We now come to the beautiful ministries of womanhood during our Lord’s earthly mission. No teacher had ever lived who sought to elevate women as did the Saviour. The most casual reader of our Lord’s acts of mercy as He moved among the people, must have noticed how often He wrought some of His most wondrous works among women. He talked with a woman of questionable character by the wayside, He stretched out his hands over one whose very touch was considered unclean, and tenderly said, “Thy sins are forgiven!” He called another, whose shrinking fear, after she was healed, caused her to sob out her confession, “Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole.” What a sweet picture that is of the mothers who bring their little children to Him that “He should touch them,” and their faith was rewarded not by a mere “touch,” but He took the mothers’ darlings in His arms and blessed them. With a yearning of divine pity He brings back to life three persons that motherhood and sisterhood might be comforted. Surely womanhood must have been precious in His sight, and there is a peculiar force in the word precious as of God’s own choosing. When He speaks of precious things, or permits in His inspired servants such ardent language, we may be assured there is a deep meaning in the expression, and that whatever is spoken of, is of great value, costly and rare. “I know the thoughts that I think toward you,” says the dear Lord, “thoughts of peace and not of evil.” And they are so continuous! “How great is the sum of them? If I should count them they are more in number than the sand!” We have walked the wide beach, as it stretches on for miles and miles in one unbroken line of white sand. Could we count a single rod of it? Yet these thoughts of our Lord outnumber the sand on the shore of the sea. And how precious they are, because begotten of pure love; and royal with kindness; and tender with compassion; and fragrant with blessings; exquisite with sweetness; infinite, incessant, immeasurable.

In our love, we mainly dwell upon the thought of what God is to us, and so are apt to forget what we are to Him. “He has chosen Israel for His peculiar treasure.” “The Lord’s portion is His people.” Does He so esteem us? Does He hold us close to His heart, and say, I love thee “since thou wast precious in My sight!” The mother thinks of her child, the wife of her husband, the lover of his beloved. And how sweet are these thoughts of our dear ones. Unbidden they crowd upon the soul; comforting, tenderly cherished and precious are the thoughts of the absent for one another! Memories of form and feature, look and smile, word and deed, affection and purpose, are ever present. Does God, the Infinite, thus think of us! Oh, wondrous alchemy of grace that can turn such poor unworthy souls into gems so beautiful, so priceless, so dear to the Infinite heart of God; so highly esteemed that if even the least were lost, it would be a loss to Him. Then, also, the trial of our faith is “much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire.” If we bear this in mind, we shall better understand the Saviour’s acts as we read the story of His love for womanhood. Oh, ye tired, troubled ones, put into God’s crucible, did you ever feel that you were forgotten, overlooked, too long or too severely tested? God is watching with an eye that never slumbers. The trial going on is precious to Him. He tempers the heat when too strong, and adds fuel when too light. He creates the smith to blow the coals; and here, be sure, He makes no mistake. You would not have chosen as He has; and yet the process must go on, for it is a precious one; so much so that our Beloved can not trust it to other hands than His own. He will not let you be harmed. “Many shall be purified and made white and tried.” Are you not glad He has chosen you among these? The trial is painful to you, but precious to Him, and “will be found unto praise and honor, and glory,” walking with Him in White Raiment, as those who “are worthy.”

Through human personality is God best made known. There is a revelation in nature; the movements of planets, the return of seasons, the regularity and uniformity of natural laws, reveal a fixed order in the universe; the balanced relationship, the correspondences and adaptations in nature reveal mind as the centre of activities; wisdom speaks out in the organizations, kingdoms and beneficent purposes of nature, while beauty shines from the splendor of the world. All this is very good, but it is not conclusive. It is written of the Son of God, that He endured the cross for the joy that was set before Him. He recognized the sore need of humanity, and the Father’s plan to meet that need, and gave Himself a willing offering. Christ is the living manifestation of God’s love. To be “able to save to the uttermost all who come unto God by Him,” was the joy set before Him for which He endured the cross and now ever liveth to make intercession for us. Surely His thoughts of us must have been most precious, and, in view of the great price He paid for our redemption, let us never minify our lives however humble our lot:

If we partake of the Divine nature, we will want to share in His work of saving, and thus enter into the joy of our Lord. To be able to touch life hopefully, and to see it expand and grow day by day into the similitude of the All-perfect, is to experience a joy not of earth. Womanhood has come into her kingdom in the sense of having reached a place of large opportunity, in the use of her God-given power. Our Saviour has honored woman by giving her a place in his heart and work, and most loyally does she “lay her hands to the distaff and with her hands hold the spindle” in the making of the great fabric of human destiny.

CHRIST AND WOMANHOOD.

How womanhood, in the days of the Saviour’s incarnation, manifested her appreciation, will be amplified in this and the next chapter, and her loving ministry does credit to her head and heart, for we read, as He journeyed with his disciples from place to place, “Certain women, which had been healed of infirmities, Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Susanna, and many others, ministered unto Him of their substance.” How beautiful is all this. Women actually following Jesus, as disciples, and out of their means ministering to His physical necessities. Heathenism has no place, socially for women, as we have shown in our introductory. Christ sought to bless and elevate womanhood.

The skill of our Lord’s wayside teaching is beautifully brought out in the scene at Jacob’s well. In one of His tours through Samaria our Lord reached Jacob’s well, in the neighborhood of Sychar, about noon, and being weary, sat down upon the stone seat in the little alcove erected over the well. It offered a shelter from the glare of the noontide sun. John, in his gospel, tells us that Jesus, “being wearied with His journey, sat thus on the well.” The words in the original imply that He was quite tired out with His journey, and doubtless overcome with the extreme heat. In His exhaustion, He seems to be quite anxious, if possible, to obtain a little rest, while the disciples had left Him, to procure in the nearby city, the necessary bread.

The disciples had scarcely departed, when a lone woman, with face veiled, and on her head a great stone waterpot, came to the well to draw water. It was an unseasonable hour, for morning and evening only would the well be thronged by women, whose duty it is to carry the water for household use. For some reason, possibly because she was in no good repute, this woman avoided the throng at the well in the morning or evening hours, and availed herself of this unseasonable time to come for water.

