusive, or say, "Why should I think that my sorrow which is so great to me—should be great to Him? Even if it is an exaggerated sorrow—made so from our worry and anxiety, still to us it is real, and therefore, it is so to Him. An "only daughter;" here is a center, a pivot, something around which the dried-up heart would grind in days and nights of sorrow. And are there not some hearts which have unoiled centers of sorrow, around which they unceasingly grind?

They perform the one dull round of grief—the eye so fixed on one central point, that it soon becomes incapable of taking in anything else. Let it be brought to the feet of Jesus, that is the only place for dealing with sorrow like this. Remember the picture painted for you here—it is that of one deep sufferer, about one sorrow, before one Helper. We must glance at one more aspect of this sorrow. Like all, or almost all those connected with death, it took in a past and a future.

Jairus brought a past to the feet of Jesus—a past full of endearment. For twelve years this child had been creeping around his heart, ever budding, ever throwing out fresh tendrils, which found their clinging place around that heart. For twelve years had she nestled inside it, so that his very life was as it were, the enfolding of another. It may be that father with child, and child with father, they mingled their lives together.

Perhaps, this only daughter had helped to keep this father fresh and young, by the sweet unconscious ministry of youth—for children minister to us by their toys, and laughter, and the fresh dew upon their early morning life; perhaps, he had often sat, and with sweet contentment watched the mother being reproduced in the child. Who knows into what depths this "perhaps" will travel, if we let it go forth unrestricted into twelve years' life with an only child?

It is said that fathers love their girls the most, and mothers their sons the most; and whatever is that peculiarity of affection, it is beautiful to see how Jesus meets its sorrow, for He raised Jairus' only daughter; and the widow of Nain's only son. He not only gave them back their all—but a peculiar all; and, doubtless, He knew that He was doing so, for He is delicately skilled in the peculiarities of grief.

It was with such a past—a past with a great circle, and that, crowded with the imagery of love, that Jairus, the father, fell at Jesus' feet. But that was not all. He knows little of death-sorrow who imagines that it is all connected with the past. The death-sorrow is a stand-point upon life's road—with a past brightly populated, with a future darkly blank. I bear in mind the almost indignation with which a friend of mine—advanced in the life of faith, received a letter on her husband's death condoling with her on her "misery.

But consolations like these—certainly those high ones of the Gospel, this ruler had not; and so we may ponder how blank and void, how unseasoned and lusterless was that prospect which now lay before him. The father had probably looked forward to much; he had day-dreamings of what that girl would be to him in his old age; a father's heart had often taken to love's speculations , and built castles in the air—which now lay ruined at his feet—ruined, not by slow decay of time—but, as it were, by a lightning flash.

Luke NCV - A Woman Washes Jesus’ Feet - One of - Bible Gateway

The girl was then a-dying—to all intents and purposes dead, unless Jesus would come at once and help; and Jairus embodying in himself these varied forms of sorrow —the mingled, the concentrated, and the comprehensive—fell with them all—at Jesus' feet! Up to the present, we have seen Jairus only as a father; but the narrative brings him before us in another character also—we are told he was "a ruler of the synagogue.

True need brings us very low. It brought down that ruler; it has done the same to many a one since. The rich, the honored, the intellectual, have been brought there. They might have dialoged with Jesus, and admired Him, and said, "You are a teacher come from God," and continued just as they were. But nothing, save a deep sense of need, would have brought them to the feet of Jesus.

All adventitious circumstances—all rank, riches, intellect—are swept away before the avalanche of urgent and tremendous need. Death makes an impertinence of them all. Our imagined personal importance becomes nothing there. And where have we been brought, and what has "the reality" done for us, or rather, with us? For there is a great difference between these two. Something must be done with us, before anything is done for us; we must be brought to the feet of Jesus, there to receive a life gift—a gift, which shall be a victory over death.

Into the place so lately instinct with joy—but which was now stilled; into the recesses of home life where everything which was associated with his departing joy lay around, there the ruler of the synagogue would bring Him who was in truth a higher ruler than himself, for He had power even over death. We do not like the world or outsiders to see our deepest and most sacred sorrow, especially when it is fresh; but if our heart has apprehended Jesus aright—we shall be ready to ask Him! His will be no look of curiosity, no cold taking in of circumstances in which He has no interest.

Wherever He comes, whenever He speaks or looks—it is always with a purpose. And let us be circumstantial in the detail of our sorrow. Jairus told the Lord that he had one only daughter, and that she was twelve years old, and that she lay a-dying. All that he said would be helpful towards exciting Jesus' interest and moving His pity; which perhaps, he, who knew not Jesus' heart fully, would have thought necessary. We know that for this purpose it is not needed; still it is a good thing to enter into particulars with the Lord. It is treating Him with confidence; the very feeling that He will be specially interested, is honoring to Him.

Every particular that we bring before Him, He will note —and act with reference to it too. So then, when we analyze this sorrow of the ruler, we see that there was enough to bring him ruler though he was to the place where we find him here—the place for every reader of these lines, in all sorrowful times— the feet of Jesus!

