The law and the widow’s mite

11 Nov 2018

 “The people were all in tears

as they listened to the words of the law...”

--Nehemiah 8:9b

“As [Elijah] arrived at the entrance of the city

a widow was gathering sticks; he called

out to her: Please bring me a small

cupful of water...” –1 Kings 17: 10-16

“I tell you the truth, this poor widow

has put more into the offering box than all the

others. For they all gave out of their wealth.

But she, out of her poverty,

put in all that she had...”

--Mark 12:43-44

In my last post, I was contemplating the people and their tears (from Nehemiah). And this week, as I waited to go to confession, I was still thinking about that passage, about those people and their tears. But, standing in the line for confession, I found myself watching the Quinceanera families stage their pictures in the church and over by the baptismal font instead of contemplating my sins.  So, I took out my Magnificat and tried to focus my thoughts on something other than the astonishing dresses and tuxedos and the abundance of bolo ties.  Opening it, I turned to the Gospel for this Sunday and read  the story of the widow’s mite.  I have always liked this story; it has the wonderful Cinderella appeal of an unknown impoverished woman suddenly coming to prominence; her tiny --almost meaningless-- offering singled out for praise.  See! See her; the one with the two pennies.  She is giving more than all the rest.  I think it appeals to the inner child in me who still remembers a time when all I had were two pennies and thought it was a lot (I loved gumball machines).  And it still speaks to me today when I worry that I have so little give. And I don’t mean just money.  When I look around and see the other teachers at my school doing so many extra duties –coaching, heading up clubs, going on field trips, I feel a pang of guilt, of inadequacy, a sense of my own insufficiency, not measuring up. 

And then I realized—that is often how I feel when I think of “the Law.” I think about those regulations and restrictions and punishments and feel a sense of dread and insufficiency.  I am unable to meet that mark, to measure up to those expectations.  I am a disappointment, to myself and to God (and possibly to my principal too, though she hasn’t come out and said it).  When I look at the Law as a set of benchmarks that I need to meet to be considered “good,” then I find myself wallowing in self-doubt and dread and fear. I dwell in the certainty of my own failure; anxious about my next slip up –my next misstep or moment of weakness; gossiping over coffee about a co-worker, whining about a student on the way home in the car, hiding in the garage and eating all the doughnuts –so my family won’t know... You know, just the ordinary stuff.

But in this story of the widow and her mite, we get a different view; to some extent, we get a God’s eye view of living the Law.  In the story from Mark, Jesus is watching the people put their offerings into the treasury –something that is commanded by the Law. As the crowd puts money in, Mark notes that some rich people put in large amounts, but then comes this poor widow with her two small (almost worthless) coins. And it is her that Jesus singles out as having put in “more than all the others.” 

The rich people putting in their large sums are fulfilling the letter of the law –even quite possibly giving more than is required.  Metaphorically they are the expectations we measure ourselves against; they are the human measure of success.   Those large donations of theirs will pay for a new science building or a new sports stadium. They are the kinds of donations remembered with names engraved in stone or up in lights...

And yet, Jesus reveals something about how God sees the Law when He singles out the widow and the gift of her two pennies as worth more because out of her poverty she contributed all she had. 

From the human point of view it is very easy to look at the Law as a game of numbers; boxes we check off for and against.  Done this, done this, done this, not that... Good Lord, I’ve never even imagined doing that! Oh my! Don that so many times I’ve lost count...  Tithed -check! DSF—check! Raffle tickets –check! It’s all numbers—sums (both large and small).  

But from God’s point of view it’s not about the numbers –not about how many or how few laws we break, or keep; not about how well we measure up to some cosmic or karmic or spiritual regulation –it’s not about perfect attendance at mass or how much we put in the weekly envelope.  Perhaps the Law of God really only asks one thing—everything! That’s all.  And perhaps the value of our gift is measured not by how much we put in, but how much we hold back. 

From the outside, from the human side, the Law of God can look ominous and daunting. There are 613 laws in the Old Testament cannon; 365 prohibitions (thou shalt nots) and 248 positive commandments.  And yes, one might weep at the thought of so many laws, and so many opportunities to fail, and some of the people in that story from Nehemiah may have wept out of fear or dread... but I wonder if –in that crowd there in Jerusalem, listening to the Law—there wasn’t at least one poor widow standing off by herself listening to the words of the Law, her face warm with tears not of anguish, but of joy, because she understood exactly what the Law meant. It meant that God loved her. For her the Law was simple –in fact, it was everything.

 

God didn't make death

“God did not make death…” –Wisdom 1:13

A meditation for the Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

This past Sunday we had that interesting reading from Wisdom.  It tells us with striking simplicity that “God did not make death…” And yet there it is. What are we supposed to do with such a statement?   We might have the urge to rush to some kind of allegorical understanding (for instance something involving Paul’s comment about the wages of sin… cf..Romans 6:23) but before we do, I think it is always best to spend a little time contemplating the actuality of what is said.  What if it actually means what it says? What are the implications about death, about God, perhaps even about sin?  And yet, I am unable to let go of the actuality of death itself; the death of an actual person and the repercussions that follow. I wonder what these words might mean in the light of that.

