Mark 12:38-44
As most of you know, the lectionary is a three-year cycle of readings used in many churches. So this passage, often referred to as the story of “the widow’s mite” comes up every three years, always during November, which means that, for many churches, it’s smack dab in the middle of stewardship month.
But this is a dangerous passage to preach on during Stewardship season. On the surface, it seems like a slam-dunk. Here is this poor woman who trusts God to take care of her so she gives generously, gives everything she has to God. That sermon practically writes itself. Well, if you don’t pay attention to the context, it does.
The first problem is that God doesn’t call us to be destitute. Giving the last of our grocery money to the church is not what God requires. And it would be irresponsible for me to suggest it. Plus, if you notice, Jesus never praises the woman or says “Follow her example.” He merely points out that the woman gives a far greater percentage than the rich give.
Many scholars believe that Jesus is not really praising the woman at all. In verse 40 Jesus condemns the scribes because “they devour widows’ houses.” So Jesus could be pointing to this now-penniless widow as an indictment on the church. They haven’t been doing their job to care for her, as they’re supposed to do. And perhaps she feels so honor-bound to give money that she gives to her own detriment. This is not what God requires. That is one reason this is a dangerous text during stewardship season: It can be read as an indictment on the church for collecting money from people who can ill afford to give it.
The second reason this is a dangerous text is because it talks about the “show” people put on in giving their money . . . just two weeks after we all walked forward with our pledges for the coming year. I’m glad we use pledge cards; at least we’re not bringing cash. This coming forward with our pledge cards is a tradition that I have used before, but it’s not one I’m completely comfortable with. On the one hand, bringing our gifts to the altar is a rich tradition, and I like the feeling of walking forward to bring my pledge, and I like the visual of seeing the long line of people waiting to give. On the other hand, I don’t want anyone who cannot afford to give to feel conspicuous sitting in their pew while others go forward with their pledges. On the other hand (yes, I have three this morning), if someone can afford to give and chooses not to, should we worry about their discomfort? It’s a sticky situation. Ministers are called to be both pastor and prophet, which means we comfort you but we also nudge you. (And if we’re really following the example of the Old Testament prophets, some of those nudges may be none too gentle!)
So this text is dangerous. It can be used to guilt you into giving more. (Look at the poor widow who gave all.) It can be an indictment on the church for guilting you into giving more. (They devour widows’ houses.) And it can point a finger at our traditions if they become all about the show.
But there is another danger—a danger not evident without the background information—a danger only a pastor and a budget committee chair might consider. You see, some scholars say that the temple treasury had thirteen receptacles for offerings: thirteen different metal containers for people to drop their coins into. Each of the thirteen containers had a sign above it, so that you could put your money wherever you wanted: building maintenance, rabbis’ salary, widows and orphans, etc. And this is why this text is really dangerous to preach in the church: what if you were allowed to do that? What if, each week, you could give your money to whatever line item in the church budget that you wanted? I’m guessing your thought processes might sound like:
Oh, I didn’t think the sermon was very good this week, so I don’t want my money to go for the pastor’s salary.
Or, I keep telling them to turn the lights off and the heat down, but somebody left them on again so I’m not paying the utilities.
Or, My Mama donated that piano so all my money is going to the music ministry!
If this were allowed, our church budget would fall apart in three months—maybe less. We give money to what we’re passionate about, and who is passionate about paying the utilities? It makes me wonder what this poor woman gave her last money to—to the rabbis’ salary, or to the fund for other widows and orphans.
But that’s not how things work in the church. That’s not how things work in community. We don’t get to claim financial credit for giving our money to Outreach or Music or whatever our particular interest might be. In community, we get it all. Sure, each of us gets a say in how the church spends its money—by voting on the budget, by serving on committees that plan the budget, and by electing leaders we think will represent us well. But we don’t get to limit our support only to what we want. It’s similar to the family budget. If both partners have income, usually the money goes into the same pot. Even if we keep it separate and say “I pay the mortgage and you pay the utilities,” that’s typically a matter of convenience, not priority. We don’t get to choose what we’ll support and what we won’t when we’re sharing the same money. That’s part of what it means to live in community: you get it all.