Now the woman was Greek, a Syrophoenician by birth, and she begged Him to drive the demon out of her daughter! The first position which this woman took up does not appear to have been at the feet of Jesus. According to the account given us in Matthew, she seems to have followed Christ for some little time, probably at somewhat of a distance, crying after Him, and begging for mercy at once upon herself and her child.

She was apparently within hearing distance—but that availed her nothing, for Jesus had not answered her a word. And if she heard the answer which the Lord gave to the disciples, when they asked that she should be given what she wanted and sent away, her chances of help seemed about utterly to perish. But "the feet of Jesus" had yet to be tried. Neither had the mother's perseverance, nor His grace—been tested as yet to the uttermost. That saying, "I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel," which to some might have seemed a hurricane blast, enough to sweep her beyond all reach of hope forever, was in truth intended to catch her in eddies, which swift circling would soon sweep her into the center, and that center was "the feet of Jesus.

Here, on the very threshold of the story, we are met by our first teaching. We have here one brought to the feet of Jesus. It may seem to us that, so as the mother's heart were eased and the afflicted child were healed, it would have been all one whether this were accomplished by speaking to the woman at a distance—or at the very feet; but we may rest assured it is not so.

Whether we see it or not, there are reasons in all the diversities of circumstances attending each particular act of Jesus' mercy. And, first, let us observe that there are often preliminaries , and those not of a formal—but of a very important character, to our being found at the feet of Jesus. There are often preparations and exercisings of heart, before the knee of man bends at the foot of Christ.

And they are all for this very purpose—that we may be brought there, and receive what is to be had there; and get that particular fullness of blessing which can only be obtained from close contact with Him. Why but to learn, by an apparent prospect of failure in having that need supplied—that it really did not know how deep it was before? Why is it thus? Because you must know yet more the depth of what you do want , and the depth of what only Christ can give. At times we think we are close enough to Christ, within reach of Him to get what we want; but He means to bring us closer still, because He intends to give us more.

The preliminaries of blessing are sometimes very wonderful; the way in which great blessings are prepared for, and come about—are among the deep things of God. Although it is crowded into a short space as to time, and a few words as to the chronicling of it, yet was there much here required, before this woman was brought into what was to be to her—the place and posture of great blessing.

There was the frequent repetition of those cries of anguish, when we would have said that one request would have been enough—the indifference to them, and that no ordinary indifference, seeing that she cried to One who could help her for He who can heal has, from that very power, a certain relationship to the one who requires that healing ; and the natural uprising of hard thoughts about One who seemed so harsh to her—all this she had to undergo—but all to bring her nearer to the Lord.

Often we are inclined to say, "Why have I to bear this? What has this to say to the blessing I need? Is not this rather leading away from that blessing? All is thus done to bring us to the feet of Jesus. We must be in the right place—for certain blessings. We think we can place ourselves; the Syrophoenician woman, no doubt, thought that to cry after Jesus was enough.

And so it might have been, did God design no more for her, than the bare healing of her child; but she needed to be particularly placed for what she was particularly to receive. The "ten lepers, who stood afar off, lifted up their voices, and said, Jesus, Master, have mercy on us. And when he saw them, he said, Go show yourselves to the priests. Once at Jesus' feet, there was much to follow. And it is important simply to note this, because we are apt to have very mistaken views as to finality. We are continually thinking that the end has come, before it really has.

We make a part of a Divine process the end , and seem surprised when it does not answer our expectation. We are seeking the blessing before it is due; we have only gone once or twice; whereas, perhaps, seven times are appointed before we see even a cloud no bigger than a man's hand. And this is how many of God's people have been discouraged when seeking blessing. They expected too much from early stages; they never surmised that they had been brought to a certain point—just in order to be led on farther.

And others are ignorant in this matter, as well as we. Their kind wishes for us are often mistaken. It is not in earthly relationships alone, that we find mistaken kindness ; it abounds in spiritual relationships also, so far as they exist between man and man. It is well that we have one who has deeper thoughts for us than our friends have—thoughts which reach farther, which are fuller of blessing, which in the long run will come out with larger profit—but it must be in the long run—it is of their very nature that they must mature.

The disciples appear in this case to have been actuated by simply selfish motives. They did not want to be cried after, and therefore wished the woman to be given what she wanted, and sent away. Their idea was that in getting that, she would have received all; they did not know of anything beyond what just met the hearing of the ear—the need of the woman's child. As to any close contact with their Lord, and peculiar blessing in store for the woman therefrom—of that they knew nothing; as indeed, how could they. Christ had deeper views for blessing this woman, than she had for herself—and so He has for us.

It would have been easy for Him to have spoken a healing word, and so have ended up this matter with but little trouble to Himself, and with much satisfaction both to the disciples and the woman; but He had deeper thoughts of blessing for her than that. And so, when we do not receive all at once the good thing we desire—but are left to cry still more vehemently for it; and it may be even to be much exercised in apparent repulses with reference to it, ever let us remember that this is because God designs more for us than in this matter, than we have planned for ourselves.