About a year and a half ago, my brother Bobby died.  He had lung cancer and was sure it was caused by working in old attics filled with asbestos insulation. He was an a/c repairman.  When he found out about the cancer, he started paying attention to those TV lawyer commercials; certain that someone owed him something for this.  But, on the other hand, he bragged that before he started coughing up blood, he hadn’t been to a doctor in close to 30 years.   He had no insurance and never had.  Instead his medical plan was to self-medicate –in every meaning of that term. And most of the time, it worked well enough for him.  But if it didn’t, he turned away from the world and handled the problem as best he could on his own.  I imagine him even doing his own dental work when necessary.  That was the kind of guy he was.

The last day I spent with him we sat in an emergency exam room in Galveston waiting to hear if he was getting checked into the hospital next door or sent home.  Most of the time we sat in silence broken only by moments of awkward conversation. Before the cancer, we had not seen much of each other over the past 25 years.  And sitting there waiting to find out how soon he would die, it was an odd time and place to catch up.  Mostly our talk turned back to the subject of his dog and how much he wanted to get back to her.  At one point, after a long silence, he suddenly announced that he was done with all this. He couldn’t do the hospital stuff anymore. All he wanted was to go home and sit with his dog. 

Up to that moment, what conversations we’d had dealt mainly with survival: money issues and oxygen tanks, plans for what his life would look like with only one lung (or less).  At that moment, though, it seemed that he understood his problems were more serious than finding somebody to buy him groceries. Yet, when a doctor came in and told him that tests showed the cancer had spread and then asked him about a DNR. Bob seemed stunned.  He looked at me. He didn’t seem to know what to say. The doctor explained: “We just need to know. If something happens, do you want us to attempt to resuscitate you or not?”

Still looking at me instead of the doctor, Bob said, “Well, hell[1], of course, I want to be resuscitated.”

The doctor looked at me, also. He seemed as confused as I was.  Up to that moment, I think we were thinking the patient was done with all this medical stuff… but clearly not.  After some silence, he noted something on his clipboard and left.

We sat there in more silence, Bob looking away; his head shaking, like he was still saying no to something he couldn’t understand.  Until that moment, I don’t think I had ever seen my brother cry.  He had been a hard boy and had grown into a hard man.  But there were tears falling on his jeans as he stared at the floor and kept shaking his head. Finally, he spoke: “Well (something colorful) [2] now, I don’t know whether to shit or wind my watch.”  That little paraphrase from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest was one of the last things I heard my brother say.  He was moved to the hospital right after that.  And I was out of town when he died at home just a few days later. 

Bob had lived hard and worked hard and played hard and rarely seemed to consider the consequences, unless beer (or his dog) was involved. And at the end that was where he got to be. Home with his dog (Shirley) and his beer. He was there on the couch with both nearby when he died. 

I’ve been thinking about my brother a lot lately. Praying for him in my Rosary. Asking him to pray for me.  And thinking about how it must have felt to know you were dying… not theoretically, but imminently. It is a hard thought.

Then, yesterday morning, as I came out for my morning walk, I met a neighbor I rarely see anymore. She was entangled in the leashes of her three dogs when we greeted each other. But instead of just going on her way, she came toward me, because she had something she needed to tell me. Her son had died. He was 42 years old, married to his college sweetheart, two children; they were living in England; and there was a motorcycle accident. Just like that she knew the terrible sadness of a mother who outlives her son. As we stood there in the street, she told me she knew I was someone who prayed and she wanted me to pray for her and for her son and for her daughter in law.  I was standing there with my Rosary in my hand and said of course. I would love to.  In fact, I have to say, I was honored that she asked.

Lead by the dogs, we started down the street together toward her house –not my normal direction, but…  As we walked, she told me about the funeral. How many people were there and how loved her son had been –by so many people. Pausing to untangle herself from the leashes, she smiled and told me how she had been asked to speak at her son’s funeral. At first, she was shocked that they asked. And she was certain she wouldn’t be able to do it. That would be impossible. Too much. And yet –in the end—she did, and how glad she was that she had.  How good she felt afterwards.

That morning, she was going back to work for the first time since she returned from England. And her main concern right then was the people at work who would be nervous and wouldn’t know what to say. But, she shrugged, she was kind of amazed that she didn’t really feel that bad. Maybe it’s the prayers, she speculated. “A lot of people are praying for me.” 

Death frightens us –all of us. Despite all the science and the inevitability, it seems a little unnatural.  This life, whether it is a happy one or a hard one –it’s all we know. It’s what we know.  And change is hard… even just the direction of your morning walk (for some of us)…

Change is hard and death is about as big a change as we can imagine. Last night, I learned of the death of a friend’s husband.  Change is hard and it just keeps coming.  And I don’t know what to say or do or write…  But I keep thinking about my brother, and my neighbor, and my friend and I keep asking: why.