The scene before us is pathetically picturesque. The Son of God resting in the refreshing shade of the little alcove, and a woman of doubtful character coming in out of the noontide glare and heat of the sun to draw water. We almost wonder if our Lord, in His exhausted and fevered condition, had not been casting around in His mind how He might obtain a cup of refreshing water from the depth of the well. And now is His opportunity. With the nicest tact and politeness He asks, “Give me to drink!” To ask for a drink of water in the East is a proffer of good-will. Under no circumstances would an Oriental ask or receive water or bread of one with whom he was unwilling to be on good terms. So when Jesus said to the woman, “Give me to drink,” it was as if He had said, “I wish you well; I feel kindly towards you and yours.”

We are somewhat surprised at the conduct of the woman after such kindly salutation. Instead of quickly offering Him a drink, she proceeds to ask, “How is it that thou being a Jew askest drink of me, which am a woman of Samaria?” She would recognize the nationality of Jesus by His dress. The color of the fringes on the Jewish garments was white, while those of the Samaritans were blue. Possibly His appearance and accent in His speech would also identify Him. However, in explanation of her conduct, she goes on to say, “the Jews have no dealings with Samaritans.” So that while this non-intercourse between the two people was not absolute, a request of such a nature might surprise a Samaritan. And yet we must confess she is more ready to conduct a religious discussion with the Son of God Himself than to offer cups of cold water.

But with what wonderful tact Jesus drew the mind of this woman away from the religious differences between Jews and Samaritans. He was not to be drawn off from the main point at issue. He had asked for water, for He was really thirsty. She had come to the well for water, for it supplied a need. When she came to the well her aspirations reached no farther than a pitcher of water. So, with water for a text, Jesus proceeds to tell this Samaritan that good as the well was, and great as Jacob was, all who drank of that water would thirst again. The best the world had to offer could never satisfy her thirst. She could not help but see the truth of these words. They were but the echo of her daily experience.

Now the divine Teacher proceeds to uncover another well to this woman. “Whosoever,” Jesus proceeded to say, and the whosoever included all Samaritans and the world as well, “drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall never thirst; for the Holy Spirit that I shall put in him shall be a well of water springing up into everlasting life—it shall satisfy his thirst and he shall be continually refreshed.”

How deftly Jesus turned this conversation into a spiritual channel! It was done so easily that the woman was not conscious of the change. She thought he was talking about literal water, though the seriousness in his tones had awakened her utmost attention. She knew what it was to thirst, and the labor of coming to the well to carry away pitchers full on her head, only to repeat the labor with each returning day. He had awakened in her a desire, though that desire was no higher than water, and she said, “Sir, give me this water, that I thirst not, neither come hither to draw.” Though the woman did not understand His words, she was really, in her mind, struggling with the great problem of not thirsting any more, and of doing away with the necessity of daily coming to Jacob’s well. How the Lord delights to lead inquiring minds to the higher things of life! He saw, doubtless, by supernatural intuition, the sinful blemishes in her life, as well as the deeper aspirations of her soul which His words had awakened. How shall He get at the plague-spot which corrupted the fountain of her life?

In a tender, pathetic tone he said to the woman, “Go, call thy husband!” It was a painful request to make of this poor woman, but He could not trifle. He must be faithful. The request had its desired effect. It drew off the woman’s attention from her desire for fountains of water, to see the wretched condition of her life.

Yet, with a frankness that showed an honest soul, she replied, “I have no husband!”

Ah! that was the point this wisest of Teachers was bringing her to. He did not want to see her husband, but He wanted her to see herself. His words probed to the plague-spot in her soul. She admitted her guilt, but could not quite bring her will to give up her manner of life.

When Jesus told her that she was living with the fifth man, and he not her husband, she perceived that He was a prophet, and was ready with another batch of theological questions. “I know I am not what I ought to be,” she said in effect, “but then there are some things I don’t understand, and now, since you are a prophet, perhaps you can inform me. We Samaritans claim that our way is right, and you Jews claim that your way is right. Both can’t be right; tell us what we are to do?” Referring to her Samaritan ancestors, she continued, “Our fathers worshipped in this mountain,” pointing to Mt. Gerizim, under the shadow of which they almost stood, and which had a special sacredness as the mount of blessing. It was also claimed by the Samaritans that their worship was earlier, and, therefore, older than that at Jerusalem. However, it is not clear that she meant to urge this as one of the reasons in favor of Mt. Gerizim, on the summit of which the Samaritan Temple stood. In the Scriptures which the Samaritans possessed (the Pentateuch) the name of Gerizim had been inserted in the place of the holy city of the Jews. On the other hand, the claim of the Jews was exclusive. Men must worship in Jerusalem. If the woman regarded the supremacy of Gerizim or Jerusalem an open question, it showed her candor and a willingness to accept the revelation of the truth, whatever it might be.

But see how our Lord sweeps the idol of locality from this inquirer’s mind, “Believe me,” he said, “the hour cometh when ye shall neither in this mountain, nor yet at Jerusalem, worship the Father.” Men have ever looked upon their places of worship as sacred. Islamism has its Mecca, the heathenism of India its Baneras and Ganges, the idolaters of China their sacred mountains, the apostates of modern times their holy shrines. Jesus abolishes local limitations, and announces that what one worships is of more importance than where; that God is a Spirit, and that true worship is unlimited by time, place or form.

THE NOONTIDE HOUR AT JACOB’S WELL.

Such wonderful words had never fallen upon the ears or entered the heart of this woman. No priest or scribe had ever uttered such sublime conceptions of our relations to God. She had thought him a “prophet,” but such utterances are almost divine. She thinks of the Messiah, and answers, “I know that when Messias cometh, which is called Christ; when He is come, He will tell us all things.” This was in accordance with the Samaritan view of Christ. While showing a desire for a fuller knowledge she thinks of a higher authority of the expected Messiah. In this He did not rebuke her. He lets her question, yet is never turned from His purpose. Step by step His love lifted this inquiring mind, until at last she was ready for such an avowal of His nature and office as He had never given to Scribe or Pharisee or disciple, “I that speak unto thee am He!”

