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.

Godly leadership

Regardless of who we voted for... If we want to know whether or not we have Godly leaders, all we have to do is look at the way they treat the vulnerable and the oppressed. 

Some thoughts on Psalm 146...

“The Lord keeps faith forever,
secures justice for the oppressed,
gives food to the hungry.
The Lord sets captives free…
The Lord protects the stranger.
The fatherless and the widow He sustains…”
--Psalm 146

How often do we hear these words and simply let them wash over us like “white noise.” They go in one ear and out the other-- the blah blah blah of ceremonial language, church talk, meaningless words of theoretical praise. Even if we hear them as scripture or as something possed of "the truth," we might pay little attention because of their familiarity. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get on with it... Tell me something new. I’ve heard all this before.

And yes, we have heard time and again about God’s concern for the widow and the orphan, God’s care for the oppressed and the captive… even the stranger. And so, perhaps, we nod in assent but don’t bother to ask ourselves: What does this really mean?

Like Job, and the author of Ecclesiastes, we may even find ourselves looking around and seeing the hungry and thirsty begging on street corners, or read in the news about widows and orphans in Gaza or Ukraine or captives held in an overcrowded prison. If we take these lines seriously, we may (like those ancient authors) wonder: Where is this God?

But, what if we read these words not as something akin to an advertisement for God, but as clues to where and how we might recognize God in the world, God’s presence and God’s love at work. What if we read in them portents and signs for how we can find God in our own daily life? And how we can recognize God’s presence in the actions of others.

Where the hungry are being fed—there is God.
Where the widow and the orphan and the stranger are being protected—there is God.
Where the oppressed are given justice—there is God.

This isn't a Democrat or Republican thing. Liberal or Conservative. No party has a lock on compassion or justice or Godliness.
This is a question to be asked not just of a party, but of each individual who hopes to lead our nation, our world.

Perhaps the psalmist is reminding us, if we really want Godly leaders, we already know what to do. Look at how they treat the vulnerable, the hungry and the oppressed. 

And you will know if God is there.

Bringing in the sheaves --some thoughts on the exile of a bad muffin

 I’ve been thinking about the psalm this week.

 

“Although they go forth weeping, carrying the seed to be sown,

They shall come back rejoicing, carrying their sheaves.”

(Psalm 126)

 

For me, so often, the psalm is like a brief interlude in the middle of Mass. As if the readings (Old Testament, Epistle, Gospel) were what really mattered. Too often, as the psalm is being sung, I either get caught up in the melody or so focused on remembering the refrain that I forget what the to listen to the words. But, this week, I have found myself drawn not to the gospel or the reading from Jeremiah as much as to that beautiful ending of the psalm –even just that final wonderful old familiar, yet strange word: sheaves. Which is a not part of our normal suburban vocabulary. And yet most of us probably know wat it is anyway: a gathering of wheat or grain stems bound together.

 

So many of us probably hear the word and think of someone (usually a preacher or a woman in a bonnet) singing the old hymn,  Bringing in the sheaves.

 

And caught by that single word, I began looking again at the readings for this Sunday, especially  rereading the psalm.  The psalm itself is about returning from exile; it is a psalm extolling the great thing God has done for Israel. But what I found most interesting, most curious, and most ponderable is that sorrowful image of the exile itself, that image of a sower weeping as he goes forth carrying seed to be sown.  And I have been meditating on that image most this week.  And even wondering how it might speak to the other readings.

 

There is an explicit connection to the reading from Jeremiah 31 which speaks of Israel’s return from exile, and even echoes the psalms image of departing in tears.  And a clear metaphorical connection to the Gospel of Mark with its’ story of Bartimeus the blind man crying out for help. Bartimeus is exiled from the world of the seeing by his lack of eyesight.  And when he is healed by Jesus, he follows Him—rejoicing as he walks literally in the presence of God.

 

And then there is that middle reading from the letter to the Hebrews (5:1-6). It tells of a different kind of exile—the exile of being a high priest. The author reminds us that “No one takes this honor upon himself, but only when called by God…” (cf. 5:4), so, in a sense, the high priest is set apart, exiled by the will of God. And yet, this is not a geographical exile, but a spiritual one. The high priest remains in the presence of the community, but is spiritually set apart to offer sacrifice for sins (both theirs and his own).   

 

And all of it calls me back to that image of the mournful sower and his seeds.  And I keep asking myself: why? Why that image? And what about those seeds? 