I don’t have an answer.  St. Paul says that death is the wages of sin (cf. Romans 6:23).  Possibly. I think the temptation story in Genesis would support that (cf. 2:17). But there is solace in the fact that death is not part of God’s creation; it is not something that brings Him delight.  In fact, the Love of God overcomes it.  As Paul also says, through Jesus Christ, God conquered death (cf. 1 Corinthians 15:55-57).   If we look at the Gospels, I think we see that could easily be the only thing Jesus actually does during His entire public ministry; He goes from one kind of death to another and brings only life: to the blind, to the hungry, to the outcast, to the sinner, to the sick, to the widow’s son, to Lazarus, and to the little girl –the daughter of Jairus—he brings life. I remember how I have always been struck by what Jesus says to the little girl: Talitha koum –Little girl, arise (cf. Mk 5:41). 

Its as if death were no more than a moment’s sleep.  And the Lord calls us to wake up.  Come to think of it, that’s what I saw in my neighbor’s smile even as she talked of her pain and sadness, I saw the simple beauty of someone fully alive; someone fully awake. And that’s what I pray my brother found as he fell asleep not alone in a hospital bed, but at home on his couch with his dog by his side.  I pray that what he heard as he drifted off was the sound of love calling to him: my beloved son, arise. 

---

[1] I’m writing “hell,” but he really said something much more colorful. 

[2] During the Watergate trials this would have been replaced by [expletive deleted]

A House Divided –Community in Christ

(some thoughts on the Mass readings from last Sunday 10 June 2018)

“If a kingdom is divided against itself,
that kingdom cannot stand.
And if a house is divided against itself,
that house will not be able to stand.” –Mark 3:20-35

 In today’s first reading, from Genesis 3, we get the story of what happens after Adam and Eve have eaten from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.  We have that terribly true vision of how sin divides a kingdom, a house, a family.  The first division we see is of God searching for His beloved creation. God calls out to them, “Where are you?” (cf. Genesis 3:9-15) That plaintive cry is the first sign of division.  Before this, they walked together in the garden, but now Adam and Eve hide from their creator. Next, we see the crumbling of the House of Adam as he blames Eve (and God) for his actions: “The woman whom you put here with me –she gave me fruit from the tree, and so I ate it.” (3:12) And last we see the entire animal kingdom begin to break down into “enmity” as Eve blames the serpent. And we are left with a vision of the cost of sin: division, enmity, seemingly endless struggle: “He will strike at your head, while you strike at his heel.” (3:15)

Division truly is the cost of sin. It divides us externally: socially, inter-personally, through corruption, crime, broken societies, war and greed, etc and it divides us internally; driving us into hypocrisies and double standards. We begin to not only hide the truth, but hide from the truth, until we may not even know who or what we really are. As Paul says in Romans: “I do not understand what I do. What I want to do, I do not do; but what I hate, I do.” (cf. 7: 15-20)

Think of the priest with a sterling reputation, who secretly engages in corrupt or abusive behavior or the honored Bishop who covers it up.  The award winning movie mogul who seduces young women, promising them career opportunities, then threatens them if they speak up. The socially conscious politician who takes advantage of a young intern and tries to cover it up.  We don’t do what we want to do, and we do what we hate… Though in the moment it may not seem that way.

In my own life I can see this quite plainly when I sit down to write (hoping to finish that unfinished novel) but find myself 40 minutes later eating chips and queso and watching a Youtube video of W.C. Fieldsplaying pool.  (Sloth?  gluttony?)  And when I realize, my first instinct is to hide what I’ve been doing. Not to accept it and be happy that I had some fun, but to hide it. To close the browser and open my document and spend 15 minutes beating myself up over wasting my writing time.  Or pretend I was doing research for a character who loves old movies!

Sin divides us. Satan knows that. And we should, too. Because sin is like a fault line that division runs straight through the heart of each one of us. 

The answer to this division is stated in very simple terms at the end of this gospel passage.  There is that wonderful and perplexing image of Jesus being told that His mother and brothers are at the door asking for Him, to which He says:

“Who are my mother and my brothers?... Whoever does the will of my

Father in Heaven is my mother and my brother and my sister.” (Mk 12: 48-50)

The answer to the division of sin, is very simple. It’s unity. Inclusion. It is love. We must remember that we are all part of the body of Christ –every single one of us. 

The readings from last week’s mass began with God asking, Where are you? Not because God doesn't know or can't find them, but because Adam and Eve don't know.  They are lost (and very divided). And the readings ended with that beautiful reconciling (and inclusive) answer from Mark's gospel. Jesus opens a door to all of us and assures us:  

We aren't lost. We don't have to be divided.
In fact, we are invited to be part of the family. 

Don’t hide from that.