We are now in the midst of the thoughts of God—as well as of our own; of His ways —as well as ours; and we have to experience that His ways are not as our ways, neither are His thoughts like our thoughts. We now have this Syrophoenician woman brought to the feet of Jesus—brought there by the apparent neglect of the One from whom she had hoped everything. Having not been answered a word, she does not, after the fashion of ordinary mendicants, go away, believing that it is but lost time to ask any more; on the other hand, she comes yet closer to Christ—closer to the One who had to all appearance practically refused her; and falling at His feet, she now bars the way, and He can proceed no further until He hears—and she knows that He hears her request; and until He answer her after some fashion.

Here, then, we have her; and seeing what sort of place is the ground immediately at the feet of Jesus, how tremendous was the need of this woman, and what a vantage ground she occupied—we may expect to hear of some very earnest travail—hard conflict, if need be—before she will give up her point and go away unblessed. And it will be well for us to note this; for this "remaining" has more teaching for us than we think. It is not always so easy a thing to remain quiet at the feet of Jesus ; to carry on much and varied effort there; to be calm and still within the one sphere.

We find it very hard to harmonize energy and calmness —to make them work together. We are for shifting the scene of operations; we are, so to speak, up and down continually; we don't like to remain in the one necessary place.

Jesus (His Feet)

We would be much more calm—if we realized where we were. Our power lies not so much in what we are—as in where we are. Let the feet of Jesus be to us a place of continuance. We trouble ourselves about the amount of effort we are making, whether we are earnest enough, and so forth. We never can be quiet, or put forth the power of quiet energy, unless we have well fixed before our minds the One from whom we are expecting help. Some rush hither and thither , like Balak—but they get no nearer blessing.

We are to know where we are, and what is to be, and what can be done there. We have the advantage of having our field of action circumscribed, and marked out for us; now let us see what victories can be won there. It may be that the intellectual think this position at the feet of Christ, is beneath them—that this sphere is too small for their energies. They say, "Talk to us about the head of Jesus, and not about His feet. It was from the feet of Jesus that there was carried away the highest triumph of argument that was ever won.

No excited crowds applauded; none crowned the victor; no one but her adversary in the argument, gave testimony to her skill; and when it is said that He did, then all is said which can be said; yes, far more than could be in all other ways beside. Down at His feet—this woman won her victory of faith—her daughter's cure. Like Jacob of old, she would not let Him go, until He blessed her; like him she had power with the One with whom she strove, and prevailed. Sustaining two opposite characters in the self-same suit— plaintiff as regards her child, defendant as regards her race—she won her cause in each; a double judgment was entered in her favor by the Lord's command.

If a miracle of healing proceeded from His lips—surely He must have inspired a miracle of pleading at His feet! What had been this woman's introduction to the presence-chamber, where indeed things had fallen out so unexpectedly that, instead of simply receiving a munificence as from a king, she had to argue her cause as though she had to substantiate claims in court?

Poor claims they were, no doubt—the claim of the dog to eat the crumbs which fell from the children's table. But the small possessions of the poor are infinitely precious to them; their heritage of crumbs is their very life. Her only introduction to the feet of Jesus—which, after all, was a royal presence-chamber—was by her misery. Misery is a strange steward—but it is a high officer in the court of Jesus; it is one of the grand stewards, and it has authority at all times to introduce to audience with the King. Am I miserable—I ask not from what cause—but am I miserable—then by that very fact I am sure, if I desire it, of an immediate introduction to the presence of my Lord.

The misery itself supplies the means. Diverse people were treated differently when they came to Christ—though each one doubtless was treated exactly as his case required. And so we cannot say, when once there, what may go on. Only we know that, whatever it is, it will be exactly what is right , and what in the end will be best for us. No doubt there are many arguings and soul-strivings carried on at the feet of Jesus. It may even be that the heart's fiercest battles have been experienced there. And here this woman has to argue—and mark where —at the feet of Jesus.

It was when Christ might have been supposed to want to proceed on, she was exactly in the place where she was likely to impede Him most. It is as though we were to be taught, that Jesus has no occupations of too great importance to be arrested by human, even by individual misery.

We have such occupations in action , often such pre-occupations of mind— that we must not be stopped by anyone, or for anything. That is just one of the differences between Christ and us. One would have thought that while Jesus was on kept standing there—that all this argument might have been dispensed with.

But He Himself, who alone could dispense with it, did not do so; that dealing with that woman's heart, was no lost time to Him. In all probability, in human judgment—in that of the disciples—the whole thing was most inappropriate. The woman had gone from bad to worse; whereas she had been crying after Him, now she was prostrate before Him. But Christ had work to do with this woman's soul, which they knew nothing of; and surely He also commences in a way which they could not understand.

