This sermon was given by our Kellogg Fellow, Emily Garcia, on 11 November 2012. The readings were 1 Kings 17:8-16, Psalm 146, Hebrews 9:24-28, and Mark 12:38-44. You can read them all here!
I imagine almost everyone here is
familiar with this story from Mark, about the widow’s mite—m-i-t-e, a small
copper coin. Growing up, I was told—and maybe you were too—that this is a story
about the attitude with which one
gives. Jesus denounces the scribes, the religious establishment. They’re giving
offerings at the temple treasury, which would be given to people in
need—widows, orphans, the sick, the hungry. Jesus says the scribes’ motivations
are self-serving; they give only in order to receive praise and attention. But
this widow gives with no expectation of either, and, I was taught, with a
generous and happy heart. The religious leaders give only a small percentage of
their great abundance, and this poor woman gives everything she has. In my
little illustrated Bible I remember a picture of small woman draped in veils and
bent over, smiling to herself as she (thinking she was unnoticed) dropped a
penny in a box.
But you know, when I read it last
week, I was struck by what wasn’t in
the story. We don’t know this woman’s name. We don’t know how old she was—she
could’ve been my age, or younger, or older. We just know that she had lost her
husband, and that she was poor. And—contrary to what I was taught as a child—we
actually don’t know about her motivations. We don’t know
about her demeanor. Jesus doesn’t say that she gives happily, joyfully.
We don’t know if she walked up to the offertory box with a spring in her step
and a pious smile on her face—
Or if, maybe—Maybe she dragged her feet. Maybe she
frowned, or was sad as she gave her two coins. Maybe the claws of anxiety were
digging into her—she was thinking about what she would eat, she was thinking
how she would take care of her children or grandchildren. Maybe, as she dropped
the coins in, she immediately regretted her action, and wished she could’ve
taken back her money.
Did she give because she felt moved, by the love of God
and the love of the law? Or did she give because it was a routine—something
done by force of habit, grumbling as she went?
We don’t know. But
we do know, that her manner perhaps
didn’t matter to Jesus. What matters is that “out of her poverty” she gives
“everything she has.” It was not necessarily a gracious gift, but apparently it was the greatest gift.
The widow of Zeraphath is an even more striking example
of apparently imperfect giving. Elijah is sent by God to live with a widow, but
somehow God failed to mention this to the widow, and she is not exactly happy
to have suddenly an impertinent stranger asking things of her. At the gate of
the town, she’s willing to give this foreigner a drink of water, but when he adds,
“Oh by the way, get me some bread while you’re at it,” she puts down her foot.
“I’m gathering some firewood, so that I can go home, use the last of our oil
and grain, and cook one last meal for my son and I, so that we may eat it, and
die.” She says, You want ME to give YOU the last of everything. I imagine she
is incredulous at this man’s demands—doesn’t he know there’s been a drought? I
imagine she is upset, to turn away a stranger. I imagine she is exhausted from
worry and work, she is already mourning her son in advance, she is wishing this
man would leave her alone.
Elijah then uses the prophetic formula—one word in
Hebrew, rendered in English as “Do not be afraid”, which was used by prophets
and angels alike to say, “Hold on! I have good news for you!” The widow
then does what Elijah asks, but it doesn’t say that her heart was completely
changed. We don’t hear that she trusted him, that she embraced this “Lord your God.” Perhaps she gave him the last
of their food out of exasperation, exhaustion, hopelessness. It was absurd for
a stranger to ask for the last of their food, and she gave in to the absurdity.
And the result is that she herself is given a gift beyond
anything she could have expected. She and her son and this strange prophet are
kept alive by an unexpected act of God.
Reading these women’s stories in the
last week has been incredibly humbling for me.
What I saw first was that they gave when they had
apparently nothing to give. I am not an extremely wealthy person, but I am
certainly a person of privilege and I live very comfortably. I have the money
and time to go out to eat once in a while. I buy clothes, even though I already
have plenty of clothes! I have multiple
warm coats for this cold winter, and if I still don’t have snowboots it’s just
because I’d rather spend that money on buying mystery novels and pastries.
And! With all of this, all of this extra, this fun, I have not yet been able to meet my ideal goal of tithing,
giving ten percent of my income to those who need it and to the Church. I could cut down on my expenses, and I hope
I will get there someday, but I’m not there yet.