Wonderful news! Filled with surprise and joy, she “left her waterpot” on the well, and ran into the city, forgetting all about her own need, as well as the request of the Saviour for a drink of water. Her haste shows how absorbed she had become in the wonderful words from the lips of Him who declared Himself the long-expected Son of God. And He, the blessed Lord, was so intent on saving a soul that He had forgotten all about His thirst and His weariness.

Just as she had left the well, the disciples came, having made the necessary purchase of food, and “marveled that He talked with the woman,” yet were mysteriously restrained from asking Him why He did so. Presently they spread their noonday meal, but observing that Jesus did not share with them their meal, they urged Him, saying, “Master, eat.” But great was their surprise when He answered, “I have meat to eat that ye know not of.” They could not understand that the chance to help an inquiring soul was more to Him than food or drink, and said to one another, “Hath any man brought Him ought to eat?” He astonished His inquiring disciples yet more, when knowing the thoughts uppermost in their minds, said, “My meat is to do the will of Him that sent Me,” and to carry out the mission for which I am in the world.

In the meantime the flying feet of the woman had reached the city, and she hastened from street to street delivering her message, “Come, see a Man who told me all that ever I did. Is not this the Christ?”

The theological questions over which Jews and Samaritans contended, whether Jerusalem or Gerizim was the place where “men ought to worship,” had dropped entirely out of her mind. But she proved an excellent evangelist, for presently the people came flocking out of the city in the direction of Jacob’s well, pouring out of every gate, and led over the fruitful plain by the woman.

It must have been a grand sight, and showed that Jesus was not mistaken when, looking into the face of the woman, He saw a pearl of great beauty and worth beneath the rough exterior of this semi-heathenish, yet quick-witted, sprightly and susceptible Samaritan.

As the Saviour lifted up His eyes over the plain and saw the approaching multitude, He was evidently well satisfied in withgoing His weariness and thirst while talking to this Samaritan Magdalene as she came with her water-pitcher to the well, and not only was He satisfied with the results of His labors, but He seems also to have been pleased, for, as the host filled the plain, He called the attention of his disciples to the beautiful sight, and exclaimed, “Say not ye, there are yet four months, and then cometh harvest!” Doubtless this was true in the physical world, but spiritual conditions do not have to depend upon the slow processes of the natural world, and the well-sown seed amid the glare of the noontide, was already ripening unto the harvest. Behold the thronging people! said our Lord. “Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to the harvest.”

As the people thronged the well to hear and see the Man who had revealed the hidden life of the woman, He must have taught this people with wise, loving words, for they forgot all about their prejudices and hate and begged Him, though of a race with whom the Samaritans had no dealings, to stay among them. And He graciously complied with their request, and it took Him two whole days to harvest that whitened field. And the record is, “Many of the Samaritans of that city believed on Him for the saying of the woman.”

But what a testimony is all this to that Samaritan woman. What, if her previous life had not been of good repute? What though she was a social outcast? One thing she discovered that noonday, as she came out to draw water from Jacob’s ancient well, that the Man who laid open her inner life in such modest words and patient forbearance, was none other than the long-expected Messiah, and she was altogether too generous-minded to lock up the glad tidings in her heart, but at once, without commission or priestly authority, witnessed for Christ, published the glad tidings of salvation through the streets of Sychar, and brought her whole city to a knowledge of her Saviour. And so this woman became the first gospel preacher in Samaria. That was before church councils had decided women may not speak for Jesus.

Jacob’s well is no longer used, and the grain fields, which “Stood dressed in living green” before the Saviour’s eyes, have long been trodden under foot of Islam’s hordes, yet the living spring of water which our Lord opened there to the poor, sinful, yet penitent woman, is as deep and fresh as ever, and has flowed on and out over the earth to remotest nations, and will quench the thirst of souls to the end of time.

We see also in this beautiful scene at Jacob’s well that Christ’s intercourse with women was marked by freedom from Oriental contempt of womanhood, and a marvelous union of purity and frankness, dignity and tenderness. He approached this woman as a friend who wished her well, and yet as her Lord and Saviour. And, to the good sense of womanhood be it said, when the light of truth broke over her inquiring mind, she believed! And behold how she loved Him! Forgetting her errand to the well, yea, even leaving her pitcher, she hastened to publish the glad news. Surely the Saviour “must needs go through Samaria,” on His way from Judea to Galilee, and His resting in the little alcove of Jacob’s well, for the moment sheltered from the glare of an Oriental midday sun, was more than a geographical “must.” It was the necessity of love laid upon His heart to meet and to help that woman who came with an empty stone pitcher to the well at the same hour of the day, but went away with a heart filled with “living water ... springing up into everlasting life.”

Some time after this, on one of those days while Jesus was teaching in lower Galilee, a Pharisee, by the very common name of Simon, invited our Lord to a feast. Why he invited Him is not stated. Possibly he may have been impressed with the character and teaching of Christ, and disposed, in a social way, and at his own table, to give Him a further hearing, thinking, perhaps, by coming in personal contact with our Lord, aside from the throngs which attended upon His ministry, he could the better satisfy himself as to the merits of this new Teacher in Israel, and so invited Jesus to dine with him. Our Lord had not yet broken with the Pharisees, and was still anxious, if possible, to conciliate them, if by any means He might win them, and withal, willing to show his good-will, accepted the invitation.

However gracious the invitation may have been given, it is quite clear that the hospitality was meant to be qualified. These Pharisees who loved the uppermost seats at feasts, knew how to entertain. But in this feast, all the ordinary attentions which were usually paid to honored guests were strangely omitted. There was no servant with basin of water and towel for the weary and dust-covered feet, no anointing of the head, no kiss of welcome upon the cheek, nothing but a somewhat ungracious admission to a vacant place at the table, and the most distant courtesies of ordinary intercourse, so managed that this Guest from among the common people might feel that he was receiving honors in the house of a rich and influential Pharisee. Many a poor man’s head has been turned by such feigned and mock courtesies. It would have been a thousand times better to the head and heart of Simon if he had never invited the Lord, than to assume in His presence what he was not at heart.

Our Lord must have keenly felt these omissions. But, since he had been invited, He made the best of this empty show at hospitality, only we may be quite sure He was clothed in His usual gentleness and modest dignity. We may well believe our Lord showed no signs of being piqued at the slights put upon Him, nor embarrassed in the presence of His host and the distinguished guests present. While Jesus cared little for show or etiquette, yet it was but natural that He should have keenly felt these omissions so gracefully shown to the others at this feast.