It was a strange way to prepare for conferring a gift—by giving what seemed an unanswerable reason why the gift should not be conferred. But some of the highest gifts which men have ever had, they have come by in this way. They were emptied—that they might be filled; they were pressed hard against the earth—that they might spring up the higher from it.

Christ tells this woman that she has no national claims upon Him at all. The statement of her being a Greek, a Syrophoenician by nation, or in other words, "a stranger," comes very quick upon the mention of "Jesus' feet," and her position at them, suggesting to us how entirely—humanly speaking— she had no business there.

But she drew an argument from her very unworthiness and alienship. She seized instantly upon that idea of the dogs , and of the children being filled, and of their being filled first.

There was hope for her in these three points. She, on her part, recognized the priority of the children's claim, and their claims to fullness—but then came the claim of the dogs. Even the word used for "dogs" gave her an argument—for it was a soft, mild term the Lord used—the little dogs. When we come to the feet of Christ, let us remember, first of all—to take up our assigned position, however low it may be. What, indeed, must be our frame of mind, how little can we know ourselves, if we are laying claim to anything in the way of personal worth or position at all!

We can gain no advantage by refusing to take up our assigned place—our low starting-point; we only lose time, we only lay ourselves open to the still sharper dealings of God. It may be that, we think we are put in a hopeless position by being thrust down so low; but let us remember from what depths—up to what heights, men have sprung—how that publican who smote upon his breast returned to his house. This woman was put at the very extreme end of creation—the Scripture always speaking as badly as possible of "dogs," and not recognizing any of their nobler qualities.

It was thence—and what a "thence"—that in one bound she sprang to the forefront among the children of faith. Having taken something even more humble than the lowest room, she heard a voice which said unto her, "Friend, come up higher. He gave her, not crumbs —but bread ; the last became the first ; and her victory of faith carried away as its lawful spoil—her daughter's cure.

Let us be encouraged then to seek for much, even when under deep consciousness of our unworthiness and guilt. Let us not say, "I will seek for such and such choice blessings—when I feel myself worthy and strong as a child of God. I will put off asking any great thing until I feel myself thus strong, and am in the special enjoyment of the sense of acceptance. Perhaps we have been placed in a depressed condition, or allowed to come into it for a while—in order that we may the more deeply feel our need, and the more earnestly, and so effectually, plead with God.

Many a Christian's experience is this: But when we come to the feet of Jesus—we must be like this Syrophoenician woman—and not to allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by our need, however great. But we are to be honest, and to try and see things as they really are, and to recognize and make use of such hopes and openings as exist. This woman, as we have already incidentally noticed, found three points of hope—three grounds of argument—in her own and her daughter's behalf—out of the one sentence addressed to her by Christ.

Jesus said, "Let the children first be filled. As soon as that was done, an opening was made for something further; that word "first," if only the woman had power to see it, was the possible opening of a floodgate of blessing. Could we have entered the recesses of the heart of Christ—we would have heard there the echoes of the words of Hosea: And here was this woman's Valley of Achor , only in her case the darkness and the light did not keep apart—but, as it were, intermingled, so that to one who could discern them, there were clouds and sunshine at the same time.

Now, it is a great thing to have an eye for encouragement—to see hope and openings where they are, to be quick to catch up crumbs of comfort. It is very honoring to Christ—for us to deal with Him with a hopeful spirit—to approach Him with such; and even if things do not seem to go as well with us as we desire, still to persevere. We do not say that the materials for hopefulness always lie on the surface; they certainly did not do so in this case. They may have to be searched for; but, even though often it may be in the most unlikely places —they will be found.

Many of God's choicest things are found in such places. There was Elijah's provision by that poor widow; and that piece of silver in the fish's mouth; and that feeding of the multitude by those five loaves and two small fishes; and here the blessing , in what at first sight, one might almost be warranted in calling a curse.

In all our times of trial and depression—let us be on the look-out for the sun-gleams. No matter how few they are, still wonders may be done with them if they are used. The prize flower at a recent exhibition in London, was one grown in an attic , on which the sun shone for but a short time every day.

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But the old man who reared this plant held it up during that time to catch the beams, and turned it round and round, and won the prize. Watch for sunbeams; use them, and you shall win with them. Believe that there is something to come; or, at any rate, that something may come. Have great faith in possibilities , especially when Christ is on the scene of action. This woman believed in the possibility of something after the "first. Let us avoid the mistake of undervaluing 'possibilities', let us see things as large as they really are.

The crumbs here alluded to, are said to be something more than what fell accidentally from the table, for it was the custom during eating to use, instead of a napkin, the soft white part of the bread, which, having thus used, they threw to the dogs. We do not want to diminish anything from the severity of the trial of the woman's faith, or make Christ's dealing with her less sharp and apparently severe than it really was. What we say is that, here were the elements of some comfort , and it was her wisdom and blessing that she realized them.

