A Widow’s Mighty Mite
November 8, 2009, Thirty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time
Hebrews 9:24-28 1 Kings 17:10-16 Mark 12:38-44
To the churched and unchurched[1]
gathered in a church not built by human hands[2]
Alleluia, alleluia.
A reading from the holy Gospel according to Mark
Glory to you, Lord.
In the course of his teaching Jesus said to the crowds, "Beware of the scribes! They like to prance around in long robes and receive greetings in the marketplaces. They look for the front seats in the synagogue and the best places at dinner-parties! They grow fat on widows’ property, and then cover up their evil machinations with lengthy prayers in public. They will receive a very severe condemnation."
Jesus sat down opposite the temple treasury and observed the crowd dropping their donations into the collection-boxes. Many people, obviously well-off, put in large sums. A poor widow also came and dropped in two small coins worth but a few cents. Calling over to his disciples, Jesus said, "Come here and feast your eyes on this poor widow! I tell you she put more into the collection box than all the others put together. For they gave a little of their extra fat, but she gave all she had to live on."
The Gospel of the Lord.
Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.
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Introduction
The temple’s collection boxes
Introduction
The temple’s collection boxes
The inner area of the temple in Jerusalem contained three courts. One was the Court of the Women, and it contained the temple treasury where people donated their money. Against the wall in the treasury were thirteen horn-shaped collection-boxes (called shofaroth --horns) made of metal. Into them worshipers could conveniently drop their offerings as they came and went. The boxes were carefully marked: nine were for the required temple tax, and the other four were for strictly voluntary gifts.
A gem of a story
The story of the widow’s tiny offering is not a parable; it is an account of an event in the life of Jesus. One day He seated Himself near the temple treasury where He had a good view of people coming and going. He saw some drop sizeable donations into the metal boxes. He could, in fact, “hear the size” of their donations, as they landed audibly into the boxes. But what really caught His eye was the sight of a poor widow who dropped in two small coins. Mites, they were, which made no sound at all, as they landed into the metal box. Jesus immediately called over to his disciples; they had their eyes focused on the wealthy tossing in big donations, and missed the widow’s mighty mite."Come here,” He said to them, “and feast your eyes on this poor widow. I tell you, she put more into the collection-box than all the others put together. For they gave a little of their extra fat, but she gave all she had to live on." (Mk 12: 41-44)
That story has gone down in history as the “Widow’s Mighty Mite.” Down through the ages, that story has sung the praises of the widow’s little donation given from a big heart. (Big donations need no touting; it’s the little ones that do.) The story is a little gem and a kind of mite in itself: with only four short biblical verses it quickly rises to a climax, and then comes to a rapid denouement.
That story has gone down in history as the “Widow’s Mighty Mite.” Down through the ages, that story has sung the praises of the widow’s little donation given from a big heart. (Big donations need no touting; it’s the little ones that do.) The story is a little gem and a kind of mite in itself: with only four short biblical verses it quickly rises to a climax, and then comes to a rapid denouement.
The widow’s mite living on
I have a personal fondness for the story of the widow’s mite; it reminds me of another mite. Years ago, at the daily community meal at St. Benedict the Moor Church on State Street, Milwaukee (a meal free for anyone hungry), we always passed a tin cup to all the hungry guests (for there is no meal that’s really free; someone along the line has to pay for it). One day a hungry guest tossed a strange tiny coin into the tin cup. It bore the Greek inscription Tiberiou Kaisarou—Of Tiberius Caesar! The old coin department at the Boston Store identified it: “It is an ancient Roman coin called the `Widow’s Mite.’” Perhaps the coin was `lifted’ from somebody’s coin collection, and the widow’s mite was now living on and doing duty on State Street, Milwaukee.
A shortened reading of the gospel
Immediately before the story of the widow’s offering in the temple, we read Jesus’ vitriolic words against the widow’s religious leaders—the scribes: “Beware of the scribes! They like to prance around in long robes and receive greetings in the marketplaces. They look for the front seats in the synagogue and the best places at dinner-parties! They grow fat on widows’ property, and then cover up their evil machinations with lengthy prayers in public.”(Mk 12:38-40) That’s strong stuff!
The missalette for this Sunday allows for a shortened reading of today’s gospel by bracketing off the account of Jesus’ vitriolic attack on the scribes from the account of the widow and her modest offering. Why shorten a gospel which is already short – only six verses? More importantly the two accounts shouldn’t be separated; they belong together. As a unit they pronounce an indictment against religion used as a cover for selfishly taking instead as a stimulus for generously giving.
The missalette for this Sunday allows for a shortened reading of today’s gospel by bracketing off the account of Jesus’ vitriolic attack on the scribes from the account of the widow and her modest offering. Why shorten a gospel which is already short – only six verses? More importantly the two accounts shouldn’t be separated; they belong together. As a unit they pronounce an indictment against religion used as a cover for selfishly taking instead as a stimulus for generously giving.
