The last congregation that I served in Santa Fe, First Presbyterian, was situated in the downtown of the city. This area was where the people who lived without homes would generally gather to spend the day. In the city at that time, there was only one place where the homeless could shower for free, the Salvation Army, and there the hours were limited as to when one could shower. The space was also crowded, with a line forming early, and no guarantee that those towards the back of the line would have a chance to clean themselves up. The Salvation Army building experienced somewhat frequent plumbing problems, which made the chance of one showering even less likely. First Presbyterian happened to have two large showers in its building as part of the remodeling that had recently taken place; the showers had been included in the remodeling plan with the promise that their use would be offered to those on the street in need. Well, for the first year that I worked there, the showers stayed mostly dry, with the occasional exception of a guest coming to the church for a visit, hearing that we had the proper facilities to get oneself clean, and asking to be allowed to use them. It was a great irony to hear about taking care of the stranger at 10:00 a.m., to then open the doors of the sanctuary following worship, greeted by the tired and dirty faces of those who had slept along hidden corners of the outside of our building the previous night- and to sometimes, literally, step over these bodies as the rest of the day beckoned with its list of activities.
Simultaneously during my first year of ministry at this church, the congregation had become increasingly involved in the creation of an overflow shelter for the city, working to get the homeless off the streets and into warm beds for the night. The faces outside of the church building, thus, began to be faces with names and with stories and with lives that could no longer be ignored in the name of discomfort. And so that summer, congregants stopped looking at the showers as sort of museum fixtures in the building, and, instead, a shower program was born at the church, and the showers stayed busy during the hot months of the year, when cool, clean water was needed most.
Jesus sits down opposite the treasury, and he observes the lack of synchronicity between what is being taught through the holy Hebrew scriptures in the temple, and what is then practiced outside the hallowed halls. Earlier in this twelfth chapter of Mark, he has just reminded those around him of the foundational Jewish teaching,
The Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength…You shall love your neighbor as yourself.
And the Jewish faithful, of which Jesus was a part, know about their story of Exodus and being strangers, and how their history of being brought out of slavery and into liberation compels them, now, to care for the stranger, and the exiled, and the orphan, and the widow. These are stories and teachings etched into the collective memory of the people.
And from the other side of the treasury, Jesus watches, and he observes something enormously disquieting. He observes a system that would allow for a widow to sacrifice all that she has- to, literally, give “the whole of her life”. A widow who has nothing, who is among the most vulnerable of her community, instead of being cared for at the temple gates as their scriptures call upon the community to do, instead, she gives away all she had to live on. There is something wrong with this system, and Jesus is observing this. Notice that he does not commend the widow for her sacrifice- no. Rather, he simply states what he has just seen. Hear his words again from this perspective:
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.
Rodger Nishioka writes that Jesus, in this observation, offers a, “lament for and indictment upon” this system that would be complacent as one of the most marginalized in the community increases her marginalization in the name of supporting the system. Rather than seeing the shower program at my former congregation as a noble deed, I imagine Jesus sitting across the street, having formerly observed and lamented over the passing by of nameless faces in order to get a better seat at brunch- I imagine Jesus thinking as the doors opened and the flow of traffic began to come inwards, “It’s about time.”
This story from the Gospel of Mark, though it is often taught as such, is not meant to be a universal call to give, to give even when some should not be giving, when some, instead of giving, should be receiving. It is not a universal call to wring oneself dry when one is parched and in need- in need of material support, in need of the recognition of one’s dignity, in need of love, in need of rest. Sometimes one’s cross is too heavy, and instead of piling more weight upon it, what is required is the community’s participation in lessening the burden and a non-judgmental presence.
This is part of what is going on in this story- an essential part that is too often missed in favor of focusing upon the great generosity and sacrifice of the widow. But another part of what is going on in this story is the great generosity and sacrifice of the widow as observed by Jesus. This story takes place just before his arrest and crucifixion. In fact, this is the last scene in Jesus’ public ministry in Mark. We know other stories from the gospels in which Jesus learns from those he encounters, is transformed and changed and moved by the great faith or persistence or wisdom of some of the least expected. And in this story, this is part of, I imagine, what was happening and why it was written down for generations to come to hear. There is the lament. There is the indictment. And there is a man, too, Jesus- nearing his own death, one which he had predicted and knew was coming and had reminded his disciples of many times. He was a man who must have felt fear as the day seemed to be drawing imminently near. He must have felt confusion. He must have wondered why. He certainly cried out in agony his confusion and anger and feeling of abandonment even on the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He, too, needed community- needed helpers along the way who would remind him that in his sharing of his life for the world he was offering to the world the sacrifice of his presence and solidarity with us as we sometimes cry, ourselves, “My God, my God.” This widow that he observed, she was a helper for him, a teacher. Listen to this poem, written by Joseph G. Donders, titled, “His Widow Complex”:
…[Jesus] was sitting
that morning
in the temple
looking at the treasury-box
in which all kinds of people were throwing their money from rattling and loud clanking bags.
And then
in that row of rich people
very politely and submissively
greeting by the temple- askaris,
…and all the others
there is again
that widow
with her two five-cent pieces
carefully knotted
in her handkerchief.
She stepped in front of the box
unknotting her coins;
the others were getting impatient
already,
and she dropped her
two five-cent pieces,
and was pushed on
immediately.
Jesus stood up,
his disciples too,
and he said
to their astonishment:
“…She gave all she had,
everything;
she gave more than anyone else.”
…When he took his bread
that last evening
of his life,
when he took his cup
and said:
“This is my body,
this is my blood,”
he must have been thinking
of…that widow
…in the temple.
He must have been thinking, too, as he neared his own death of another story of a widow from his Hebrew tradition, this one from 1 Kings, who met Elijah while gathering sticks for a fire, and was given the insane request to share the last meal that she had for her son and herself with Elijah. In return, Elijah promised her that she would be cared for, given her daily bread, until the drought ended and the rains returned. And she trusted that somehow, she would be cared for.
To be widowed, as the woman was in this morning’s story from Mark- to be widowed and poor, and to let go of the little she had. To be preparing her last meal, as the widow from 1 Kings was, a meal that would be followed by, not just herself, but also her son being led to the grave, and to share this meal with a stranger. To travel to the cross. Radical trust.
We need helpers, too, teachers along the way to remind us that we can only scratch and claw our way through life so far, and we can only control so much. We need stories and encounters with people that might remind us to look back and remember, as the women in the story of Ruth proclaim, “Blessed be the LORD, who has not left you this day.” This may be all that we are guaranteed in life. This may be all that those whom we love and care for and are worried about are guaranteed as well. “Blessed be the LORD, who has not left you this day.” This may be the essence of the promise of the scriptures. This may be enough.