Mark 12:38-44
Presented November 8, 2009, by J.D. Kline
The Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost
We all have encountered them at one time or another—haven’t we?—those rather rare people who have a way of giving and serving without drawing attention to themselves. Sometimes you have to be “all eyes” even to notice them, for they seldom seek the limelight. In the aftermath of Janice’s accident and sudden death some years ago, one of the kindest and, in my estimation, most appropriate descriptions of her was shared by Jeanne Davies near the beginning of the memorial service. Some people, said Jeanne, come upon the scene proclaiming, “Here I am!” while others, like Janice, instead enter a room saying, “Oh, there you are.” It’s easy to take for granted persons who focus on others, persons who extend themselves with little thought of reward, until they are no longer with us.
This morning’s Gospel lesson tells the familiar story of the poor widow who gives her all, freely placing two thin copper coins—equal to a penny, we are told—in the Temple collection. It’s frequently considered the quintessential story for the stewardship season. Episcopal preacher Barbara Brown Taylor suggests that going through the stewardship season without the story of the widow’s mite “would be like Thanksgiving without turkey, Christmas without presents, Easter without eggs.” So even though our fall stewardship emphasis is technically at an end, when the text was listed in the lectionary as this Sunday’s Gospel lesson, I found myself drawn to it. And yet I want to focus on the text today, not primarily as a stewardship lesson, but more broadly, as a story that speaks of the challenging nature of discipleship. The story stands as the final scene Mark describes as occurring in the Temple courtyard, just prior to the events leading up to Jesus’ arrest and trial. It is a story that prepares us for those troubling events leading to Jesus’ death. Indeed, the widow’s selfless act of giving sets the stage for a messiah who willingly empties himself; it points us forward to the One who pours out his life for others, even as competing religious leaders want to dismiss Jesus as little more than an irritating presence—yet a presence, we soon discover, they are eager to eliminate at any cost.
Truth is, this story of the widow and her two coins is far more than a simple lesson about the morality of one’s personal giving; the story offers no quick formula for our giving that would render unnecessary our need for prayer and discernment in selecting our giving patterns. What the story does offer is the prompting to consider a new way of living in the world, a new way of being and acting. The story stands as a vivid illustration of the scathing judgment Jesus has just issued against a “religion” that displays no heart. Jesus condemns the religious leaders of his day, appalled that they were far more interested in the pursuit of their own comfort and status and recognition than they were in being voices for justice, compassion, and peace. Listen to the derisive words of Jesus against the scribes, as paraphrased by Eugene Peterson in The Message:
Watch out for the religious scholars. They love to walk around in academic gowns, preening in the radiance of public flattery, basking in prominent positions, sitting at the head table of every church function. And all the time they are exploiting the weak and the helpless. The longer their prayers, the worse they get. But they’ll pay for it in the end. (Mark 12:38-40).
The poor widow stands among the ignored and overlooked victims, the weak and helpless targets of that day’s religious leaders who care little for anyone’s plight but their own. The NRSV asserts that the religious leaders “devour widows’ houses” (v. 40); in other words, they encourage the destitute to give far more than they themselves are willing to give, and when the plight of the poor reaches tragic proportions, the scribes are nowhere to be seen.
In ancient Israel, widows and orphans occupied the most vulnerable of positions, which is why the prophets of old were so insistent in urging the people to keep an extra eye out for them. “Cease to do evil, learn to do good,” proclaims Isaiah. “Seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow” (1: 17). The prophet Ezekiel, lambasting the people’s unfaithfulness, cries out that “the orphan and the widow are wronged among you” (22:7). “Thus says the Lord of hosts,” asserts Zechariah. “Render true judgments, show kindness and mercy to one another; do not oppress the widow, the orphan, the alien, or the poor” (7:9-10). And in the days leading up to the exile, Jeremiah stridently calls the people to repentance. “If you truly act justly with one another, if you do not oppress the alien, the orphan, and the widow, or shed innocent blood…then I will dwell with you in this place” (7:5-7).
Though they claimed to be guardians of the law, the religious leaders of Jesus’ day paid little heed to these admonitions regarding justice for the poor. Indeed, one could argue that the very people most charged with upholding Mosaic Law—law urging defense and protection of this widow—instead are the ones most responsible for her difficult plight. Nevertheless, the widow gives freely, down to her last dime, apparently grateful for what little she has. It is this act of self-giving that Jesus commends when drawing the disciples’ attention to her. “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on” (Mark 12:43-44). Barbara Brown Taylor suggests that Jesus invites the disciples “to sit down beside him and contemplate the disparity between abundance and poverty, between large sums and two copper coins, between apparent sacrifice and the real thing.” Jesus is not dismissing the gifts of the rich; “he simply points out that the major characters are minor givers, while the minor character—the poor widow—turns out to be the major donor of them all.” The widow embodies much that Jesus had long attempting to instill in the disciples: “many who are first will be last, and the last will be first” (Mark 10:31); “those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it” (8:35); “whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all” (10:43-44).
