Homily 80 — Matthew 26, verses 6 to 16

“Now when Jesus was in Bethany, in the house of Simon the leper, a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very precious ointment, and poured it on his head as he sat at the table.” [a]

This woman seems to be one and the same in all the evangelists, yet she is not. In the three she does seem to me to be one and the same woman, but not in John. There she is another person, one greatly to be admired: the sister of Lazarus.

It was not for nothing that the evangelist mentioned Simon’s leprosy. He did it to show where the woman found the confidence to come to Jesus. Leprosy was thought the most unclean of diseases, a thing people shrank from. Yet she saw that Jesus had healed the man — otherwise he would not have chosen to stay with a leper — and that he had gone into his house. So she grew confident that he would just as easily wipe away the uncleanness of her soul. Nor is it for nothing that he names the town as well, Bethany. It is so that you may learn that he goes to his suffering of his own will. Before this he kept slipping away through the middle of them; now, at the very moment when their envy burned hottest, he comes within about two miles of them. So entirely was his earlier withdrawing a part of God’s arrangement.

So the woman, having seen him and taken confidence from this, came to him. Think of the woman who had the flow of blood. She was conscious of nothing like this, yet because of that natural uncleanness — or what seemed to be uncleanness — she came to him trembling and afraid. How much more likely was it that this woman would hang back and shrink away because of her guilty conscience! That is why she comes to him only after many women — the Samaritan woman, the Canaanite woman, the woman with the flow of blood, and others besides — since she was conscious of great impurity in herself. And even then she comes not in public but in a house. All the others came to him for the healing of the body alone; she came only to honor him, and to have her soul set right. She was not suffering in her body at all, and this above everything is why one might marvel at her. And she did not come to him as to a mere man; if she had, she would not have wiped his feet with her hair. She came to him as to one greater than any man can be. That is why the most honorable member of the whole body, her own head, she laid at Christ’s feet.

“But when his disciples saw it, they were indignant,” the text says, “saying, ‘Why this waste? This ointment could have been sold for a great deal and given to the poor.’ But when Jesus understood it, he said, ‘Why do you trouble the woman? She has done a good work for me. For you always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me. For in pouring this ointment on my body, she did it for my burial. Truly I tell you, wherever this good news is preached in the whole world, what this woman has done will also be told in memory of her.’”

Where did they get this idea? They used to hear their Teacher saying, “I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.” They heard him blame the Jews for neglecting the weightier matters — justice, mercy, and faith. They heard him say a great deal on the mountain about giving to the poor. From all this they drew their own conclusion and reasoned: if he does not accept whole burnt offerings or the ancient worship, much less will he accept an anointing with oil.

But though they thought this, he let her do it, because he knew her intention. Her reverence was great indeed, and her zeal beyond words. That is why, stooping down very low to meet her, he allowed the oil to be poured even on his head. If he did not refuse to become man, to be carried in the womb and nursed at the breast, why are you surprised that he does not reject this outright? Just as the Father allowed the aroma of burnt flesh, and smoke, so he allowed the prostitute, accepting, as I have already said, her intention. For Jacob too anointed a pillar to God; oil was offered in the sacrifices; and the priests were anointed with ointment.

But the disciples, not knowing her purpose, found fault at the wrong moment, and by the very charges they laid against her they show how generous the woman was. By saying that it could have been sold for three hundred denarii, they showed how much she had spent on the ointment and how great a generosity she had displayed. That is why he rebuked them, saying, “Why do you trouble the woman?” And he adds a reason, since he wanted once again to remind them of his suffering: “For she did it,” he said, “for my burial.” And another reason: “For you always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” And again: “Wherever the good news is preached, what this woman has done will also be told.”

Do you see how once again he foretells the going out to the Gentiles? In this way too he was comforting them about his death: after the cross his power would shine out so brightly that the good news would spread into every part of the earth. Who, then, is so wretched as to set his face against so much truth? Look: what he said has come to pass. Go to whatever part of the earth you like, and you will see her celebrated. And yet the person who did it was not distinguished, and what was done did not have many witnesses. It did not happen in a theater but in a house — and that the house of some leper — with only the disciples present.