 

Historically there are tales of enslaved peoples actually carrying seeds with them into exile, as a source of food, or livelihood (woven into their hair or the clothes they wore). But, even that historical fact is ripe for metaphor: though they were dragged from their homes and their lives, a piece of it still came with them; wherever they were taken, they carried a piece of their homeland, and their way of life with them. 

 

But still… that image of the sower and those seeds. It haunts me.  And I keep asking myself why.

 

And I think part of it is this: To be exiled is to be sent somewhere unfamiliar, unknown—not our home, our safe place. To be sent into exile is to become vulnerable, dependent on the grace of God and the kindness of strangers. In exile, I must always ask for help, for permission, for assistance, for mercy. In exile we become kind of like the blind Bartimaeus: vulnerable to the thoughtless or cruel, and dependent on the kind. We become—in a sense—like one of those seeds. Cared for, we could take root and grow, possibly even thrive, but mistreated or cast aside we could just shrivel up, or be ground down and trampled to dust.  But, what does that mean to us today? What might it mean for our daily life?

 

Let me tell a brief story from my week. I have been baking a lot of muffins lately. And some come out perfect and moist and delicious, and others not quite so well; they are dense or not sweet enough, too dry… Well, last week I baked a batch of orange cranberry pecan muffins that just didn’t seem quite up to snuff. They were fine, but disappointing after the previous batch, which a friend referred to as “Herman’s magic muffins.”  And then I baked another… and again—not as good. No magic! In fact, their texture and the blandness of their taste left me feeling kind of depressed. I thought I had done everything the same, thought I had done it all right, but they just weren’t as good. Maybe those magic muffins were just an accident.  And the reality was these: too bland and a little dense, kind of like me.

 

Anyway, I tried again but went back to my basic raisin walnut recipe and those were a little better.  So I bagged a few up to take with me to work (as breakfast for the week) and discovered that I still had some failed cranberry orange muffins leftover in the faculty kitchen.  Why did the sight of those muffins make me so sad? Somehow they seemed a sign of my own frailty, my own failure. I started to throw them away, but realized how wasteful that would be –so I set them out on a plate for others.  Not a selfless act as much as one of desperation—I would say. I needed to be set free from the failure of those muffins! They haunted me—like missing a last second field goal or striking out with bases loaded in the final inning of the world series.

 

Let me remind you—these were not poisoned or tainted in any way, except by my own knowledge that they could have been better! So I put them out for anyone to take, and went off to open the library. Less than an hour later one of our theology teachers came in the library—a man who is fastidious in fashion and food, famous for his own cajun cooking—and as he was passing by he asked me:  Those muffins in the kitchen. Did you bake those?

And I confessed that I did, awaiting what I expected would be a sarcastic comment about nutmeg or molasses or something, but instead he thanked me for them, saying he hadn’t had time for breakfast, adding: Those are delicious.

 

I think that moment was a kind of annunciation moment for me. I had been feeling downhearted, not simply because of the muffins—but because they had become a kind of metaphor for my failure in so many other ways. Failure as a husband, as a father, as a son, as a brother and as a friend.  Failure as a poet, and failure as a person; I was feeling exiled and helpless. Blind to my own worth and perhaps even to my own sin.  And suddenly a figure stands before me announcing that what I thought was my failure, was instead food for his journey. And, that he found it “delicious.”

 

You see—like the Bible so memorably says: The muffin the baker rejected has become the theology teacher’s breakfast!

 

 What I thought was my failure, my worthless offering, a sign of my own fading value, was like a seed that fell to the ground—unnoticed. And yet, unless a seed fall to the earth and die, it remains alone, but if it dies—it will bear much fruit. 

 

Israel, dragged into exile bore the seeds –but not in their hair, not sewn into the garments the exiled people wore –No. In their flesh. They were the seeds. Chosen by God. Scattered and sown in exile, and as they returned they came bearing fruit, bearing the sheaves of God’s blessing.

 

But, we still have that final question: how on earth can we see exile as a kind of blessing? 

 

First, we have to stop thinking of a blessing as something that makes life easier, or more comfortable. What if we started thinking of a blessing as a chance to serve God? As a chance to bear witness to God’s presence, perhaps even allowing ourselves the vulnerability of becoming like Bartimaeus, who –in his exile—is a seed of grace.  The blind Bartimaeus is an opportunity for others, for those who encounter him to serve God, but even more to encounter Him… because as Jesus warns us:

“Whatever you did for the least of these, that you did unto Me.”