The same remark applies to the Greek word which, when translated literally, means " little dogs"—or "pups". Here we discern a touch of kindness ; for when, except for dealing with sin, was Jesus unmitigatedly severe? That little cloud was the beginning of abundance of rain. The nucleus of blessing is often very small; crumbs picked up at the feet of Jesus turn miraculously to loaves. Never be afraid of using to the uttermost any bright thought which is suggested to you there.

When Christ gives you a bright thought, or puts within your reach the material of hope, be it never so slight—it is that you may weave a net therewith—to enfold Him hand and foot, so that He cannot part from you without a blessing. Thus this woman remained and argued at the feet of Jesus. Now we must add a few words upon her endurance of apparent repulse. There was one terrible element in her trial which we must note. She was not spurned to the feet—but at the feet of Jesus. Her worst trial came upon her there.

And had that woman come away unblest from that place, and had not all this been but a deep, dark gorge on the highway of blessing —then we are bold to say that no man can calculate what would have been the terrible results. For proud sinners fixing on that scorn of the Lord would never subject themselves to an endurance of the like; and men of feeble hope would feel the hopelessness of going there; and those of tender constitution of heart, and of an anxious temperament, would never adventure a conflict with such roughness.

But now we understand it all, or at least enough of it to make us feel there is no real cause for fear. We are on the safe and right road, though some of the stones on it are sharp. This experience of the Syrophoenician woman, tells us to avoid the mistake of always expecting dealings of unmingled brightness at the feet of Jesus. He has many strange dealings with people—to bring them to His feet. Likewise, Jesus has many strange dealings with people—when at His feet. The reader of these lines, if he knows much of the spiritual life, would lay down these pages as unreal, or would receive what they have yet to say with distrust—if we made out that unmingled brightness was the characteristic of all dealings at Jesus' feet.

But, however dark may be the things which are there shown us about ourselves , blessing is not on that account about to be withheld. When Joseph "spoke roughly" to his brethren—he was still their brother, and was planning great things for them. There are certain blessings, doubtless, which can come only by rough experiences.

The heroes of faith, like all other truly great people, have ever borne, as well as done— much. The sustainings are as wonderful as the accomplishments in the spiritual life. When Jesus gave a hard saying, many asked, "This teaching is hard! Who can accept it? Simon Peter answered, Lord, who will we go to? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that You are the Holy One of God! The faith of the Canaanitish woman, and that of the prince of the apostles, was one—they each bore up under the hard sayings of the Lord, and refused to go away.

So she persevered, and won the blessing she desired. It was on this occasion as on others—great miracles, and good doings, and outflowings of blessing, followed on times of, as it were, personal withdrawings on the part of Jesus. It was after a withdrawal of Himself—that the multitudes were fed, and that He appeared walking upon the waters. It was when He made as though He would go farther—that He yielded to constraint, and revealed Himself as He had not done all the time He had spoken with them by the way.

All withdrawals of Christ , rightly interpreted, are real onleadings. In Solomon's Song , when the bride sought her beloved—but could not find him—then she rose and went about the city in the streets; and in the broad ways she sought him whom her soul loved. We would observe in closing our contemplations on this scene, how we are taught that there is mercy at the feet of Jesus—for those whom we perhaps think to be outside all possible circle of blessing. The highway and the hedge teach us this—and so does this story of the Syrophoenician woman at the feet of Jesus.

Let us also see how that very often our judgment about strugglers may be altogether wrong. We know not why they are struggling, or what purposes of mercy are wrapped up in it, or how it will end. The exercises of a soul are among the hidden things of God. Of one thing alone, let us assure ourselves on these occasions, and let that reassure us—is all this really going on in the right place?

For all striving must prosper in the end, which is carried on at the "feet of Jesus. When the wind agitates the surface of a lake, in whose placid waters are reflected the mountainsides in their strength, and the sky in its beauty, their images first become broken and confused, and finally disappear. The real mountains are there—as strong as ever; and when the waters become smooth again, they will appear as they did before; but for a moment they are gone.

This is an apt image, in some respects, of what happens in our own spiritual lives. Circumstances arise which agitate us for a season—and all our tranquility seems gone; we are no longer ourselves, we do not act in harmony with the habit of our past lives. We are lacking to our best selves, and have to endure all the troubles which belong to an agitated state.

But in a true character, there are all the elements of restoration; the strong mountains are really there; they will re-manifest their existence as soon as the storm is past.

Bible Living

Here we come upon a scene of agitation and distress; and as is so often the case, precisely where we would not have expected to find it. We would have thought that Mary would have presented us with nothing but a picture of calm. Having seen her sitting at the feet of Jesus, when Martha was so disturbed, we would have prepared to take our lesson from her in such a scene as this—in the direction of calmness, and self-possession, and peace; but it is just here, as it is in so many instances in the teachings of God—we are led by ways which we know not, the teaching comes to us in a very different way from what we expected.

We have been taught by Mary's sitting —now let us learn from her falling at Jesus' feet. Every verse of this narrative is full of teaching—its own distinctive teaching; but we shall confine ourselves to such thoughts as suggest themselves in immediate connection with the position in which we find Mary here.