It’s not just that way with our money, either. It’s the same way with the community members. We don’t get to choose who is in community with us. We don’t get to pick to relate only to people who think like us, or only to people we like. When we’re in community, we get ‘em all … the weird ones and the annoying ones and the ones who believe dumb things (because to somebody else, we might be the weird one or annoying one or the one who believes dumb things!)
I know a woman who, after college, felt called by God to live in a Christian community—what’s called “an intentional community.” The idea is that we can live out our calling to be Christian
only when we are in relationship with one another. And so people who choose to live in intentional communities are choosing the hard work of relationship—working and living together, 24/7, when the only things they have in common might be their sense of call to God’s work and proximity. Susanne chose to be an intern in the Sojourners community in Washington DC, an organization that at that time worked with some of the poorest of the poor in our nation’s capital, working with them, serving them, living with them in poverty and danger.
It was a difficult calling, but Susanne felt called. She was so excited to become part of this organization, and so excited to be living in community. And then she got there. Their first night the director of the internship program read them a quote about community. To the best of Susanne’s memory, it went something like this: “You can be assured that you’re in community when the person you least want to be stuck with is there with you. You’re at some kind of ‘happy dinner pot luck group of friends’ if it feels good and you look around and you’re glad everyone’s there. But if the person who most gets under your craw or is least attractive to your life is now part of your community, you have arrived at community.” Susanne said, “The director read this with such conviction, as if she was speaking about her own people—and then she admitted that she was!—and I thought, ‘Oh God, what I have done? What am I getting into? If it looks like hell, you’re here? If you don’t want to be together, you’ve arrived?’”
That’s what it means to live in community. And, in many ways, that’s what it means to be church. You get it all. You get the ‘happy dinner pot luck group of friends,’ and you get the ‘If it looks like hell, you’re here.’ Now, you did not hear me say that church is hell! You will never hear me say that because the church can be heaven. But community is not a la carte.
We like a la carte. We like to pick-and-choose. We like buffets and smorgasbords and potluck dinners where we serve ourselves only what we want. But church is served family-style and everybody gets vegetables whether they want them or not. Still, we try to approach church like a cafeteria line: I’ll take Sunday school for my kids and I’ll take the Mission Trip Auction and the Eskimos Fudge Sale. But don’t ask me about the Soup Kitchen or Bible Study. There’s no room on my plate for that. We try to approach church like consumers—what’s in it for me?
Now, I want to be clear about two things so that you don’t walk away with a misunderstanding. First, I’m not saying the church shouldn’t meet your needs. Of course we should be providing programming and spiritual growth for all ages, and of course it’s important that the church meet your needs at this stage in your life. I’m just saying that church isn’t all about what we want.
Second, when I say you get it all, I’m not saying you have to do it all. Nobody can be involved in everything we do here. We have to pick and choose. But look at what parts you’re choosing. Do you always choose the serious and never the fun? Then you need to get serious about having fun! Do you always choose the fun and never the serious? Then you might just need to get serious! When we step outside our comfort zones and participate in something different, that’s when we often grow the most. It’s when we find ourselves in community with those who most drive us crazy that we are confronted with our true selves.
In the church—as in life—we get it all.
We’ve certainly seen it all, the best and the worst, in the past couple of days. With the terrorist attacks in Paris, and before that, in Beirut and Baghdad, we have seen the violence and the hatred. We felt the shock and the fear and the pain. But we also have seen Parisians opening their homes to strangers, and people lining up for hours to give blood. We have been reminded that compassion is more pervasive than hatred; that the human spirit is resilient; that God is in Paris and in Baghdad and in Beirut. And God is just as present in Biddeford and in Paris, Maine, in all the violent places in our lives.
Life is not a la carte. Church is not a la carte. And neither is God. That’s not the way it works. With God, you get it all—all the time. And there’s the beauty. You get it all—all the forgiveness, all the mercy, all the grace, all the love. You don’t have to pick and choose. You don’t have to see what you have room for on your plate. (Ooh, I need forgiveness and some mercy, but I don’t have room for more love.) You get it all. And when you get it all, you want to give it all … whether it’s your last two coins or your first ten percent; whether it’s your limited vocal talent or your unlimited praise; whether it’s your imperfect love or your perfect need for it; you get it all.
Now that is the bargain of the century. You get it all. You give it all. Not a la carte, but in community. And then everybody’s needs are filled.