A Memorial to the Common Christian

8 She Hath Done What She Could — Mark 14

In today's world this isn't very flattering; “She did the best she could.” Some might hear this as, “She didn’t have the ability to do more.” The phrase sounds simple—almost demeaning, even demoralizing. We all want to be the one who does the most, the best. Yet Jesus didn’t say she had done more. He said, “She did what she could.” These words come from One who judges the heart, not merely the action.

This woman—this ordinary human being—came before the Master of the universe and anointed His head with expensive ointment. To the common sense of the room, her act was met with indignation. “We could have sold that ointment and given the money to the poor,” Judas reasoned. One can almost hear the thoughts swirling: “Who does this woman think she is? What a waste. How embarrassing.”

But Jesus looked at her with nothing but appreciation. His verdict silenced the room: “She hath done what she could.”

I have never considered myself remotely as talented as most preachers. I come from a simple rural background; my daughter was the first in our family to earn a college degree. My father had an eighth-grade education. My mother came from a slightly more affluent family—though “affluent” simply meant her father received a veterans’ pension. I have often felt like one of the also-rans.

All my life I have wrestled with a sense of diminished self-worth. I was never an exceptionally bright youth—just average. By society’s measurements, I have not stacked up particularly well. Perhaps you know exactly what I'm talking about.

There is little doubt in my mind that I would not have been chosen to begin a work in Ephesus. I would not have been assigned to ordain elders in Crete. I am quite certain I would not have been selected to teach the Ethiopian eunuch. I might even have been sent home with John Mark. I would have been among the nameless multitude.

And that is precisely the point.

Consider the countless Christians who have lived before you. Most were nameless, ordinary, uneducated, and poor. You and I stand in their company—a vast multitude known fully only to God.

When I find myself drifting into self-pity—counting my failures, remembering mediocre sermons and poor decisions—I return to this woman who anointed the head of Jesus. I return to the Master’s words: “She hath done what she could.”

Whether we like it or not, people are like fish—they swim in schools. Even within the church, relationships form naturally into groups. Someone once told me you never notice a clique until you realize you are not part of it. That observation rings true. We gravitate toward those who think like we do. It is simply human nature.

Can you see this dynamic in the account of the woman who anointed Jesus? She did not fit in. She acted in a way no one in the room appreciated—no one except Jesus. She entered quietly, carrying her small alabaster box. All eyes followed her. She stood before Him. Looking into His eyes, knowing that soon He would look upon this world through blood shed for us, she broke the box and poured the ointment upon His head.

While the prevailing opinion condemned her, Jesus commended her. “She hath done what she could.” And He went further: “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 for a memorial of her.”

It seems to me that in that moment Jesus erected a memorial—not only for her, but for all who are ordinary, overlooked, and seemingly mediocre—those who simply do what they can. The cup of cold water given in His name. The two mites cast into the treasury. The quiet act of love offered while there is still time.

He applauds such as these.

May we be bold—almost reckless—in our devotion. When common sense urges restraint, may we follow this saint’s example and give with abandon to Him. May we strive to be timely in our love, remembering that flowers are far more meaningful when placed in living hands.

The proud world, the cliquish circles of religion, and the halls of academia may never engrave our names in marble. We may find our placard hanging instead in the corridor of the unnamed. Find joy that our names are written in the Lamb's Book of Life!

I pray you and I may hear Him say, “He hath done what he could.”

That will be reward enough.

— Mark Parkhurst