We shall first note what immediately preceded Mary's going forth to meet Jesus; and then her words and her position at His feet. When Martha called Mary secretly—she arose quickly, and without confiding to any of the attendant mourners the reason for her acting so suddenly and with such haste—she left the house. Those who mourned with her must have been astonished—but they were not long in finding out a probable cause for her conduct.

She was, doubtless, seized with a paroxysm of grief, which could be relieved only at the tomb, by the nearest possible approach to the dead. Here, as in the case of Jairus' daughter, we have a strong contrast between the many and the one —the impotence of the many—the omnipotence of the one.

All that the minstrels and people could do in the one case, was to make a noise; all that they could do in the other case, was to go after the heart-wounded one to a grave; but in each case Jesus brought with Him life, for that which we can only mourn —He can restore. Many Jews came to comfort Mary, "The Jews who were with her in the house consoling her saw that Mary got up quickly and went out. So they followed her, supposing that she was going to the tomb to cry there.

No doubt they were sincere in their desire to mitigate her sorrow—each had his own argument, his own aspect of comfort to present, or at least his own reason why sorrow should be assuaged. Perhaps there were even some, who knew the mystery of silence , and were able to sit still, and speak not a word, except such words as looks, and the mere consciousness of the presence of sympathy can utter. But they had evidently been able to do but little, for when Mary rose hastily to go forth and meet Jesus, they thought her grief had mastered her, and that she was going to vent it at the tomb.

There is something no doubt pleasing in the thought, that rays of human sympathy should converge from a wide circumference upon one focus of sorrow. It reminds us of our common humanity—that in the depths whatever surface distinctions there may be human kind are one—that as the poet says, "One touch of nature makes us all akin".

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And no doubt all sharing of each others joys and sorrows, will prove helpful so far to our rejoining some of the myriad threads of our humanity which are broken or cut in all directions. Still, sad thoughts connect themselves with the one in sorrow, and the many comforters.

For what the heart craves in the depth of its sorrow—is not to spread itself out to many—but rather to gather itself in, and hold companionship with but few. Deep streams run in narrow water courses. There is indeed a brawling noisy sorrow which from its very shallowness is heard here and there and everywhere—but it is different from what Mary had here. Her heart, doubtless, sat loose to all the comforters around; and so was all the more ready to leap forth to Him who had her truest deepest sympathy, who, because He had in His keeping all the secret springs of her being—could comfort her indeed.

Now, while we would be far from undervaluing or casting off human sympathy, we cannot but feel conscious that it is well to sit loose to it. Or, let us put the matter in another form; we cannot but feel how little in the hour of our sorest need, it can do for us. It is precious in its place; but we shall remain unsatisfied if we have no more.

Mary knew of One who was superior to all all the others combined; and when He came near, she was ready immediately to leave all around, and go forth to Him. No doubt, the previous knowledge of the feet of Jesus was silently exerting its power. Those feet at which she had sat—had now approached her house; they were standing waiting for her, not very far off; she was going forth on no sentimental journey—they said she was going to the grave to weep there—but she was going not to the home of death —but to the Lord of life.

It is true they were right in one respect, she was going 'to weep;' but it was one thing to weep simply at a grave, it was another to do so before the Lord of life. We may weep before each—but which it is, makes a vast difference indeed. But we are anticipating. What we desire for the reader is, not only that he should be visited by Jesus, in the time of his sorrow—but that when Christ comes to him—it should be as one well-known.

Many have made their first acquaintance with Jesus in this sad time; they are happy in having done so; but they are not the happiest of all. They are happier still, who have met him in sorrow —as a well-known friend. And for this very reason among others, let us now like Mary sit at the feet of Jesus, so that He may come to us as a known friend in our sorrowing times, so that we may not have to say 'Who is this that is come—who is this that is calling us out of ourselves?

And of how much—what a wonderful much can we dispense, if we have Christ Himself. Mary could leave all her friends—for Him. As Jesus had food to eat that His disciples knew not of—so Mary had a friend at hand, whose friendship was such as they knew not of. If then in our times of sorrow and trial, we would not be perhaps helplessly dependent on mere human sympathy , let us strive so to sit at Jesus' feet, that His coming to us at these sad times may draw us to Him at once.

However Jesus may choose to act for us, we must leave altogether with Him—only we may be sure that, if we know Him, and are ready when He calls for us to go forth to Him—that it will be always a leaving of a company of mourners —to go into the presence of the Lord of life! They recognized the deep need, which now however it seems, they are not able to supply. Mary's grief has overflowed their resources, and she apparently goes to the tomb to weep there. These friends of Mary spoke according to the probabilities of the case, doubtless according to what under similar circumstances, they would have done themselves.