But before us rises another scene. “Behold, a woman in the city, which was a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster box of ointment.” How thoughtful these women are! This one was not satisfied with merely following the throng, but she takes with her the most costly gift at her command. What a contrast between her and Simon, who haughtily thought within himself that anything was good enough for this lowly Prophet of Nazareth.

When this woman, whose character seemed to have been well known, too well indeed for her own comfort, reached Simon’s house, she found the door thronged by a crowd of people who had doubtless followed Jesus, and now stood, and looked, and listened—for privacy seems a thing impossible in the free and easy life of Orientals. For a moment she lingered amidst the throng. While there, men, as they passed in to the feast, gathered their robes as they passed her, lest by a passing touch she should defile them. As she sees the scanty preparations, the cold reception, her woman’s heart is made indignant. “Would that I were worthy to ask Him beneath my roof, or would that I could bid Him come and sit at meat with me; all that I have were His to minister in any way to His comfort. But I, alas, am so far down and He so holy—there is no chance for me.” So she thinks.

Then lo, that face is lifted, the eyes meet hers. He, all pitiful, reading her heart looks an invitation that she can not resist. And then in the presence of the Pharisees, as they start with horror, every man shrinking from this infamous intruder, every face filled with scorn, she hurries across to the side of the Lord Jesus and falls at His feet. She pours forth her penitence in a flood of tears; then, startled that she should thus have bathed His feet, she loosens her hair and wipes them with reverent hands, and tenderly kissing His feet, she draws from the folds of her dress a pot of unguent, and pours its fragrance upon them.

Who she was or how she had come to know Jesus, or when she had been moved by his preaching and converted by the grace of His words we do not know. It is quite likely, having been attracted like others to be one of His auditors somewhere, she had heard His gracious words of love and pity, and had gladly on her part accepted their healing influences.

But when the Pharisee saw the marked attention of this woman of the street to his Guest, he commenced talking to himself in his heart, “This man, if He were a prophet,” he muttered to himself, “would know who and what manner of woman this is that is thus lavishing her love upon His feet, for she is a sinner, whose very touch is pollution.” No doubt Simon was shocked beyond measure, especially when he saw Jesus allowed it, and was glad at that moment that his cold caution at the commencement of the feast had prevented him from giving Jesus too cordial a welcome. “I am glad now I did not compromise my honor or forfeit the good opinion of those of my set; that I wasted none of my perfume upon His head; that I gave Him no kiss of welcome; yea, even that I did not bid a servant wash His feet. Such acts of hospitality would, in a measure at least, have committed me, in the eyes of the people, to Him as a friend, and would have exposed me to the criticisms of my brethren. I fear I have already gone too far, but will get out of it as quickly as possible, and when I extend another invitation He’ll know it. In my opinion, He is not only no prophet, but is altogether too free with the common people to make Him desirable among my fellow Pharisees.”

To be sure, Simon did not utter these thoughts aloud, but his frigid demeanor, and the contemptuous expression of countenance, which he did not take the trouble to disguise, showed all that was passing in his heart. He little realized that Jesus had read his thoughts as unerringly as if he had written them upon the walls of his dining-room, and at once proceeded to lay open the heart of His host to himself in a manner he had never thought it possible, and He did it by first relating a little parable, and thus addressed the Pharisee:

“Simon, I have somewhat to say to thee!”

“Master, say on,” was the somewhat constrained reply.

“There was a certain creditor who had two debtors. The one owed five hundred pence, and the other fifty; and when they had nothing to pay he freely forgave both. Tell me, then, which of them will love him most?”

The construction of this parable is marvelous for its conciseness, naturalness and simplicity. In its application Jesus makes Simon condemn himself for his uncharitable judgment. He is compelled to admit the whole force of the great scheme of salvation by pardoning grace. It doubtless never entered Simon’s poor, proud, but sinful heart that he, too, was a debtor and needed to be as freely forgiven as the woman whose touch he considered pollution, and yet this is one of the lessons taught by the comparison here drawn between the abandoned woman and the proud Pharisee. It is pitiable to see the bitterness of the world towards a lost woman. And yet why should not her companion in sin suffer as much as she? But he never does. Let us be fair. Cast her out, if you feel called on to be her judge, but at least do the same by him.

The fact remains that this poor woman knew she was an outcast. No one would forgive her. Never could she regain her social standing. But Simon? Ah! Simon was really quite a model man. As the world judges worth, she stood at one extreme and he at the other. Simon was eminently respectable. As a Pharisee he belonged to one of the first families; he was recognized in Church and State; he had social position which introduced him to the refined and educated. If he met a public speaker of eminence, or a man of reputation, he honored him by inviting him to dinner. Let us not too severely pass upon the conduct of Simon. He was undoubtedly a worthy man. Christ’s reference to him in the parable implies that his outward life was not that of a hypocrite or a mere formalist. But this parable makes him a bankrupt debtor. He can no more pay his fifty pence than the woman her five hundred pence. So both were sinners, and both needed to be forgiven. Here there was no difference. Both had broken the law of God, and both were in need of a Saviour.

We see again that penitence breaks down the wall that separated from God. This poor woman saw her dreadful sin and turned from it in an agony of repentance. She sought the Lord. He was the only friend to whom she could turn in her need. She was sure of His sympathy and help. She desired forgiveness and found it. She had been alienated from God, but through her penitence had reached a comprehension of Christ’s character impossible to the self-satisfied Pharisee. She was far more at one with God, as He was revealed in Christ, than was the dignified gentleman, indignant at her presence in his house.

This woman felt a great need. She was sin-burdened, and needed a divine deliverer, and the Saviour proved to be an all-sufficient helper. How was it with Simon? Why, he relied on himself. He felt no need of Christ’s help. He was self-satisfied—a very good man in his own opinion. The woman had expressed her gratitude in many touching ways, but Simon had no sense of gratitude. He had given no kiss of welcome, had provided no water for the feet, had failed to anoint the Saviour’s head.

