At first glance, it might seem like today’s Gospel reading were chosen precisely for Commitment Sunday, when we make our pledge commitments of money to support ministry here at Good Shepherd. But it’s not so. I don’t choose the readings. At another glance, it might seem as if this reading were chosen to respond to a nation in the aftermath of a contentious election. But it’s not so. As I said, I don’t choose the readings. Today, God has given us a living word spoken to each of us at this moment in time. And we need it.
But beware. Our temptation on this day will be to sit across from the Temple treasury, watching the poor widow as she puts in all the money she has, and we might be inclined to watch and evaluate—indeed, to judge—her situation. Look at the poor widow, we could say. She’s alone, marginalized, forsaken, and there she is donating the last of her savings to an institution that will take her money despite her poverty. Poor widow, we will say. Poor, poor widow.
We could read Jesus’s words in this way. We could imagine some pity in his voice as he says, poor widow. We could sit and feel sorry for the widow and rage against injustice. But if we were not in this church today, ready with our pledge cards to place in the collection plate, we could be sitting across the street, watching everyone enter the church. Poor, poor people, some might say. They’re giving everything they can to the Church, a Church that throughout history and even today in some quarters, has caused great harm. We could take this stance. But I don’t think we should.
We could choose to take the cynical view, as some commentators have, that the story of the widow’s mite is nothing more than an indictment of systems of power and the exploitation of the vulnerable. And while there could be some truth in that view, we can read this story as something more, too. This widow is poor, but she’s not poor. She powerful. She’s a walking example of hope.
I’m quite tempted to give her a name. There are far too many women in the Bible that have no names. But oddly, the case of this poor widow is one in which I think she is best left unnamed because it highlights even more vividly her marginal state. And to leave her unnamed means that every single one of us can be right there with her, putting all that we have and are into the coffers of the treasury.
Although we know the Temple would later be tragically destroyed, almost certainly the poor widow doesn’t know what will happen. So, here she is donating all she has to something that will soon be gone. We don’t know if the widow thinks of herself as exploited. All we know—and frankly, all that really matters—is that she still puts in all the money she has. She doesn’t just put in her meager store of money. She puts in her whole life. Her money isn’t just money. It represents everything she is. It symbolizes her whole self.
I suppose the widow could have put something else into the coffers. Metaphorically, she could have put in anger or resentment at her situation. She could have put in harsh words for the systems of the world that have taken advantage of her plight. But she doesn’t. She puts in her whole living, no matter how foolish it seems. Surely this must mean that she has incredible hope. She must hope in God’s power to right wrongs. She must believe that corruption won’t be the final word. Even if the Temple is one day demolished, and even if religious structures need reform, her financial gift isn’t a waste. Precisely because of her poverty, she’s able to put in an abundance of hope.
Her gift, we know, makes little sound in the coffers of the treasury. Others give in a flamboyant way that probably doesn’t hurt their pocketbooks too much. Their large coins ring and clang in the coffers. But the widow’s gift hardly makes a clink even though it’s the greatest gift of all. It’s the greatest gift because it's offered even though giving seems futile. In desperate times, hope can ring hollow or make hardly a sound. And yet, Jesus tells us that it’s the greatest gift of all.
Many who aren’t here in this church with us might question why we are here. They might question our gifts. Why are we giving not only our money but our whole selves to the Church as it seems to wither on the vine? Why are we putting all our trust in the Church when the world around us seems to be falling apart? What difference can our witness make in the face of so much evil? How can a few meager coins make such a difference?
But today, the risen Christ, speaking to us by the power of the Holy Spirit through God’s living word, sits across from the treasury, pointing out the poor widow to us, not out of pity and condescension, but to instruct us to go to her just as he ultimately went to the depths of hell to save us all. Get up from your seat of judgment, removed from this woman, and go stand with her, Jesus says. The risen Christ is exhorting us to move from a place of privileged pity of the poor to accept and embrace our own poverty. Jesus is urging us to go and stand with the woman and to dig deep into our hearts to face our own emptiness. Jesus has a call for the Church today, in a moment when some are hurting and some are rejoicing. Jesus is asking us as the Church to give not out of our abundance, which is the prerogative of only some, but to give out of our poverty, which is the condition of us all.
This kind of profuse, even reckless, giving is qualitatively different from what we see around us. This kind of giving happens not from a place of power or fear. It’s not giving to gain something. It’s not giving to compensate for those who can’t give as much. It’s not giving to assuage our guilt. It’s not giving even to expect specific results. It’s a kind of giving that can only come when we stand with and as the poor rather than over and against them.
This kind of giving believes that small things matter. This kind of giving trusts that even in the face of overwhelming anxiety in a divided nation, all hope isn’t lost. This kind of giving believes that even a Church supposedly in decline can be used by God to bring justice and righteousness back to the world when governments can’t or won’t.
In this fraught moment, the Devil, eerily known as the Adversary and Deceiver, is betting that we will be overcome with despair and that we’ll see former icons of trust as ones doomed to destruction. We could say this about our government. We could say this about the Church. But I don’t think we should. The Devil is also betting that our gifts will seem too small, like two copper coins in a vast treasury box. The Devil is also taking a gamble on our tendency to turn on one another in judgment. But Jesus has encouraged us not to pity those who give out of hope in desperate times. Jesus is asking us to stand right with them and look within ourselves to find the hope that lies dormant there.
Each of us must reach down as deep as we can into our hearts and find rock bottom. We must find those places of despair or hopelessness or material poverty or spiritual poverty or fear or anxiety, and then we must give from out of that poverty. We will not give more fear and anxiety or hopelessness or contented pride or money from our abundance. We must give our whole lives, in hope, out of our poverty.
We must put our lives on the line to stand for the Gospel values that we profess as part of our faith. We must throw everything we have and are into standing with those who have no one to stand up for them. We must stand on the same level plain with the poor widow and throw every ounce of hope into something that would otherwise appear useless and futile, because in such a time as this, our shared poverty is what unites us.
Whether we want to acknowledge it or not, that poor widow is us. She has no name because she is us, and we are her. She holds nothing back, and neither should we. Every meager effort that we can make is worth far more than anything we give out of our abundance.
So, beloved, come with me. Let’s stop our judging and go stand with the widow. Let’s take a reckless chance on hope. Let’s give freely and generously of a currency that seems so meager these days. Let’s give our whole lives to selfless love, justice, righteousness, and peace. Jesus is asking us, what will you give? And when we’ve reached down into the emptiest place of our souls, we’ll find exactly what we need to give with abandon. And although it may make the faintest of sounds as we throw it into the coffers, it’s the greatest gift of all.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Twenty-fifth Sunday after Pentecost
November 10, 2024