The keen eye of Jesus
Down through the ages, the widow has always been praised for her utterly generous offering of two small coins worth but a few pennies -- all that she had to live on. Perhaps the poor dear had been misguided by the scribes (her religious superiors) who duped her into thinking it was her religious duty to give to those fat cats even the very little she had to live on. In such case, we don’t praise the poor dear; we simply feel sorry for her, for not being savvy enough to keep at least one of the coins for herself. The hero, then, in this story is not the poor widow but Jesus whose keen eye and right heart saw that the widow “had given more than all the others put together," and who wanted to make sure his disciples got the message.(Mk 12:43)
The keen eye of a cabbie
A cabbie relates a remarkable story about an event in his life. Twenty years ago he drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy’s life for someone who didn’t want a boss. What he didn’t realize was that it was also a ministry -- a service to others. Because he drove the night-shift, his cab became a moving confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind him in total anonymity, and told him about their lives. He encountered people whose lives amazed him, ennobled him, made him laugh and weep. But none touched him more than a woman he picked up late one August night.
About 3:30 one morning, he was responding to a call. When he arrived the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But he had seen too many poor people who depended on a taxi as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, he always went to the door.
An old widowed lady answered. She had a small suitcase in hand. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensil on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
About 3:30 one morning, he was responding to a call. When he arrived the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But he had seen too many poor people who depended on a taxi as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, he always went to the door.
An old widowed lady answered. She had a small suitcase in hand. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensil on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
When she got into the cab, she gave the cabbie an address, then asked, “Could you drive through downtown?” “It’s not the shortest way,” He answered quickly. “Oh, I don’t mind,” she responded. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.” The cabbie looked into the rear mirror. Her eyes were glistening. “I don’t have any family left,” she continued. “The doctor says I don’t have very long.” He quickly reached over and shut the meter off. For the next two hours, the two of them drove through the city visiting the spots that contained all her past memories.
As the first hint of sun was illuminating the horizon, she suddenly said, “I’m tired. Let’s go now.” They drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as they pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. The cabbie opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
“How much do I owe you?” she asked. “Nothing,” he said. “Oh, you have to make a living,” she answered. “There are other passengers,” he responded. Almost without thinking, he bent down and gave her a big hug. She held on to him tightly. “You gave an old lady a little moment of joy.” She said, “Thank you.” He squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind him a door shut. It was the sound of a life that was closing. The cabbie didn’t pick up anymore passengers that shift. He drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, he could hardly talk. He could only ponder: What if the woman had gotten an angry driver? What if he had refused to take the run, or had honked just once, then driven away? “As I look back now,” he exclaimed, ”I don’t think I’ve I have done anything greater or more important in my entire life!”
The hero in the story
The hero in the story is not the dying widow headed for a hospice; she is simply a poor dear, and we feel for her. The hero is the cowboy cabbie who had the keen eye and the right heart to see that the moment before him required that he turn off his meter and give himself wholeheartedly to the little lady before him, travelling the last lap of her journey. The hero in the story is a cabbie who felt he had done “nothing greater or more important” in his entire life than what he had just now done.
Conclusion
The Lord God in a tiny whisper
One day the Lord God commanded the prophet Elijah to go outside and stand on the mountain, and there he would experience the Lord God passing by. A howling wind came up, but the Lord God was not in the wind. A thundering earthquake shattered the silence, but the Lord God was not in the earthquake. Then a roaring fire swept through the place, but the Lord God was not in the fire. Finally a tiny whisper could be heard, and the Lord God was in the whisper, and Elijah hid his face. (1 Kings 19:9,11-13)
That day in the temple near the treasury the Lord God was not in a howling wind, or thundering earthquake, or roaring fire (or in the loud clanging of money). He was in a tiny whisper, and the whisper was a little widow tossing in two noiseless coins. And the day the cabbie was responding to a call 3:30 in the morning, the Lord was not in anything loud or noisy or showy but in a tiny whisper, and the whisper was a little lady headed for a hospice.
Like the cabbie, know when it is time to turn off your meter and give yourself to the moment at hand, lest you rush right by what could be the most important and meaningful thing you’ve ever done in your entire life.
That day in the temple near the treasury the Lord God was not in a howling wind, or thundering earthquake, or roaring fire (or in the loud clanging of money). He was in a tiny whisper, and the whisper was a little widow tossing in two noiseless coins. And the day the cabbie was responding to a call 3:30 in the morning, the Lord was not in anything loud or noisy or showy but in a tiny whisper, and the whisper was a little lady headed for a hospice.
Like the cabbie, know when it is time to turn off your meter and give yourself to the moment at hand, lest you rush right by what could be the most important and meaningful thing you’ve ever done in your entire life.
[1] By the “the unchurched” is especially meant not those who have left the church but those whom the church has left!