Who, then, proclaimed it and caused it to be spread abroad? It was the power of the one who spoke these words. Think of countless kings and generals. Even of those whose monuments still stand, the noble deeds have sunk into silence. They overthrew cities, surrounded others with walls, set up trophies, and enslaved many nations; they set up statues and established laws; and yet they are not known even by hearsay, not even by name. But that a woman who was a prostitute poured out oil in the house of some leper, in the presence of ten men — this everyone celebrates throughout the world. So much time has passed, and yet the memory of what was done has not faded. Persians and Indians, Scythians and Thracians, Sarmatians, the race of the Moors, and those who live in the British Isles all alike spread abroad what was done in secret, in a house, by a woman who had been a prostitute. [h]

Great is the Lord’s love for humankind! He puts up with a prostitute — a prostitute kissing his feet, wetting them with oil, and wiping them with her hair — and he welcomes her, and rebukes those who blame her. For it was not right that, after so much zeal, the woman should be driven to despair. But notice this too: how far the disciples had by now been raised above the world, and how eager they were to give to the poor.

And why did he not simply say, “She has done a good work,” but first, “Why do you trouble the woman?” So that they would learn not to demand too high a standard from weaker people at the start. That is why he does not examine the act by itself alone, but takes into account the woman who did it. Indeed, if he had been making a law, he would not have brought the woman into it. He says it so that you may learn that these things were said for her sake: that they might not crush her budding faith, but rather cherish it. In this he teaches us to welcome any good thing that anyone does, even if it is not quite perfect — to encourage it and move it forward, and not to demand full perfection at the beginning.

That he himself, at least, would rather have wished for this is clear from the fact that he who had nowhere to lay his head required a bag to be carried. But the moment did not call for him to correct the deed, only to accept it. If anyone had asked him before the woman did it, he would not have approved it. But once she had done it, he looks to one thing only: that she should not be thrown into confusion by the disciples’ reproof, but should leave his care cheered and made better. For once the oil had been poured out, their rebuke came out of season.

So you too, if you see someone providing sacred vessels and offering them, or eager to work on some other adornment of the church, its walls or its floor, do not order what has been made to be sold or pulled down, or you will spoil his zeal. But if he tells you about it before he has provided them, tell him to give it to the poor. For the Lord too acted as he did so as not to crush the woman’s spirit, and everything he says here, he says to comfort her.

Then, because he had said, “She did it for my burial,” he did not want to seem to trouble the woman by mentioning such a thing — his burial and death, I mean. See how by what follows he lifts her up again, saying, “What she has done will be spoken of in the whole world.” This was both a consolation to his disciples and comfort and praise for her. For he says: “Everyone will celebrate her hereafter. And even now she has announced my suffering in advance, by bringing me what was needed for a funeral. So let no one reproach her. I am so far from condemning her for doing wrong, or blaming her for not acting rightly, that I will not let what she has done stay hidden. The world will know what was done in a house, in secret.” For in truth the deed came from a reverent mind, from burning faith, and from a crushed soul.

And why did he promise the woman nothing spiritual, but only an everlasting memory? By this he is giving her confidence about the rest as well. For if she has done a good work, it is perfectly clear that she will receive the reward it deserves.

“Then one of the twelve, the one called Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests and said to them, ‘What will you give me if I hand him over to you?’” Then — when? When these things had been said; when he had said, “It is for my burial.” Not even that pierced Judas’s heart with sorrow. Nor, when he heard that the good news would be preached everywhere, did he feel any fear — and yet those were words of power beyond telling. But when women showed Jesus so much honor, and women who had been prostitutes, then he did the devil’s work.

But why do they mention his surname? Because there was another Judas as well. And they do not shrink from saying that he was “one of the twelve,” so completely do they hide nothing that might seem a disgrace. They could simply have said that he was one of the disciples, since there were others besides the twelve. But as it is, they add “of the twelve,” as though to say: of the first company, those chosen as the best, those who were with Peter and John. For they cared about one thing only, the truth, not hiding what was done. That is why they pass over many of the miraculous signs, but conceal nothing of what seems a disgrace. Whether it is a word or a deed or anything else of the kind, they proclaim it boldly.