How is this, that I can’t even cut
down on my fancy coffee and clothes, and these women gave when it meant little
or no food at all.
That’s the other thing about these widows, especially
Elijah’s widow. It’s not just that she gave in
extremis—meaning, “at the farthest reaches” or “at the point of death”--but
this wasn’t an easy thing for her to
do! She’s not some ideal holy figure, a rich man who didn’t really want
his wealth, who didn’t really like eating a lot anyway, who was not just ready
but eager to give everything away, like Kafka’s Hunger Artist, or Saint
Francis, or the Buddha. She wants to have food. She wants to feed her son. She doesn’t
want to share. And still, she gives. She gives when it is not easy.
And that’s certainly something that I’m not good at. I give a little, yes, but I
seem to be waiting for a moment of overwhelming generosity to sweep over me. I
keep waiting to be gleeful and serene in order to sign away large portions of
my paycheck. For some reason, this moment has yet to come. And, unlike the widow of Zarephath or the
widow in the temple, I’m having a hard time giving mightily, as they gave—giving much, even when I don’t necessarily
feel like it.
Now, I’ve been talking about money
this whole time because that’s something I’ve
been struggling with. But you know there are many things we can give and
many ways of giving. It seems that for many of you students, time is a more urgent resource than
money. And for all of us, our attention and emotional energy, physical energy
are also closely guarded resources, which we try to spend wisely and as we want
to.
So, my experience of reading these
stories has been one of being humbled. I have been brought up short by how far
I am from living precisely as God wants me to live. But reading these stories
has also been encouraging.
Because what these stories say to me, is that (as Luther
has said) we shouldn’t let the perfect get in the way of the good.
The widow of Zarephath resisted the opportunity to give.
She relented, but did not necessarily do so with a glad heart. But because she
gave food to Elijah and welcomed him, God fed her, and her son, and Elijah. And
they didn’t just eat, they weren’t simply nourished, but they witnessed a
miracle.
And the widow in the temple, no matter
her manner or feelings or reasons, was held up by Christ himself as an example
of a generous giver. And Christ, if anyone, knows what it is to give.
What I learn from these stories is
that God is able to work through our crooked hearts, and our crooked responses
to his invitation to give.
Most of us—especially those of us who grew up in the
church—have a false ideal of giving with a completely pure heart, and these
stories say to me—Give even when your heart is not pure, and God will be
pleased. Grumbling is not an excuse for not giving; God can work with what you
give. Don’t let your idea of the perfect get in the way of the good.
I’ve
had an example of this in the past two days, at the interviews for the
discernment process in the diocese. There were about twenty of us who are
hoping and wishing and wondering if we might become priests or deacons. On the
first morning, Bishop Tom thanked us for offering
ourselves to this process and to the Church.
I thought to myself, What a messy, messy offering we are.
We are certainly not the first fruits of this harvest—We are a big group of
insecurities, anxieties, minor complaints and major flaws. They kept saying this, ‘Thank you for
offering yourselves for this process’, and I just kept thinking—I would never
want a gift like me or like us!
And then! At some point, it hit me, and I rolled my eyes
at myself and said—Oh man! This is exactly what you’ve been learning from
those stories! Promising our shared service, offering ourselves in whatever way
we’re needed—this is a gift, even if
it is far from a perfect one. –And—this is the big piece that I’m still taking on faith—it is an
offering which is pleasing to God.
We are about to present ourselves here
for Communion. “Lift up your hearts!” And we will offer our imperfect hearts
and our distracted minds to God.
And then, we will bless the bread and wine, God’s gift to
us. And we will ask to be blessed ourselves, in order to be given to each other
and to the world. “Unite us to your Son in his sacrifice.” As we offer our money
for those in need, and then as we offer ourselves in prayer, I would invite us
all to consider two things in our own lives: First, Where are we already
offering our gifts to those who need it? Where are we already giving money to
those who need it? Where are we already giving our time and attention to those
who need it? Where are we already giving like these widows?
And second: Where can we give more? Could I cut just one
day’s worth of cafés and give that money to the Food Bank? Could I cut my
inward absorption just a little, and spend some of my attention and energy on
the people I meet, the bus drivers, the card-checkers, the grocery clerks?
Could I take five hours of my month to spend just part of one day volunteering somewhere? Even if I do not smile
when I give—even if I feel anxious or irritated or resentful or confused—where
can I give more?
Amen.
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