But it was not as they had imagined. Without concealment Christ came to Bethany, where Lazarus lived, whom He had raised from the dead. He came there six days before the Passover - and yet His coming was such that they could not take Him.' [5019] They might as well take Him in the Temple; nay, more easily. For, the moment His stay in Bethany became known, much people [5020] of the Jews' came out, not only for His sake, but to see that Lazarus whom He had raised from the dead. And, of those who so came, many went away believing. And how, indeed, could it be otherwise? Thus one of their plans was frustrated, and the evil seemed only to grow worse. The Sanhedrin could perhaps not be moved to such flagrant outrage of all Jewish Law, but the chief priests,' who had no such scruples, consulted how they might put Lazarus also to death. [5021]
Yet, not until His hour had come could man do aught against Christ or His disciples. And, in contrast to such scheming, haste and search, we mark the majestic calm and quiet of Him Who knew what was before Him. Jesus had arrived at Bethany six days before the Passover - that is, on a Friday. [5022] The day after was the Sabbath, and they made Him a supper.' [5023] It was the special festive meal of the Sabbath. The words of St. John seem to indicate that the meal was a public one, as if the people of Bethany had combined to do Him this honour, and so share the privilege of attending the feast. In point of fact, we know from St. Matthew and St. Mark that it took place in the house of Simon the Leper' - not, of course, an actual leper - but one who had been such. Perhaps his guestchamber was the largest in Bethany; perhaps the house was nearest to the Synagogue; or there may have been other reasons for it, unknown to us - least likely is the suggestion that Simon was the husband of Martha, [5024] or else her father. [5025] But all is in character. Among the guests is Lazarus: and, prominent in service, Martha; and Mary (the unnamed woman of the other two Gospels, which do not mention that household by name), is also true to her character. [5026] She had an alabaster' [5027] of spikenard genuine,' which was very precious. It held a litra' ({hebrew} or {hebrew}) which was a Roman pound,' and its value could not have been less than nearly 9l. Remembering the price of Nard, [5028] as given by Pliny, [5029] and that the Syrian was only next in value to the Indian, which Pliny regarded as the best [5030] ointment of genuine' [5031] Nard - unadulterated and unmixed with any other balsam [5032] (as the less expensive kinds were), such a price (300 dinars = nearly 9l.) would be by no means excessive; indeed, much lower than at Rome. But, viewed in another light, the sum spent was very large, remembering that 200 dinars (about 6l.) nearly sufficed to provide bread for 5,000 men with their families, and that the ordinary wages of a labourer amounted to only one dinar a day.
We can here offer only conjectures, But it is, at least, not unreasonable to suppose - remembering the fondness of Jewish women for such perfumes [5033] - that Mary may have had that alabaster' of very costly ointment from olden days, before she had learned to serve Christ. Then, when she came to know Him, and must have learned how constantly that Decease, of which He ever spoke, was before His Mind, she may have put it aside, kept it,' against the day of His burying.' And now the decisive hour had come. Jesus may have told her, as He had told the disciples, what was before Him in Jerusalem at the Feast, and she would be far more quick to understand, even as she must have known far better than they, how great was the danger from the Sanhedrin. And it is this believing apprehension of the mystery of His Death on her part, and this preparation of deepest love for it - this mixture of sorrow, faith, and devotion - which made her deed so precious, that, wherever in the future the Gospel would be preached, this also that she had done would be recorded for a memorial of her. [5034] And the more we think of it, the better can we understand, how at that last feast of fellowship, when all the other guests realised not - no, not even His disciples - how near the end was, she would come aforehand to anoint His Body for the burying.' [5035] [5036] Her faith made it a twofold anointing: that of the best Guest at the last feast, and that of preparation for that Burial which, of all others, she apprehended as so terribly near. And deepest humility now offered, what most earnest love had provided, and intense faith, in view of what was coming, applied. And so she poured the precious ointment over His Head, over His Feet [5037] - then, stooping over them, wiped them with her hair, as if, not only in evidence of service and love, but in fellowship of His Death. [5038] And the house was filled'- and to all time His House, the Church, is filled - with the odour of the ointment.'