Through the centuries, some have been tempted to use this story as a means of browbeating others into extending financial support. But the primary intent of the story, it would seem, is not to heighten levels of guilt about our giving patterns, but rather to prod us to self-examination. Jesus would have us consider just how committed we are to the ways of justice and compassion in God’s upside-down realm of life, just how centered we are on the ways of generosity and service in God’s surprising kingdom, just how focused we are on the ways of self-giving love and discipleship that stand in such vivid contrast to the world’s ways of oppression and domination. When Jesus calls attention to the widow, he is asserting that there is something in her example we ought not miss.
Mary Oliver has a poem entitled “Mysteries, Yes” in her latest collection of poems, labeled Evidence. Hear her words:
Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood.
How grass can be nourishing in the mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds will never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think
they have the answers.Let me keep company always with those who say “Look!” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads.
Can you not picture the widow as one who embraces the mysteries of life too deep to be understood, one who says “Look” and delights in God’s gracious and astonishing gifts, bowing her head in gratitude to the Source of life’s profound goodness? On the other hand, is it not likely that the religious leaders, so oblivious to the widow’s plight, so preoccupied with their own welfare and status, nevertheless assured themselves that they had life in control, that they had all the answers? While pandering to the privileged, the religious leaders are blinded to the marvels of God’s creation and to the needs of the most vulnerable among their people. Not only do they not keep company with the poor and the broken; the religious leaders do not even see the “least of these.”
Jesus, on the other hand, sees what the religious leaders do not see. Seeking a few moments of rest, Jesus notices this widow who is otherwise overlooked by the bustling Temple crowd. Indeed, one of the most remarkable qualities of Jesus is his ability to see what others do not see. Unlike the Temple leaders, Jesus takes note of those who have been so readily pushed to the edge of human awareness—the poor, the broken, the neglected, the hurting. Jesus pays attention, and is this art of listening and watching, observing and discerning, not a critical cornerstone of the spiritual life? In her book The Practice of Prayer Margaret Guenther suggests that “to listen for God is a countercultural enterprise, for much of our lives works against the patient labor of attentiveness.” Jesus remained attentive, seeing and hearing what many would easily overlook. Along the way, Jesus was indeed countercultural, keeping company with those who, like the poor widow, do not assume that life will always go their way, but who nevertheless receive life as promise and as gift.
Mary Oliver has another poem, this one quite brief, entitled “We Shake with Joy:”
We shake with joy, we shake with grief.
What a time they have, these two
housed as they are in the same body.
The poem reminds us in simple yet beautiful language that life is a peculiar combination of joy and grief, struggle and hope, disappointment and promise, uncertainty and trust. The widow was one who recognized this curious mixture of life, yet through it all, embraced the healing power of gratitude over the destructive power of resentment. Though she was no doubt well acquainted with life’s difficulties and struggles, the widow, we might conjecture, maintained an ability to notice the wonders of life all around her—the beauty of creation, the gift of relationships, the promise of God’s love inherent even in the lowliest and most unexpected of persons.
In the Russian novel The Brothers Karamazov Dostoevsky writes of the moral and spiritual struggles centering upon doubt and faith. One of the characters, Father Zossima, speaks of his conviction that love frequently involves pain and risk. Says Father Zossima, “I am sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you, for love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams.”
The poor widow may well have had to let go of love in dreams, but she knew firsthand that love in action can be harsh and difficult and demanding. Truth be told, we often find ourselves most drawn to those who have made this discovery in life—those who have struggled mightily, while nevertheless embracing a conviction that life is well worth the living; life is well worth the risk of loving.
With whom do you keep company in life? Is it not most often those who can affirm, with the poet, “We shake with joy, we shake with grief. What a time they have, these two—housed as they are in the same body.” Housed as they are in the same life. Jesus invites us to keep company with those who grasp this truth, and who embrace a life of discipleship. May we open our eyes and our ears, our hearts and our spirits, to Christ’s holy invitation to live lives of generosity, service, compassion, and peace. Amen.