Beyond a doubt there are a great many excellent people to-day of Simon’s stamp. They are quite courteous, if their social position is not compromised thereby. They will spread a feast, and invite the Lord to dinner. And yet, they feel no need of Christ. The whole show of hospitality is a cold, heartless formality, with no tenderness of emotion towards Him. They feel no longing to make sacrifices for His sake as expressive of their love. And so, while treating Christ respectfully, they do not treat Him lovingly. They think too well of themselves. They need to recognize more fully their position of danger and their dependence upon Christ.

There is also a wonderful picture in this narrative of Christ’s love for us. How considerate His treatment of this penitent and broken-hearted woman! He was not supercilious. He had no feeling of pride that resented her touch. It was not necessary that He avoid her in order to vindicate His own purity.

Hitherto Jesus had said nothing to the woman, though it must have thrilled her soul when she heard what had been said to Simon in the application of the parable. She was first indirectly assured of the grace of God in respect to herself, and of the principle on which her forgiveness was vouchsafed. She knew that He was not ashamed of her, and, finally, she heard Him say in so many words, “Her sins which are many are forgiven her.”

Having said so much to Simon concerning her, Jesus now turned to the woman herself, laid His hand tenderly upon the bowed head, for He would not break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax, He would not by bitterness drive her from Him, but as her Defence and Deliverer, personally addressed her, and said, “Thy sins are forgiven!” There now remained not a doubt in her mind. She had His word personally addressed to her, and this was the ground of her assurance.

THE UNINVITED GUEST.

Now see what followed. “They that sat at meat with Him began to say, within themselves, Who is this that forgiveth sins also?” Simon and his friends were offended because there was no sympathy in their hearts for Christ and His works of mercy. They did not desire the salvation of this woman who had come in to their feast. It did not once occur to them that Christ could know the character of the woman and yet be willing to let her approach Him that He might forgive her sin. They saw only a man, and said, “Who is this that forgiveth sins also?” Only God could do that. But she saw a Saviour before her, and our Lord fearing the cavil of the Pharisees might distress the woman, He said to her, “Thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace!” He would get her away from the doubting Pharisees as quickly as possible.

It is worthy of observation that, notwithstanding the beautiful exhibition this woman gave of her love and affection, it was her “faith,” not her love, that saved her.

Tradition identifies this woman as Mary Magdalene, a native, it is thought of Magdol, the modern Mejdel, a town on the west shore of the Sea of Galilee, and south of the plain of Gennesaret. The present village lies close to the water’s edge, and, Tiberias excepted, is the only place on the western coast of Galilee which survives the wreck of time.

Much is said by the Talmudists of her wealth, her extreme beauty, her braided hair, but all we know of her from Scriptures is her enthusiasm of devotion and gratitude which, henceforth, attached her, heart and soul, to her Saviour’s service. For we read, “And it came to pass afterward,” after this feast in the house of Simon the Pharisee, that Jesus “went through” the cities and villages of Galilee “preaching and showing the glad tidings of the kingdom of God,” and “certain women, which had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities, Mary Magdalene, out of whom went seven devils, and Joanna the wife of Chuza, Herod’s steward, and Susanna, and many others,” “ministered unto Him of their substance.” Thus we find this woman, with others, ministering to the temporal necessities of our Lord.

In the last journey of Christ to Jerusalem, Mary Magdalene accompanied the women who were in the company. She was also among the women on the day of crucifixion who “stood afar off, beholding these things” during the closing hours of the agony on the cross, and remained till all was over, waited till the body was taken down, and wrapped in the linen cloth and placed in the sepulchre of Joseph of Arimathea. Thus, this loving, faithful woman, true to her nature, clung to her Lord to the very last.

On the morning of the resurrection, Mary Magdalene was among the women who found the tomb of our Lord empty. Instantly she hastened to inform the disciples. While she was gone, the remaining women saw the angels, who asked, “Why seek ye the living among the dead?” And instructed them to tell his disciples. So when Mary returned to the sepulchre, she was alone. She was also ignorant of what the angels had said to the other women, and the poor woman’s heart could no longer retain her pent-up grief, and stood at the open sepulchre weeping. Presently she saw a man, and supposing him to be the gardener, said, “Sir, if thou hast borne Him hence, tell me where thou hast laid Him, and I will take Him away.”

While she is speaking to the supposed gardener, Jesus addressed her by her given name, “Mary!” Behold, it was her Lord, and she exclaims, “Rabboni!” It was the strongest word of reverence which a woman of Israel could use, and, in her joy, would have fallen on His neck, had He not restrained her. But what honor the Lord conferred upon her. She was the first human messenger to the world of a risen Saviour!

Such was the beautiful pearl our Lord saw in the woman who poured out her penitence in a flood of tears at His feet in the house of Simon the Pharisee. While it was her faith that saved her, surely it can truthfully be said of her, “She loved much.”

It was after Jesus had begun His new method of teaching by parables, the keynote of which was, “Take heed how ye hear,” and had, at the close of a hard day’s labor, sailed over the Sea of Galilee, and spent the night in the region of Decapolis, in the hope of getting away from the multitudes to obtain a little rest, that, on the following morning as he returned to Capernaum, the people, from the hillsides were watching for His return, and as soon as they recognized the sail of the little vessel, and long before he reached land, great throngs had lined the shore to welcome His return.

Notwithstanding the prejudices of the Scribes and Pharisees had already been aroused against Christ, there was, on the shore, nervously moving among the people, a very prominent citizen of Capernaum, by the name of Jairus, a ruler of the synagogue. From the deep lines of anxiety visible on his face, he was evidently in great mental distress. And well he might be, for his beautiful twelve year old daughter had been given up by the physicians and was dying. As a last resort, he hastened to find Jesus, who already had performed many cures in his city, and so when he learned that our Lord had passed over the Sea of Galilee, he could do no better than wait His coming. No sooner had the little vessel touched the landing than Jairus pushed his way through the crowd, and when he got near enough fell at Jesus’ feet, and in great agony of heart besought Him, saying, “My little daughter lieth at the point of death; I pray Thee come and lay Thy hands on her, that she may be healed.” There was no calmness in this appeal. On the other hand, it was full of agitation and fear, mingled with fancies that the Lord must first lay His hands upon his dying child. There is a striking similarity between this appeal of Jairus, and that of the nobleman who came to Jesus in the early part of His ministry, and cried out, “Come down ere my child die.” Then the Lord told the nobleman to go his way, his child should live, but here His divine compassion went out to the distressed father. Doubtless Jesus saw the weakness of his faith, but He also saw his sincerity, and so He “went with him.”