They did not know that Mary had been called for by Jesus; nor if they had known it, could they have told how much was involved in it. Those who do not know our intimate connection with Jesus—do not know our resources. Their thoughts end with the natural; they can go all the length to which that reaches—but not further. To those comforting Jews, there was no comforting point beyond that grave of Lazarus—there was no alleviation beyond weeping there.

The dead was beyond all reach—but the sorrow which mourned for him, might find a home at his grave. But whatever they said, Mary does not appear to have heeded it, one thought filled her mind, and quickened her steps—that was to get into the presence of the Lord! And now Mary has hastened and come into the presence of Jesus, and what she does is to fall at His feet —to weep; and to cry that, had He been at Bethany—her brother would not have died. And first let us look at who it is that thus hastens away, and cast herself down at the feet of Jesus.

It is Mary—the calm—the contemplative—the self-possessed; the still one, who sat at the feet, who is now in such haste. Those whom we think are the calmest—are often capable of the greatest emotion, activity, and excitement, which we would have thought utterly foreign to their nature. We often judge people as to what they possibly can do or leave undone, by the aspect in which they habitually present themselves to us—but we do not know how vehemently and in what an opposite direction they may be moved by circumstances.

In Mary's case there seems to have been a mingling of the natural and the spiritual—of intense human feeling, and also true spiritual sensibility; she went forth to meet Jesus, with both Lazarus and Jesus occupying chief places in her heart. Would Jesus have had it otherwise? Would He have had her violate all the feelings of human nature? Was He so jealous as not to leave any sympathy, even for mourners?

Did He expect her to think of Him alone—when He called for her, and when He saw her hastening to His feet? Christ is no stifler of genuine emotions! He is the regulator of human emotion; He had no blame for Mary; He received her as she came; He mingled His tears with hers. Let us be careful how we form too decided an opinion about some who appear to us somewhat abstracted, and contemplative, and separated from the wear and tear of ordinary life. It by no means follows that their natural feelings and emotions are dead—that they cannot feel themselves, and feel for others.

We do not know what people are, or are capable of—until the circumstances fitted to try them, have occurred. When they do occur, we shall perhaps be surprised to find how full of emotion, or susceptibility to personal suffering, or how capable of sympathy such and such a person is.

Moreover let us never seek to be so contemplative, and enrapt, as to be above human joy or sorrow. While we are here in this world, God wills us to be men—true men, even as Jesus was. Rightly to show ourselves capable of human emotion, is an infinitely truer position than to be independent or incapable of it.

Neither let us seek a place at 'the feet' with the idea of raising ourselves out from affliction. We may seek a place there selfishly, from, perhaps unknown to ourselves, a low motive as well as a high one; for our poor hearts are liable to be deceived, and what is in itself very high motive, may be turned to a very low use; the thing may be the same—but its aim and end altogether different.

In this respect the emotion of Mary on the present occasion is very precious, and it is made doubly so by that of Jesus. Mary wept, the Jews were weeping, Jesus weeps also. It is important to observe that He has no chiding for those tears, and that impassioned falling at His feet. He has chiding for unbelief ; for He presently says to Martha, "Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?

It is not that He is so overcome with emotion, as not to discern anything faulty which may exist; it is that within the true limits of human sorrow, which He receives. And it is our belief, that Jesus desires that sincere human feelings to be brought into contact with Himself. What kind of religion is that which says, 'I will reverence You with the abstract—but I will keep from You with all that in which I most truly live, and move, and have my being? Jesus would say, you are weeping about an earthly trial, a wound to your affections, a loss, a difficulty, a need; and you are not coming to Me; I am not in the reality of your daily life—but only in the creeds and abstractions of your spiritual thoughts.

It must be either because we have mistaken notions about Christ, or are not sure of Him—that we keep so aloof from Him—that we do not rise up hastily and run to Him, and fall at His feet in the passion of our souls, in the deep emotions of our life. If we knew Him as well as Mary did—we would do as she did also!

This speedy going forth was no mere experiment on Mary's part. From what she had heard from Christ, sitting at His feet—she knew that her sorrow would have a place in His heart; a secret sympathy existed between her soul and His, which did not between her and all the other mourners. We must likewise learn, that there is no one to whom we can fully unbosom ourselves, but Jesus. All deep sorrow ramifies into strata below the surface soil of human sympathy. It gets into our spiritual being; it has other life connection with us, which none but He who is God can understand; and that we feel and know.

And in truth, though men do not always know it, that is why all mere human sympathy comes short. An unspiritual man may never know this, and so never seek for anything beyond the imperfect help of his fellow man; but even a spiritually minded man may not know it either. He knows it not theologically —but he does instinctively—an instinct of his being makes him seek Christ; and in that One he finds what all 'the many' could not supply.

Thus may it be with us in our deepest sorrowing times; may we feel that Jesus is able to penetrate into those depths of our being to which the sorrow reaches—and let us bring it to Him—just as it is. Let us not wait until it is toned down and moderated, and, as we would think, brought into a more seemly state for His presence; but let us come to Him with our sorrows —as we must with our sins—bringing them just as they are. We have no record of any formal approach, of any actual words of reverential acknowledgment; the one act of falling at her Lord's feet, combined within itself at once her reverence and grief.