And not only these, but John himself as well, who sets out the loftier teachings. He, more than any of them, tells us of the insults and the shameful things that were done to him. [l]

And see how great the wickedness of Judas is: he goes to them of his own accord, he does it for money, and for such a sum of money! But Luke says that he conferred with the chief captains. For after the Jews became rebellious, the Romans set officers over them to keep them in good order. Their government had by now undergone a change, just as the prophecy said. To these, then, he went and said, “What will you give me if I hand him over to you? And they agreed with him on thirty pieces of silver. And from that time he looked for an opportunity to betray him.” For he was afraid of the crowd, and wanted to seize him when he was alone.

What madness! How completely greed blinded him! He had often seen Jesus pass through the middle of them without being seized. He had seen him give many proofs of his divinity and power. And yet he expected to lay hands on him — and this while Jesus was using so many words on him, both fearful and gentle, like a charm, to put an end to this evil thought. Not even at the supper did he give up this care for him; to the very last day he spoke to him about these things. But Judas gained nothing from it. Yet that did not make the Lord stop doing his part.

Knowing this, then, let us too never stop doing everything for those who sin and are careless — warning, teaching, urging, admonishing, advising — even if we accomplish nothing. Christ knew in advance that the traitor could not be reformed, yet he did not stop supplying all that he himself could: admonishing him, threatening him, grieving over him — and never plainly or openly, but in a hidden way. And at the very moment of the betrayal he even let him kiss him, but this did him no good. So great an evil is greed: this is what made him both a traitor and a robber of sacred things.

Listen, all you who are greedy, you who have the disease of Judas: listen, and beware of the disaster. He was with Christ, he worked miracles, he had the benefit of so much instruction; yet because he was not freed from the disease, he sank into such a pit. How much more will you — who do not even listen to the Scriptures, who are always nailed to the things of this present life — fall an easy prey to this disaster, unless you have the help of constant care! Every day that man was with him who had nowhere to lay his head. Every day he was taught, by deeds and by words, not to have gold or silver, or two coats. And yet he did not learn restraint. How, then, do you expect to escape the disease, if you do not have the benefit of earnest attention and do not use great diligence?

Terrible, terrible is this monster; and yet, if you are willing, you will easily get the better of it. For this desire is not natural, and that is plain from those who are free of it. What is natural is common to everyone; but this desire has its origin in carelessness alone. From there it is born, from there it grows, and when it has seized those who gape greedily after it, it makes them live against nature. For when they have no regard for their fellow citizens, their friends, their brothers — in a word, for anyone at all, and along with them not even for themselves — that is living against nature. From this it is clear that the vice and disease of greed, in which Judas was entangled and so became a traitor, is against nature.

You may say: “And how did he become such a man, when he had been called by Christ?” Because God’s call does not compel. It does not force the will of those who do not choose to pursue virtue. It warns, it advises, it does and arranges everything to persuade people to become good; but if some will not accept it, it does not force them. If you want to learn what made him what he became, you will find that it was greed that ruined him.

Someone may say: “And how was he caught by this disaster?” Because he grew careless. That is where such changes come from, just as changes for the better come from diligence. How many, for example, who were violent are now gentler than lambs? How many lustful people have afterward become self-controlled? How many who were once greedy have now thrown away even what belonged to them? And the opposite has come about through carelessness. Gehazi, too, lived with a holy man, and he too was corrupted by the same disease.

This disaster is the most grievous of all. From it come grave robbers, from it murderers, from it wars and fighting; whatever evil you may name comes from it. Such a man is useless in every way, whether he has to lead an army or govern a people — and not only in public affairs, but in private ones too. If he is to marry, he will not take the virtuous woman, but the worst of all. If he has to buy a house, it will not be one fit for a free man, but one that brings in a lot of rent. If he is to buy slaves, or anything else, he will take the worst.

And why do I speak of leading an army, governing a people, and managing households? If he were a king, he would be the most wretched of all men, a pest to the world, and the poorest of all. He will feel like one of the common crowd: he will not count everyone’s possessions as his own, but will count himself as just one among them all; and even while he is plundering everyone’s goods, he thinks he has less than anyone. For he measures what he has by his desire for what he does not yet have, and counts the one as nothing compared with the other. That is why someone says, “There is nothing more wicked than a greedy man.”