But the daughter of Jairus was not the only sufferer in that city. We read, there was “a certain woman which had an issue of blood twelve years, and had suffered many things of many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was nothing bettered, but rather grew worse.” Surely she was in a sorrowful condition, had suffered many things, besides the disease which was wasting her life away, for medicine in that age was but imperfectly understood, and diseases were often exorcised by charms, and, doubtless her “many physicians” practiced all sorts of charms and resorted to every kind of omen, until her money was gone, and she was not only poverty-stricken, but daily growing worse under her affliction. One almost wonders, since Jesus had now been for a year and a half a resident of Capernaum, that she had not sooner appealed to Him for help. Perhaps his work had been in another part of the city, or she may have been deterred from asking His help because of the nature of her malady, or she may have thought within herself that she could do in the throng what she had not the courage to do openly, for she said, “If I may but touch His garment, I shall be whole.” And now was her opportunity, for “much people followed Him, and thronged Him.” Besides, on this occasion, Jesus may have passed through the street on which she lived, since He has such a way of passing by the door of helpless, suffering humanity, for He is “touched with the feeling of our infirmities.”

This woman at first does not impress us as having a very exalted idea of the Saviour or faith in His ability to heal. Doubtless she shared the superstition of her people, and imagined that Christ healed by a sort of magic or magnetism, for, as she mingled in the throng, she said to herself, if I come “in the press,” if I can only get near enough to “touch the hem of His garment,” I will be healed. These seem to be the thoughts passing through her mind as she ventured out on her errand of being healed. It is important, however, though difficult, to realize her situation, for she had become impoverished, diseased, and almost helpless. Once she was possessed of health, and some means at least, and, no doubt moved in respectable society. Her changed relations to her former surroundings made it all the harder to be publicly recognized, and so she timidly permits herself to be absorbed by the multitude as they pressed their way through the crowded street that morning. There may be another reason of which she was fully conscious, namely, according to the Mosaic law, such a sufferer was unclean, and was required, after the cure was wrought, to bring an offering for purification. Orientals had a perfect abhorrence of such a person, for her very touch would render them unclean. Perhaps could we know all the circumstances which shaped her actions, the wonder would be, that she came at all, and that her courage was greater than her faith.

At length, and as unobtrusively as possible, she came up, in the press of the people, behind Jesus, and stretched out her trembling hand, and in such a modest way touched the hem of His garment that no one saw it, not even His disciples, who were nearest the Saviour. Since no one saw her act, she thought no one needed to know it. Perhaps she was so careful that she even thought Jesus was not conscious of it. But to our Lord there was a difference between the touch of faith and the touch of the crowd. She was all too deeply conscious of her great need. She was carried along with the multitude, because she believed if she could get near enough to Jesus to touch Him, she would receive that which all her physicians were unable to bestow, namely, restoration to health. She was there for a blessing. The crowd was there through idle curiosity. They wanted nothing, only to see. They pushed through the thronged highway together, and as they did so talked about the simplicity of the great Man in their midst, were interested in Him because of His fame, discussed His origin, wondered at the growing opposition of the Scribes and Pharisees, but hoped some good would come of Him to the nation. The woman believed she would personally receive new life from Him. In this she was not disappointed, for “straightway the fountain of her blood was dried up; and she felt in her body that she was healed of that plague.” To her there was an inward consciousness, which could not be mistaken, of the staunching of a wound through which her life, for long years, had been slowly and yet surely ebbing, and she felt the rising tide of new existence and a return to wholeness.

But now the scene changes. The great throng came to a halt. What has happened? one inquired of another. See! Jesus has turned around “in the press” and is sharply looking into the faces of those nearest Him, and demanding, “Who touched my clothes?”

To the disciples this seemed a strange inquiry, and they could not understand its meaning, and replied, “Thou seest the multitude thronging thee, and sayest thou, Who touched me?” To appreciate the astonishment of the disciples one must see an Oriental throng pushing its way through a narrow street of an Eastern city. There is no resisting its onward rush. Like some mighty river which, fed by a thousand spring freshets, irresistibly bears everything before it, so is an Eastern crowd, and the wonder is that Jesus could stay at all. But He immediately knew in “Himself that virtue had gone out of Him.” He was conscious that He had put forth power for the woman’s healing. He would there and at once correct any superstition that there was any healing virtue in His clothes. Not in the touch of the garment, for the people pressed Him on all sides, and experienced nothing of His healing power, even though one or another might have had a concealed disease, simply because this conscious need of help was lacking in them, and so it was her own faith had saved her, even though in the beginning it was not wholly free from superstition.

But what a trial this stop must have been to the woman, especially when there was such urgent haste, and this seeming leisurely way of calling out all the circumstances of the case, even after all disavowed touching Him, and His looking “round about to see her that had done this thing.” She must have thought to herself, “I will surely be discovered.” And timidly shrank back in the crowd, her face burning with confusion, for doubtless she was not only alarmed at the delay, but also mortified and afraid on account of the nature of her malady, disturbed by the consciousness of impropriety, as having, while Levitically unclean, dared to mingle with the people, and even touch the great Teacher Himself. We wonder, in the sweep of the Saviour’s eye over the multitude “to see her,” as she caught sight of His beneficent face, possibly for the first time, she did not see something in it that calmed her fears and inspired hope? It would seem so, for even while yet “fearing and trembling” she came promptly out from among the throng, “fell down before Him,” and, hard as it must have been for her to tell her shame in the ears of the multitude, woman-like, she bravely “told Him all the truth!” Confessed the whole sad story of her life, and twelve long years of suffering. Oh, the touch of loyalty to truth and honor in this woman, prostrate at the feet of Jesus, pleading for mercy and forgiveness! How His own heart must have been touched by it. He would not break the bruised reed, even in this necessity for the good of her faith, to have her openly confess the great blessing she had received. Doubtless the Lord constrained her to make this confession, partly to seal her faith and to strengthen her recovery, and partly to present her to the world as healed and cleansed.