And in truth what she said did the same. For in those words, "Lord if you had been here—my brother would not have died," she declared her belief in the power and love of that Lord, and her own bitter sorrow, that because He had not been on the spot—all was now hopelessly over, the beloved one had gone. This—the saying of Mary at Jesus' feet—must now occupy our attention for a little while.

We observe that the two sisters, of wholly opposite characters, both say the same thing, "Lord if you had been here—my brother would not have died. No doubt this had been the theme both of the thought, and conversation of the sisters ever since their brother expired. There had been anxious waiting ever since that touching message was sent off by the sisters to Jesus, saying, "Lord, behold he whom you love is sick!

But the Lord did not come. Weary hours stole on—but there was no sign of the One who could heal, and at last, the healing time had past, the death time came, yes, burial too. And not until all was over in the fullest sense—did Jesus come. It is no wonder then, that each of the sisters used the same exact words when the Lord appeared; for their minds, and doubtless their words had been running in the self-same groove.

But these words are full of teaching for ourselves. And first let us note how each said, "My brother. The family was made up of two 'mys. Here we are brought into somewhat of a strait, for the two remarks which we wish to make seem as though they contradict one the other. Happy is that family where each has such property in the other, that the very habit of thought leads to the use of the word MY.

Unhappy is that family where there is nothing but a series of "mys," where the meaning of "our" is not known as well as that of "my. We doubt not that the 'our' as well as the 'my' was known and recognized, and that the power of it was lived in, in the family at Bethany; but now human grief was having its own way, and as is its custom, it concentrated the mind on personal feelings, and to some extent excluded the thought of others.

And, in truth, that is one of the perils of grief—that nursing of it in our own bosom—that hugging of it to ourselves alone—that unwillingness to part with any of it, and to see that others are shipwrecked in it as well as ourselves. Now let us contrast this 'my' of Mary, and also of Martha, with the 'our' of Jesus.

Jesus knew that Lazarus was dead. He also knew what individual love was, for we are told that He loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus; they are spoken of not as the family at Bethany—but one by one; but when He speaks to His disciples about the death sleep, He says not, "MY friend Lazarus has fallen asleep," but "OUR friend Lazarus has fallen asleep. Happiest is that family where many 'mys' combine into many 'ours'; the two—each occupying its own place, giving the ideal of the 'family' in sorrow.

Jesus must have felt it so. He saw His power over disease acknowledged; His love so reposed in, that it was thought impossible that it could allow any harm to happen to those who were loved; no note whatever is taken of what the virulence of the disease had been—had He only been there—all would have been well. And Jesus, we may be sure received that confidence as it was meant—the weight of the family's sorrow was not laid on Him in vain, especially when He knew that He could have been there—that He had purposely delayed.

Jesus Washing Peter’s Feet

One would have thought that Jesus would have been cut to the heart at hearing such words as these, when He knew well that He might have averted all this sorrow; and that it was owing to purposed delay on His part that Lazarus had died. But He was quite calm. We see that He was, by what happened between Him and Martha, when she used these exact same words; and when He replied to them. We see here plainly how some of love's true thoughts, may however be only surface ones.

At Jesus’ Feet

Love is not the less real because it is shallow in the reach of its thought; it may be untrue in its reasoning, and ill-informed as regards its knowledge, and yet be sterling and real in itself. Now confidence—the confidence of love, even with a mistake, may often be better than suspicion with accuracy and correctness. Our mistakes concerning Christ are our ignorance; and there may be much ignorance without guilt; but our lack of trust and confidence, no matter what form it assumes, is our sin.

There are simple people making great mistakes, who occupy a higher place in the kingdom of God than wiser ones, who are cold and calculating, and seeking to be in their religion, we might almost say 'mathematically correct'. God is tender and patient with honest mistakes. If He were not, where would we be in our daily service, or our daily life. And He might have been—but she did not know that; she did not know what had kept Him—we can scarcely speculate, as to how exactly she would have addressed Him, if she had known.

There are many things which it is well for us not to know , concerning which, if we did know all, a strange storm might arise in our minds. The fact is—we are surrounded with "ifs" in life, they are a continual element of vexation and perplexity; it would be an amazing source of peace and comfort if we could get rid of them altogether. This word "if" has had power to distract, to set up all sorts of speculation, to open many a door to unbelief, to aggravate the circumstances of many a trial. We sometimes conjure up all sorts of possible, and at times, impossible "ifs;" and the one as vexing as the other.

We have to do with things not as they might have been—but as they have been, or as they are; most of our "ifs" are little better than suggestions of better arranged providences , as though WE could have fitted matters in much better, than has been the case. In truth, many of our vexing and disquieting, and all our despairing "ifs" have a depth far below what we imagine; they go down into discontent with God's providence.

It is not suggested that this was the case with Mary here—but it surely is so with us.

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