“And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.”
It seems I always find myself at the feet of my Savior.
It’s not a comfortable place to be. Certainly not socially appropriate behavior for a woman. But it just seems to turn out that way every time I’m in His presence.
As a disciple
The first time it happened was when He came to our house. What an honor to host Jesus. Oh, how excited I was! I had heard of the things that Jesus had said and done. They were marvelous! Breathtaking. Captivating. Dare I say, liberating! Jesus and my brother had become close friends. My big sister Martha had invited Him for a meal.
I felt like a school girl, such was my excitement to have Him in such close proximity.
And so it was that when He entered our house and began to speak, I was mesmerized. Without even thinking, I sat down to listen.
At His feet.
I instinctively and involuntarily assumed the position of a follower of the Rabbi.
Was I the first girl to follow Jesus? To sit at His feet? I am asked that question often. To be honest, I don’t know. But I do know how sweet it was to be allowed to sit. And listen. And learn. At His feet.
As an intercessor
I somehow grew to believe that being a disciple of the Lord Jesus would insulate me from trouble. From pain, hardship and loss.
That bubble would burst one fateful day.
You see, Lazarus my brother and a friend of Jesus had taken ill. We had sent urgent word to reach Jesus to come quickly to heal him. We knew He was in the region. Yet, He didn’t come. And Lazarus worsened. Then, he died. Where was my Jesus? Why was He late? So late.
When He finally reached our home, it was four days too late. I was inconsolable. Hearing that He was asking for me, I ran. And ran as fast as I could to meet Him. I had not rehearsed my speech. My emotions raced between anger, joy and sorrow.
Upon seeing Him, I fell. At His feet. And I pleaded. I complained. “Where were you? You could have helped! You could have saved him!”
What was I thinking? It was so disrespectful, yet it seemed perfectly appropriate. Then I started weeping. Uncontrollably. At His feet. As I looked up, through my tears, I saw an unforgettable sight. Jesus was weeping too.
My Savior, oh my Jesus, how He loves us. How He cares about us! And you know what happened next.
As a worshipper
Shortly after Lazarus was raised from the dead, we held a celebration to honor Jesus. This was Martha’s idea, and it is how she communicates her affection. Serving is her love language.
I was so overjoyed to host Jesus again. Yet, something told me this would be our last time. Things were heating up, and Jesus now had His share of detractors. Mixed with awe and gratitude was a sense of foreboding.
Was His time near?
I wanted to bring an expression of devotion. Something that truly communicate my extravagant love for Him. My total surrender to Him as a disciple and a worshipper. And it hit me. The most valued possession I owned I was an expensive jar of perfume. I had been saving it for my husband. For my marriage bed.
Without thinking, or maybe I was, I broke the alabaster jar open and poured it out.
At His feet.
The sweet aroma filled the house. Yes, my complete love and worship of my Messiah had now taken center stage. It was all I could do to say to Him that I would be emptied of myself. All the days of my life. Not holding anything back from my Jesus.
And so it was. I lived my life at the feet of Jesus. I have no regrets.
Neither will you.