But while she is sobbing out her confession at the Saviour’s feet, He graciously addresses her, “Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace!” Had ever such endearing words fallen upon human ears! To the woman in the house of Simon the Pharisee, He had said, “Thy faith hath saved thee!” To this one He says, “Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole!” That endearing appellation, “daughter,” must have sounded as a lost note out of heaven in the ear of this woman. Could it be possible that she, who, under the Levitical law, had been held by her people as unclean, is called “daughter” by the pure, sinless Son of God? Did ever heaven come down to earth in such graciousness, and rescue from the mire of uncleanness and elevate womanhood to be a princess of the sky? Surely these were days of heaven upon earth, and we may well believe that “daughter” arose from her prostrate attitude at the feet of the Lord of life and glory, “a new creature” in Christ.

Early ecclesiastical legends have garlanded this woman with many beautiful fancies. Her birthplace, according to tradition, was Paneas (the modern Banias), located at the sources of the Jordan. Here, in the front of her residence, she caused a monument to be erected to her Deliverer. She must also have been in the company of women who followed Jesus to Jerusalem at the last Passover, for, at the several trials of our Lord she is made to appear under the name of Veronica, and is said, in the presence of Pilate, to have proclaimed, in a clear, loud voice, the innocence of our Lord, and after he was condemned to be crucified, on the way to Calvary, wiped His face with her own handkerchief.

Whatever value or genuineness there may be attached to these traditions, they certainly show in what reverence she was held in Christian antiquity, and how highly the faith and the hope of this sufferer were esteemed.

But, above all these traditionary legends, we behold the glory and majesty of our Lord in that, in the midst of the multitude, He displayed no traces of excitement, but that in calm consciousness He was ready to receive any impression from without. Of this there is the clearest evidence, when, in the midst of the excited crowd, He perceived that one timid, shrinking woman, in the agony of her faith touched the fringe of His garment; and when He stopped to comfort and confirm the trembling believer, whom His power and grace had restored, He had recognized, even in a throng, that faith which was unperceived by men, and only found expression in the inmost desires of the one who was not even known to the crowd. He alone could develop and strengthen this unobtrusive and shrinking “daughter” until she breaks forth in open and public profession.

There are also reasons why Christ ascribes to faith the deliverance which He alone works: 1. Faith alone can receive the needed deliverance. 2. Shrinking modesty, and even a feeling of unworthiness, need no longer be kept back by any sense of uncleanness, from the full exercise of that faith. 3. God’s gifts are not alone for the rich and those high in the ranks of social life, for even this ruler of the synagogue had to give place to this timid woman, therefore faith may be exercised by those in the humblest walks of life. 4. Jesus would convert the act of faith into a life of faith. This woman was not hid from the searching glance of Christ, but His gracious act of healing was concealed from the world until He brought her before Him in her public confession.

If there is anything that can grieve the heart of Christ it must be the person who absorbs like a sponge all the gifts of grace, but never gives any of them out to others. If every one acted thus, Christianity would be blotted from the face of the earth in a single generation. Hence the wisdom and justice in requiring believers to be witnesses and confessors. If you have received any good, tell it out, that others may be blessed and God glorified.

It was now becoming manifest that the opposition of the Pharisees was deepening, and, because they were bitterly offended at the Saviour’s work, shortly after the healing of the woman with a bloody issue, Jesus withdrew from Capernaum to the “borders of Tyre and Sidon.” Only a little before this so many were coming and going that our Lord and His disciples “had no leisure so much as to eat,” and because of these throngs upon His public ministry, He had said to the apostles, “Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest awhile.” So they sailed for the farther shore, to find a safe retreat in the sheltered uplands in the dominion of Herod Philip. But the people, who seemed to be always on the watch, when they saw the little vessel sailing out from Capernaum, and knew, by the direction it was taking, they quickly spread the news of His departure, and thronged out of Capernaum, Bethsaida, Chorazin and other cities, and hastened on foot around the shores of the sea, and outran the vessel and reached His contemplated place of retirement in advance of the little craft, and there was no rest, but a great multitude to be instructed, and healed, and fed, for it was on this occasion that He spread a table in the desert, and five thousand, besides women and children, sat down to eat. And so there was nothing but a hard day’s work, and a night on the desolate mountain in prayer. So obviously His journey to the “borders of Tyre and Sidon,” was to find seclusion and rest, which He had sought, but in vain, in the “desert place.” But even here, down by the coast of the Mediterranean, “He could not be hid,” although, when He had reached the “borders” of the land, He “entered into a house and would have no man know it.”

To our mind this is one of the most remarkable incidents in our Lord’s ministry. In the house of some sheltering friend, on the remote frontier of Galilee, He hoped to escape popular attention and to be relieved from the demands of the crowds, who had even deprived Him of the needed time to eat, but “He could not be hid.” A woman, a Syro-Phœnician, that is to say, one of the mixed race, in whom the blood of the Syrians and Phœnicians mingled, and for that reason doubly despised by the Jews, this woman had observed His presence, and was soon “at His feet.” From the fact that she was a Gentile, and of a mixed race at that, made her coming to Jesus an act of heroic faith. She came not only without invitation, or a single promise to warrant her coming, but in the face of heart-breaking discouragements. We have been trained to believe, from the clear teaching of Scripture, that when we come to Christ with our burdens of sorrow, be they ever so heavy, and ask for help, our prayers must always be subject to His will. And indeed He set us a beautiful object-lesson in His own great agony in Gethsemane. But here it would seem as if the process had been reversed, and as if this poor Syro-Phœnician woman had succeeded in imposing her will on the Son of God. Did He not say, “Be it unto thee even as thou wilt?” And is there not in this the appearance, at least, of the monarch abdicating in favor of the subject? Strange, indeed, that any one should get their own way and will with the Sovereign of all, for the sin that is in us so dyes the color of our will and deflects it, that we can seldom think of it as being other than a crooked piece of bent or twisted iron. It is very wonderful that this woman’s faith was able to get deliverance for her daughter possessed of an “unclean spirit.” Somehow she believed beforehand in His love to her, a poor Gentile mother, and this was great faith indeed. All the miracles of Christ were wrought in response to faith, either in the sufferers who besought His aid, or in their friends. There must be faith by which, as over a bridge, the divine help might pass into the nature of man. Faith is the unfurled petal, the opened door, the unshuttered lattice. And so, in this case, it was through the mother’s faith that God’s delivering help passed to the child.

