The widow’s mite and the gift of sitting still—A meditation for the 32nd week of Ordinary Time

 

“[Jesus] sat down opposite the treasury and observed

how the crowd put money into the treasury. Many

rich people put in large sums. A poor widow also came

and put in two small coins worth a few cents.

Calling His disciples to Himself, He said to them…”

--Mark 12:41-44

 

This Sunday at mass, I imagine many of us will hear a homily about the gift of a poor woman.  And clearly that is at the heart of the readings this Sunday. The gospel story of the widow whose almost meaningless gift is in fact the greatest—because she gave all that she had.  The Old Testament reading from 1 Kings 17 is about a poor widow dying of hunger, who gives the prophet Elijah the last of her food.  And then the psalm (146) reminds us of God’s generosity –especially to the poor:the hungry, the widow, the orphan, the captive and the stranger, and the reading from Hebrews (9:24-28) reminds us of the completeness of Christ’s gift, holding nothing back, a gift that costs everything and yet was given freely for our salvation. So, without a doubt, anyone focused on the gift of the widow and her mite will be in good company, in fact –as we can read—that is exactly what Jesus focused on.

 

But, going out on a limb here, this week my attention was caught by a different element. Earlier in the week I wrote about the image of God presented in the psalm—an image of tender care and compassion for the lowly and the oppressed. But now I’d like to focus on another image in the Gospel.  Instead of the widow and her coin,  I’ve been pondering what Jesus is doing. And wondering what lesson we might find in that.

 

And so I turn back to those words and ask: what exactly does He do?

 

Not very much. He just sits, and observes. Not exactly the plot of a Bruce Willis movie, I know; but stick with me.   Jesus takes a seat opposite the treasury, and watches as people walk past dropping their gifts (their tithes) into the box. Some rich people give great amounts of money, others not quite as much—and then He sees this one widow who gives only a couple of small coins—worth only a few cents.  And this catches His eye. 

 

And then, what does He do?  He calls the disciples to come hear what He has seen. He sits and He observes, and then He shares.  Let us think about that image, those two actions, for a moment.

 

The image of Jesus sitting down and observing the activity in the temple area may seem like a pointless detail. But, I was struck by it—in part because it reminds me of reading, of study, even daydreaming.  To sit and watch, feels like a very passive thing for Jesus to do, and passivity is not a posture our world tends to regard very highly.  We are a world that honors the doing, more than the observing. We are a world that much more readily honors Martha over Mary.

 

But, for some reason, this week I find something quite compelling in His action (or lack of action), I see an image of contemplation.  When we sit down, settle ourselves for a moment, we make room for something else, even someone else. When we sit down and observe, we begin to notice things, we may even begin to pay attention. In a sense, we allow ourselves to receive whatever gift the world, the universe, God, wants to reveal to us. To sit and observe may look like wasted time, but… in this Gospel it sure seems like Holy work.

 

Now let us look back at the story again. What does Jesus do next?  He calls his disciples and tells them what He has seen.  He sits and observes and then He shares. Observes and bears witness... 

 

He isn’t making up a story, or telling a parable, Jesus is simply telling the apostles what He actually saw, in the real world, right there in front of all their eyes. The disciples may have seen the very same thing, but Jesus draws their attention to what it means—to Him.  He tells them what He saw: the humble act of a passing stranger, and what it means to Him.  

 

What lesson am I drawing from this? To me, the posture of sitting and observing is a lesson about allowing ourselves to receive.  To receive a gift, we have to allow it to be given.  We have to open our hands, our eyes, our ears, and our hearts and accept it—whatever it is.  To sit and observe the world, the people around us, the neighbor jogging past on the street, the clouds drifting in the sky, a blue jay hopping on a branch, is to contemplate the gift of God’s creation. To receive –in some sense—a revelation. When we sit and observe, we allow God to feed us, to feed our spirit, our soul, even our imagination.  And that is a blessing.

