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.

 

The tears and the law --some thoughts on Nehemiah 8

“...the people were all in tears

as they listened to the words

of the law...”  --Nehemiah 8:9c

Are the laws of God proscriptive or prescriptive?  Proscriptive means to prohibit, denounce or condemn; to forbid.  I think traditionally I was raised with the proscriptive reading of the laws.  I believed that certain acts and desires and even words were forbidden.  And due to human weakness, we were (all of us) in desperate need of the grace of the confessional.  But this view of God’s law leads to a view of God as a judgmental figure who watches our every move.  This God has an eternal tally sheet that he keeps on each and every one of us.  He makes a hashmark every time we cross the line (break His law).  I guess when we go to confession He gets out His eraser.  This God is –in some ways—our nemesis.  He is standing apart and ever ready to accuse.

The more I read the Old Testament, the more I am beginning to see “the law” not as proscriptive, but as prescriptive. More of a guide or road map (an ideal) to help us find our way, than a benchmark we must achieve to avoid punishment or banishment or another stay in the long line outside the confessional.

And yet, the other night a friend reminded me that often the law shows up in scripture hand in hand with what often seem like hard and fast punishments. In fact, the death penalty seems –at times—almost ubiquitous:  blasphemy = death (Lv 24:10-16), contempt of court = death (Dt 17:12), incest = death (Lv 20:19), adultery = death (Lv 20:10), cursing your parents = death (Ex 21:17), etc.  And so, there does seem a kind of punitive element to “the law” which implies at the very least a proscriptive element.  However, as I read, that isn’t the picture of God that I am hearing from the Bible: a God tallying our missteps and failings, imposing or withholding appropriate punishments at His whim –that isn’t the God I meet in the Old Testament.

And all of this is on my mind because I have been reading the book of Nehemiah. This book tells the story of the restored Israelites who have returned from exile.  They are back in their homeland rebuilding Jerusalem.  When they finish their main work, they hold a massive week long celebration (8-9), and the people ask the priest Ezra to “bring the Book of the Law of Moses (perhaps Deuteronomy) which the Lord had prescribed...” (8:1-2) and he reads to them from the book –from “dawn til noon” (8:3)—for seven days straight. Then on the eighth day there is a solemn assembly and as Ezra reads, he sees that the people have tears in their eyes.  He tells them: “Today is sacred to the Lord. Do not be mournful; do not weep...” (8:9b).  But, listening to the reading, the people are so moved they are in tears.  And my first thought was what? Who weeps over a book of laws?  And my second thought was: Uhm, you know...uhm... all this law stuff is really good; great stuff! I mean it. I mean...who doesn’t like a little stoning and... all... But –uhm—I—uh-- I think I left a fleshpot boiling back in Babylon. I was in such a hurry... I uh... I just... You know... I’ll just go back and check on that. Better safe than sorry.  Be right back. And, uhm... If I uhm ...for some reason if I don’t make it... well, you just go ahead and start all that purifying and smiting stuff without me. Okay? Really.  I’ll catch up... No worries...

Like my imaginary character –I am not a rule person. I don’t like doing things because I have to. So, when I read of laws and rules, I tend to react strongly against them. Either by looking for a loophole or by simply declaring that it doesn’t apply to me.  That’s my gut reaction.  I think it is kind of an American reaction –that instinctive: You can’t tell me what to do! You can’t tell me what to say! attitude.

And so, to read that “the people were all in tears as they listened to the law” struck me as an odd paradoxical line.  Attracting my readerly attention. What would cause such a reaction?  What kind of tears did they cry? Tears of joy? Tears of consolation? Tears of dread? Fright?  What is the author telling us with this strangely stirring detail? About the people? About their relationship with God?  About their relationship to the law?

And I began to wonder about my own relationship to the law. My troubled relationship... The hours in line at the confessional trying to make right what I willfully made wrong.  Perhaps if I had greeted the law not with dread, but with tears of gratitude, I could have saved myself some pain, some hours spent in line on a Saturday afternoon at the local church. 

If, I could just remember that we have a God who loves us. A God who wants for us only what is good.  A God of mercy and tenderness. A God who brings us back from exile and offers us again and again (endlessly it seems) His love... A God who gave Himself on the cross for me, for my sins... if only I could remember that, then –instead of fleeing the “prohibitions” of the law, I too might beg for the words of the law to be read aloud, and I too might find my face wet with tears of gratitude and love for a Father who loved me enough to offer me the guidance, the counsel, the prescription of His law.

Nehemiah is a short book with lots of census information but buried in the lists of names and the brief descriptions of action is a beautiful image of a merciful God and a people returning to His love.

NOTE: I think I have more to say on this, but that will have to wait.  I know that reading Dante has inspired my reading of scripture and influenced it greatly.  Perhaps that is where I need to go next time.

The hurricane and the henhouse

“...Hidden in the storm, I answered you...”

--Psalm 81:7

 William Faulkner told an interviewer that writing a novel is like trying to “nail together a henhouse in a hurricane.”  He said: “You haven’t got time to be thinking about images and symbols.  You’ve got all you can manage without that.”[1] I know what he means.[2]  And what he is saying applies not just to writing, but to life as well.  In the midst of the storm one doesn’t have time for symbols and images and lessons and profundities.  In the midst of the storm you are too busy trying to keep the henhouse together to look for symbols and imagery; for grace and lessons. In the midst of the storm you are holding on for dear life –your own and those of the people you love. But, I think what I heard in Psalm 81 this morning was: if you open your ears –if you really listen—if you train yourself to be open to them –you will discover that they are there.  In the storm He answers us.