Upon a careful study of the secret of this woman’s faith, we shall discover that her faith was severely tested. Christ gave her four tests, each of which was necessary to complete her education; and by each, with agile foot, she climbed the difficult stairway, which some would say was of upward ascent, but which in point of fact was one of downward climbing, until she got low enough to catch the waters which issue from the threshold of the door of heaven’s mercy.

The first test was that of silence. “She cried unto Him, saying, Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou Son of David; my daughter is grievously vexed with a devil.” The effects of these unclean spirits are described in the instance where the distressed father brought his demoniac boy to be healed. And while the father is bringing him, the poor child is seized with paroxysms of his malady, having fallen to the ground at the feet of Jesus, foaming at the lips under the violent convulsions. When the father was asked how long the boy had thus been possessed, he answered, “Of a child, and ofttimes it hath cast him into the fire, and into the water to destroy him;” and whenever the spirit “taketh him, he teareth him, and he foameth, and gnasheth with his teeth and pineth away.” Such was the demon this poor mother’s daughter was possessed with, and grievously tormented. But to her appeal for help, Jesus “answered her not a word.” He alone had the power to help, but the agonizing mother awakened no response. And yet, His very silence is a testing of her faith. Often it has happened that God’s answer which has best met our need was the silence which has not been a refusal, but has given time for us to reach a condition of lowliness and helplessness before God. He always lets the fruit upon His trees ripen before He plucks it. Through the silence of the winter the sap is touching again its mother earth, and becoming reinforced by her energy for its work in the blossoms of May and the fruit of September. The mind reaches its clearest, strongest conclusion by processes carried on in its depths during hours of silence and repose. It is in the long, silent hours, when the heart waits at the door, listening for the footstep down the corridor in vain, that processes are at work that shall make it more able to hold the blessedness which shall be poured out from the chalice of a Father’s pity.

Again. She was sorely tested in the conduct of the disciples. They were eager to rid themselves of the worry of this woman’s crying, and, as the quickest solution—a solution which we are all ready enough to imitate—advised Christ to give her what she wanted and send her off. They thought a miracle to Christ was not more than a penny to a millionaire. They did not see that Christ’s hands were tied until the conditions of blessing were fulfilled in the suppliant. He loves us too well to give His choicest boons to those who have not complied with the lofty spiritual conditions which are part of the standing orders of the kingdom of heaven. Much of our charity is sheer selfishness. We would rather grant the request any day than have an unsightly beggar intrude into our bowers of selfish repose. “She crieth after us,” the disciples said; “her misery is unpleasant; heal it.”

But Christ was tied by the terms of His commission. She had appealed to Him as Son of David, and He said that He had been sent to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. She belonged to one of the alien races. She was not even a “sheep” of the house of Israel, much less a “lost” one. The question was, “Could He, even for once, transcend His commission, and grant the request of this weary soul which had traveled so far to find the Christ?” As Messiah, she had no claim on Him, for, in that capacity, He had been commissioned to the house of Israel only.

Once again. Her faith was tested in His farther refusal to her pleadings, when He said, “It is not meet to take the children’s bread, and cast it to the dogs.” Somehow her quick woman’s instinct perceived a way up what had seemed to be the unscalable path of Christ’s refusal. If she had no claim on Him as Messiah, was He not something more? Was He not Lord and Master? Did not deity blend with humanity in that nature, which, whilst His voice repelled her, yet fascinated and attracted her? It would almost seem as if the Holy Spirit whispered, “Accost Him as Lord;” “Touch Him on the side of His universal power;” “Speak to Him as Son of Man.” So she acted upon His suggestion, and, throwing herself at His feet, said, “Lord, help me.” To this appeal Christ gave answer that seemed churlish enough. But the bitter rind encased luscious fruit. The nut had only to be cracked to disclose the milk, sweeter than that of the cocoanut in the desert waste. He compared the Jews to children, Himself to bread, and this woman to a dog. But for the word “dog” he used the tender diminutive, which was not applicable to the wolfish, starving animals that prowl and snarl through the streets of Eastern towns, but was used for the little dogs brought up with the children in the home. Now, hope once again sprang up in her heart. Jesus had talked about dogs, and little house dogs, the playthings of the children. He said it was not proper to cast the children’s bread to dogs. If by children he meant the “sheep of the house of Israel,” then she must belong to the household after all.

She was quick to see her opportunity. “Truth, Lord!” she exclaimed, “Yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters’ table!” When she said that, her lesson was learnt. In her former reply she had given the Lord His right place; in this she took her own as a little dog. You are not a child of Abraham’s stock! Truth, Lord. You are a Syro-Phœnician, and, for that reason, doubly unfit to be called a child! Truth, Lord. All I do for you must be of grace, and not of merit! Truth, Lord. She admitted all and accepted His most discouraging statements concerning herself. But, after the worst that can be said about dogs, they “eat of the crumbs.” All these seeming objections are in favor of her request. She only wants a little crumb of His mercy, which will take nothing from others.

Jesus could stand such pleadings no longer, and he answered and said, “O, woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt.” She had come for crumbs, but the Lord handed to her the key of the storehouse, and said, “Have your way, go in and help yourself to all its stores.” She would have been content with the crumbs that fell beneath the table on the floor, but she finds herself seated at the table itself, and feasting like a daughter of the king on its rich and bountiful provision. No longer a dog, she proves herself to be one of those other sheep which shamed the lost sheep of the house of Israel by docility and purity and grace.

This woman had many graces. She had wisdom, humility, meekness, patience, perseverance in prayer; but all these were the fruits of her faith; therefore, of all graces, Christ honors faith most. The perseverance of this woman may well be considered as every way calculated to teach us the power and efficacy of faith, and the greatness of her faith consisted in this, that in spite of all discouragements she continued her plea. Many a blessing has been lost out of our lives just because we lacked these graces of the soul.