 

But what is the natural reaction to receiving a gift?  We want to tell someone about it. We want to share. In a sense, we want to give it away.

 

This image of Christ reminds us to pay attention. Which may seem like such a small thing, but… as Jesus so often points out, sometimes the smallest gifts (even something worth only a few cents—like a mustard seed…) are worth more the most.

 

One last thought:  one of the problems we keep hearing about in our world today is loneliness, and anonymity.  So many people today feel unseen, unheard, unnoticed. They hunger for someone to notice them, for someone to just take a moment and pay attention.  The tiny gift of stopping whatever we are up to and paying attention to even just one person, is worth more than we can imagine.  To let someone know they are seen, noticed, is to let them know that they matter.  Their gift matters.

 

Sometimes the gift we give, is to simply sit and receive.

 

As Jesus reminds us, that humble gift that seems like “nothing” may be the greatest gift we have to give.

Stay awake: The Theology of Poirot

“Stay awake… watch!”

--Mark 13:33-37

I was reading Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express the other day –in preparation for a student book club I was sponsoring.  The girls chose the book with the hope of going to see the new movie.  However, when it came time to discuss –most of them had not finished it and some had not even started. A couple of girls spoke of how hard it was to read –that Agatha Christie wasn’t a very clear writer. That claim, they supported by saying they couldn’t always tell who was talking. I was sad for them on two accounts. One, because I found the book quite charming and easy to read.  And two, because while reading it, I had came upon a scene that struck me as reflecting a very profound insight into not only the solving of a murder mystery, but also the reading of literature and perhaps the living of a life. And then, later as I contemplated it –in light of Sunday’s gospel reading from Mark—I found in it also a beautiful theology of attention.(Do I imagine that Agatha Christie was intending any theological lessons in this novel? Probably not, and certainly not the kind it inspired in me... but... Here goes.)

            The scene went something like this: Poirot was relating to M. Bouc (and a doctor) something he had seen – a clue—but was not yet ready to speculate what it meant, and yet Bouc states without hesitation exactly what it must mean. Yet Poirot responds only with silence. He is still waiting and watching.  He is still attending to the facts.  He was still alert. His “little gray cells” were still working. He is still (staying) awake. While his friend (Bouc), has fallen asleep.

            A good detective does not rush to create his conclusion; he considers and carefully observes. To rush to a conclusion would be to fall asleep. To not be awake to the evidence, but to drowsily stumble toward a dream of what they might mean, what we would like them to mean. What it would be convenient for them to mean.

            To be a good critical reader of texts one must stay awake and be alert to the words on the page –the text—and not attempt to force a meaning upon the text, not dream of what it should or could or might mean.  But to read precisely and exactly what is on the page.  A good reader reads with eyes open, mind open, awake to what is on the page, always prepared to be caught unprepared; ready (and willing) to be surprised; alert even to our own somnambulism, and ready to discover in the “overly familiar,” that which we have never truly seen before.

            Jesus says: stay awake.  Often this is read as an injunction. Stay awake, or else!  But that isn’t what I hear.  What I hear is something akin to the voice of a friend telling us to watch this! They want us to see something truly amazing –I’m thinking of Willie Mays chasing after a fly ball, or Roberto Clemente throwing a runner out from deep left, or Gene Kelly dancing on a piano, or that breathlessly tender scene in The Best Years of Our Lives when the young girl helps her fiancé take off his artificial arms!

            Could it be that Jesus isn’t warning us, but encouraging us? That He knows the importance of everything we see, everyone we meet; that He knows that every challenge we face is a portal of grace and that every kindness we share is a glimpse of Heaven. What if He is telling us to stay awake, not in case the Lord comes, but because He is coming –every moment of every day—in fact He is among us, even now.

I hear Jesus saying, not –be careful! Stay awake or you’ll get in trouble. I hear Him saying: You don’t want to miss this!  Not a second of it. So, stay awake.