The Ointment of Devotion
By George W. Rine
A Monumental Deed—It Stands While Time Endures WHENEVER we come in touch with the beautiful, we are judged by it. Any day may become, in a very real sense, a judgment day of the soul. We are liable at any time to be called to give an account of our stewardship of life's hidden things. God has many ways of testing us in order to determine what manner of persons we are. And one of those ways is by bringing us into the presence of the spiritually beautiful. Often very simply and unexpectedly, amid the dust and prosaism of the workaday world, the veil is drawn aside from the monotony and routine of existence, and the pure, the holy, the beautiful things, which are really never absent, are made to appear. Then it is that the dividing line goes forth between them that see and them that see not, between them that gather and appropriate the high and true meaning of life and them that miss it. It was in the house of Simon the leper at Bethany, when the alabaster box was broken, and its rich, rare perfume filled the room, that such an hour of judgment occurred. All who witnessed that sacrament of simple devotion, then and there, perhaps without realizing it, had to give an account of themselves. By that rare, gracious deed they were judged. It proved some of them to be destitute of spiritual insight — to be of the earth earthy. For the blindness and hardness of their hearts, and for their inability to understand, they were condemned. WHERE THE HEART SEES AND JUDGES
There are failures to understand on which Heaven looks very leniently. Many of us cannot follow close reasoning. In the intricate subtleties of thought, we soon lose our way. To an untrained mind, logical thinking is rarely possible. But there are powers of appreciation that are not conditioned upon distinctly intellectual acumen. “There is a world where the heart sees and judges.” There is a capacity for comprehension and408appreciation which is born of the affections. In the beautiful realm of faith, of sacrifice, and of brotherly service — there blindness is a crime, and not to understand is a sin. For the best, the deepest, and the most precious meanings of life make their appeal not primarily to the intellect, but to the heart, to the affections. There are things that only the good and the sincere and the generous can understand — things that can be perceived not by the clever headed, but by the pure hearted. The pure in heart shall see God — see Him in the simple, faithful, unselfish things that life reveals to us. It is when we meet these things that our place and worth in the kingdom of the spiritual are determined for us. A gracious and beautiful deed had been wrought that day before the eyes of all in Simon’s house at Bethany. By that deed, they were placed before the judgment bar of spiritual insight, sympathy, and appreciation; and for some of them, the verdict was anything but flattering. For in the words of the story, “there were some that had indignation within themselves, and said, Why was this waste of the ointment made?” “This waste”! How blind to the higher and more enduring utility was the man who asked this sordid question! Ah, “utility” is a larger word than the “man of the world” can ever guess. The things which in the world’s judgment count for nothing, in the kingdom of God count for most. In the higher and truer sense, there is nothing more practical and serviceable than that which men so often flout as empty sentiment. “This waste of the ointment”! That is the thrift of selfishness, the economy of which a man ought to be ashamed. It is the question of a man who cannot understand the blessedness of giving, who counts all the outpouring of life, all the consecrations of life, as so much waste. “Why this waste?” In the catechism of unbelief and materialism, there is no question more depressing or more ugly than that. Such a question carries with it the implication that the most gracious and lasting thing in all the world — a soul’s unselfish service of love — is vain and futile. No, the ointment was not wasted. It served a high and beautiful end. That incident has found a place in the deathless record of the unselfish service of a soul’s love. It was one of those simple, instinctive gifts of a supreme devotion which help to keep the life of the world tender, warm, spiritual. “Why this waste of the ointment?” This question is found in the catechism not only of the worldly man, of the materialist, but one of the devil’s queries, it is one of his own lies. That is where Christ put it when He declared, “Verily I say unto you, Wheresoever this gospel shall be preached throughout the whole world, this also that she hath done shall be spoken of.” Shall not that broken vial be remembered forever? Shall not the perfume of that spikenard linger so long as time endures? No, sympathy is never wasted, love is never lost.