When we were at the hospital –in the midst of our storm—I had little time for thinking about symbols or images or meanings.  I was too set on trying to stay awake and by my daughter’s side.  And too worried about what might come next.  Also, I was worried about my wife and my other daughters and about my job and about getting lost in the halls, about the parking garage and what happens if I lose my parking ticket and back in the ICU there were all those monitors and those numbers that kept changing and the beeping and the IVs and the nurses who would come and go at all hours and I couldn’t remember anyone’s name and...  I felt frightened and helpless and overwhelmed.

To be there, by her side, feeling helpless and afraid, was to be in the midst of a terrifying storm; and sitting there by her side –especially in the middle of the night—I felt terribly alone.  And all I could do was keep praying over and over: Lord, help us. Please God, help us. Without realizing I had stopped praying or knowing how long I had been sleeping, I would awaken to see a nurse checking vitals or noting something on a chart or changing an IV bag –tenderly caring for my daughter—and without knowing it, I would fold back upon myself, eyes drooping closed, head slipping exhaustedly down upon my chest, mouth murmuring prayers and in my half-consciousness wondering whether God would ever answer.  Wondering whether the storm would last forever? Would we feel this helpless, this alone forever?  The storm beat us down, physically, psychologically, emotionally.  Even spiritually.  It stopped us in our feet. Everything we were doing, our lives, our work, our plans... all of it stopped. The storm came, and all that busy-ness stopped, and we were forced to put everything else aside and attend to one thing. And the strain, the effort required to focus ourselves in such a way, it was terrible. Exhausting. Utterly consuming.

And yet, looking back, as the storm fades, I can see there was signs.  There were symbols.  Images. 

I wasn’t alone.  There was the friend who spent that first night in the waiting room with my wife, the same friend who invited me the second night to come take a shower and take a break at her house.  After my shower, she and her son sat with me, talked as she peeled a kiwi and sliced it and put it on a plate in front of me. Refilled a glass with water and listened and laughed with me as I repeated stories about the hospital and my daughter, then --for some reason—the conversation wandered off to Dostoevsky and Camus and Marilynne Robinson and carrots. Invite a librarian to come take a shower at your house –see what you have to put up with.  

That was my first break from the hospital; from the storm.  And all I can remember from it is the patience and kindness of this friend and her son.

The next day I took a second break and went home to sleep for a while.  My wife and a friend were at the hospital, and they convinced me that I needed a nap.  I went.  Someone else drove.

At home I stretched out on my bed, certain that I wouldn’t be able to sleep.  Until I woke two hours later worrying about what time it was.  As I got ready to go back to the hospital, the doorbell rang.  It was someone delivering groceries.  Apparently, my oldest daughter had been getting calls from our co-workers and friends asking about what we liked to eat and what we might need.  As she was putting away the groceries she opened the freezer to show me all the frozen meals someone had already brought us. It was crammed full. As I was leaving, the counters were still covered with grocery bags and she was promising me she would find somewhere to put all of it.  Not to worry.  She opened a cupboard and a box of crackers tumbled out. 

“Not there...” she laughed.

Over the next week and a half more groceries would come, even meals from restaurants until our house was overflowing with food... In the back of my mind, I kept thinking how kind people were. How generous.  How blessed we were.  But somewhere deeper inside I was haunted by the thought that none of it mattered. All I really wanted was someone to fix my daughter.  To fix our family. To fix this brokenness. To make us whole again. 

By the end of the week we were home. She was home.  The storm was over. Maybe.  At least it had paused.  And I could breathe again.  I could put the hammer down –so to speak.  Take a long look around and see what kind of hen house the storm had left standing....  so to speak.

The first thing I noticed was all the groceries still on the counters.  The refrigerator full, the cupboards full and even as we were laughing at that somebody was pulling into our driveway with dinner from a Tex-Mex joint: fajitas and queso and chips. 

Still worried about my family, I was starting to get overwhelmed by the abundance.  It felt like one more responsibility to be worried about, one more source of stress, anxiety, and I couldn’t bear it.  But with time and a little distance I began to understand it differently. I began to recognize an image in the cupboards and refrigerator and counters overflowing with food... I began to see twelve baskets overflowing with broken bread and pieces of fish... I recognized in my own life the actuality of the miracle described in Matthew 14.  We were in a lonely place and we felt like we had nothing left; less than five loaves and two fish; and the Lord told us to sit down and suddenly there was more than we needed; the food was literally overflowing.  We didn’t have baskets, so we were putting things in boxes and bags.  But it was clearly a loaves and fishes moment! An image of God’s grace and generosity was lived out before our eyes.

But as Mr. Faulkner says: In the moment, in the middle of the storm, who has time to look for symbols and imagery.  Only when I had come to rest and feel a moment’s calm could I begin to see.  Yes.  The answer was in the storm.  And the answer wasn’t: “Everything is going to be fine.” Or: “Let me fix this.”   The answer we were getting wasn’t words or promises, it was a miraculous abundance of food and it was people dropping by to check on us and staying to have tea and share some of our cookies or crackers or carrots.  It was small acts of kindness and generosity. Acts of love.  Out of the storm God answered us: You are loved.  Your family is loved.  The answer was simple and clear.  And beautiful.

Hidden in the storm we may not recognize God, but He is there.  Hidden in the storm there is an answer, and it is simply this:  Love. 

It’s not an easy answer. And it is very hard to recognize when you are exhausted, and the henhouse seems to be falling apart... but when there is a pause in the storm, perhaps just a calm before the next, take a moment and look around at the signs and the symbols.  Take a moment to reflect; close your eyes and open your heart and listen.  They are there. He is there. And I suspect you will find the answer is always the same:  Love.

Can you hear it?

---

[1] This is quoted in Hugh Kenner’s essay, “The Last Novelist,” in his wonderful book on American modernism: A Homemade World.

[2] I’ve been trying to write a novel for years and every time I think I have a nail in place my hammer disappears!