For such a man even puts himself up for sale. He goes about as the common enemy of the world. He is grieved that the earth does not bear gold instead of grain, and the springs gold instead of streams, and the mountains gold instead of stone. He is annoyed at good harvests and upset at blessings that everyone shares. He avoids everything that brings in no money, and puts up with anything at all to scrape together even two pennies. He hates everyone, poor and rich alike: the poor, in case they come and beg from him; the rich, because he does not have what they own. He thinks everyone is holding what belongs to him, and he is displeased with all of them, as though all of them had wronged him. He does not know what plenty is; he has never known what it is to have enough. He is more wretched than anyone — just as, on the other hand, the man who is free of these things and practices restraint is the most enviable of all. [r]

For the virtuous man, even if he is a slave, even if he is a prisoner, is the happiest of all men. No one will do him harm — no, not even if the whole world came together against him, setting weapons and armies in motion and making war on him. But the man who is corrupt and worthless, such as we have described, even if he is a king, even if he wears a thousand diadems, will suffer the very worst, even at the hands of any common man. So weak is vice; so strong is virtue.

Why, then, do you mourn because you are poor? Why do you wail when you are keeping a festival? For it really is an occasion for a feast. Why do you weep? Poverty is a festival, if you are wise. Why are you lamenting, little child? — for that is what we should call such a person. Did so-and-so strike you? What of it? He has made you better able to endure. Did he take away your money? He has lifted off the greater part of your burden. Did he strip you of your honor? Again, you are telling me of another kind of freedom. Listen even to those outside the church, who teach wisdom on these matters and say, “You have suffered no harm, if you pay it no regard.” Did he take away that great house of yours, with its walled grounds? Look: the whole earth lies before you, and the public buildings, whether you want them for pleasure or for use. And what is more delightful or more beautiful than the vault of the sky?

How long will you go on being poor and needy? No one can be rich who is not wealthy in his soul, just as no one can be poor who does not have poverty in his mind. For if the soul is nobler than the body, the less noble parts do not have the power to draw it after them; instead, the nobler part draws the lesser ones over to itself and changes them. It is like the heart. When the heart has taken some injury, it affects the whole body accordingly: if its balance is disordered, it ruins everything; if it is rightly balanced, it benefits everything. And if any of the other parts has become diseased while the heart stays sound, it easily throws off the evil in them too.

To make what I say still plainer: what use, I ask you, are green branches when the root is withering? And what harm is it if the leaves above have withered, while the root is sound? So it is here: money is no use while the soul is poor, and poverty does no harm when the soul is rich. Someone may say: “And how can a soul be rich when it is short of money?” That is the very time above all when it can be; for that is when it usually is rich.

As we have often shown, the sure mark of being rich is to despise wealth and to need nothing, and the mark of poverty is to be in need. And anyone would despise money more easily in poverty than in wealth. So it is perfectly clear that being poor, more than anything, makes a person rich. Surely everyone can see that the rich man sets his heart on money more than the poor man does — just as the drunkard is thirstier than the man who has had enough to drink. For this desire is not the kind that is quenched by getting more; on the contrary, it is its nature to be inflamed by it. Fire too blazes fiercest when it has been given the most fuel; and the tyranny of wealth grows strongest when you throw more gold into it.

If, then, desiring more is a mark of poverty, and the man who has riches is like this, he is the one who is most in poverty. Do you see that the soul is poorest when it is rich, and rich when it is in poverty?

If you like, let us test our reasoning on people too. Let there be two men, one with ten thousand talents, the other with ten, and let us take these away from both. Which of them will grieve more? The one who lost the ten thousand. But he would not have grieved more unless he had loved it more. And if he loves more, he desires more; and if he desires more, he is more in poverty. For what we desire most is what we most lack, since desire comes from lack. Where there is plenty, there can be no desire; we are thirstiest when we most need a drink.

I have said all this to show that if we are watchful, no one will harm us, and that the harm comes not from poverty but from ourselves. So I beg you, with all diligence, to put away the plague of greed, so that we may be wealthy here and enjoy the eternal good things. May God grant that we all attain them, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.