 

Feed the hungry, visit the prisoner, clothe the naked, help the sick… The people, the individuals, are the seed. The blessing of exile is found in that seed—not in their suffering, but in the chance that suffering gives to others –to us—to offer help, compassion, love. It isn’t that the cruelties of exile, homelessness, prison, illness, poverty are goods, or even blessings in themselves, but that they are perhaps the soil in which the seed is planted.   

 

And of course most of us will never suffer the kind of exile the psalmist spoke of. And if we are lucky, most of us will never experience the exile of blindness, like Bartimaeus. Our exiles (at least for most of us here in the US) will look more like loneliness, feeling unwanted or unneeded, or a failure, losing our place in a friend group or losing a job, or even losing our favorite pew at church…

 

Like me, your exile may not involve a great deal of discomfort, like me it could even be self-inflicted… in fact it may be as simple as having a bad day, or a bad week, or baking a bad muffin.  But whatever it is, trust that God is nearby—in fact He is right there with you, waiting to use it as an opportunity to reveal the blessing of His love.

Listening and asking them questions... thoughts on the presence of God

 

“Where are you?”

--Genesis 3: 9

 

In the readings for Mass today we heard that profoundly important story of Adam and Eve and the Fall (Genesis 3: 9-15).  The reading begins just after the eating of the forbidden fruit.  God comes into the garden and calls out to Adam, who is hiding from Him.  There is so much that can be said about this simple and relatively brief story, so much truth to be discovered, so much insight into the psychology of sin, of shame, of scapegoating.  Adam hides because he is naked, because he is vulnerable to the view of another—because he is self-conscious and doesn’t want anyone to notice some aspect of his nature, his being (his sin).  When questioned, he tries to obfuscate: tries to deflect attention on himself by shifting it to God’s sudden appearance. “I heard you walking in the garden and hid because I was naked.” As if he has not always been naked, as if that is not the way he has always appeared before God.  Then when questioned further, he shifts the blame to Eve.  But it’s not only her fault; God is still to blame.  “The woman YOU put here with me...” (3:12) is the real problem! And then Eve, who was just thrown under the bus, turns and blames the serpent. It’s not my fault, it was that damned serpent! “The snake tempted me...” (3:14).  Ask yourself, isn’t that still the way sin works? We get tempted, we do something we’re ashamed of, and as soon as someone finds us out we start looking for someone, or something else to blame.  It’s not my fault. It’s the media, it’s the economy, it’s society, my parents, my husband, my wife... My fault (or sin) is never truly mine, but can always be explained away as the result of someone else’s choices or behavior.     

Anytime we are tempted to think of how backwards and unenlightened people used to be, how primitive they were; how they wouldn’t understand the complexities of life today, wouldn’t grasp the psychological or emotional or social ramifications of a particular action or choice---just pause and reread the first few chapters of Genesis.  It’s all there.  Modern psychology and morality have nothing to teach the ancient writers of the Hebrew Bible.

 

But there is one small aspect of this story that I want to ponder for a moment today: the way that God talks with Adam and Eve. It’s a series of questions. The first thing God does is look for Adam. Talk about a theologically profound image. Adam and Eve have disobeyed God’s command and fallen into sin, and instead of abandoning them, or smiting them, God goes looking for them.  Ponder that for a week or two.  But what caught my eye this morning was the questioning.  “Where are you?” God calls out, but why? God is omniscient and knows exactly where every hair on Adam’s head is at every moment, why does He need to ask? He doesn’t... And that, to my ear, is a clue to the reader. God doesn’t need to ask Adam where he is. God doesn’t need to ask who gave the fruit to Adam? God doesn’t even need to ask why Eve ate from the forbidden tree. God knows. So, why does God ask?  Because it is in the very nature of God to invite us into relationship. To ask us questions, and to listen to our answers.  God asks not for His benefit, but for ours. So that we can reveal ourselves to Him. So that we might freely open ourselves entirely to Him, to His love, and to His mercy.

 

Listening to this story today, I suddenly found myself thinking of another image of God asking questions and listening.  It is from the story of Jesus as a child getting lost in Jerusalem. When Mary and Joseph finally find Him, He is sitting among the elders in the temple, “Listening to them and asking questions...” (Luke 2:46).

 

This is how God reaches out to people. He asks questions, and He listens.

 

How much better would the world be today if we all acted the same?  If, instead of trying to blame someone, or shame someone, what if we acted a little more like Jesus? Instead of casting blame or shame, what if we—instead—each began asking more questions and listening to the answers?  

 

We may not agree with what we hear, but we may find that a door has been opened—both in us and in the person we listen to. And we may find that opening that door changes more than opinions, it changes the world.  Because that’s how God works.

 

What do you think?