A Gift

(From Mark 12)

It was a special week in so many ways. More than special, in fact. Yes, we always celebrated Passover during this week of the year. That, in itself, would have been special enough. But this week, this Passover, would be unlike any other, before or since.

It was the week when our Lord, Jesus, entered Jerusalem sitting on the back of a donkey, receiving a welcome fit for a king. Only days later, he was dead, hanging lifeless on a cross. And to the shock of us all, after three more days, he was alive again.

You obviously know all of that. How could you not? This was indeed, the most momentous week in all of history.

But first, you must be wondering who I am. Who I am is not important. Just know that I was there. I was there with Jesus as he entered the city, and I was there with him on the Mount of Olives; there, in the crowd, as he taught in the temple and yes, when the crowd shouted to crucify him, I was there. And finally, and most important, I was there to see him raised to life again!

So much happened in that one eventful week. Jesus drove out the money changers and he preached in the temple. It was wonderful! The Pharisees and elders argued with him, plotted against him, tried to trap him and accused him. And finally, they had him arrested and killed. You can read about it in the four Gospels. And you can meditate on what it all means to you.

But on one afternoon that week, for a period of only about fifteen minutes, Jesus wasn’t doing anything other than watching, simply watching. Reading the Gospels, you might easily overlook this fifteen minutes. But don’t overlook it, go back and read it again. I know. Because I was there with him, watching him. Yes, I was watching him as he was watching, and I was wondering why. 

It was the day, you see, when the people brought their gifts to the temple. You might imagine that during the week of the Passover, this was the opportunity to bring a special gift in commemoration of what God had done in leading the Children of Israel out of slavery in Egypt.

On this day, the wealthy were bringing their gifts to the Treasury. Most of them made quite a big show of it. They wanted, you see, to be visible. They wanted, you see, to be known and respected for the size of their gift. And sure enough, a crowd had gathered, a crowd of ordinary folks, to watch these prominent members of our society bring their gifts. It was all done in public.

We were seated just across from them, in the shadows of the temple courtyard. Why were we there? Didn’t Jesus have something better to do? Or was this nothing more than an attempt to escape the center of attention for just a few short minutes? Did Jesus simply need a rest? Was this week too much for him?

I had some small sense of his burden of stress. He was good at keeping it under control. But as I reflect on that turbulent week, I find it impossible to understand what he must have been feeling. After all, in addition to all of the scheming of his enemies, one of his closest friends, one he’d chosen three years before, would betray him. And later, another of his chosen friends would deny him three times. And he knew in advance that these things would happen.

So again, what were we doing peacefully sitting across from the Treasury? Just watching? It was puzzling.

And then she appeared. If you weren’t looking closely, you’d have missed her. Most of us did.

An old woman, the only woman in the procession of well-dressed men, was in line to deposit her gift. She was obviously a widow, shabbily clothed all in black. She couldn’t have been more out of place. They craved visibility; she preferred obscurity. They took their time; she hurried.

The Widow's Mite (Le denier de la veuve) - James Tissot

As fast as her bent legs would carry her, she came to the front of the line and dropped a small amount in the collection box. And then, just as quickly, she was gone, melting into the crowd, not seeking attention or thanks. She clearly was not there for the audience.

Jesus turned to us.

“Did you see her? Did you see?” he asked. We were silent. Who? Who did he mean?

“Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.”

With so many events of that week, this small fifteen-minute slice of time could easily be forgotten or glossed over. What did it mean? Why did it seem so important to Jesus?

I have reflected on this for quite some time. Taking things at face value, it’s easy to see the magnitude of her gift. And the faith that must have been required for her to make it. It truly was all she had. And she lacked the economic prospects of virtually everyone else in that procession. Her future was cloudy at best.

I reflected that Jesus did not rebuke or condemn the wealthy givers. He did not. They gave and perhaps, gave generously. That’s between them and God. But still, in Jesus’ eyes, her gift was greater than theirs.

And then, going deeper, I thought of Jesus himself. What had he given up? As the Apostle Paul has said, Jesus “emptied himself,” taking the form of a servant. And giving his own precious life. But he gave more: his reputation and his dignity. He gave his love and friendship to others, but received little love and friendship in return. He gave up all possibilities of a life as a king on earth. He surrendered all power, humbling himself to corrupt figures of authority who sought only to maintain their positions, and who were willing to falsely accuse him and even brutally kill him to achieve their goals.

Yes, Jesus gave it all, relinquishing glory beyond our imagining. Think of the life he left behind when he came to live with us mortals. Think of the life he could have led here on earth. The life of a king! But instead, out of faith in the plans of the Father, he took on the life of a peasant, one who would innocently suffer a shameful, brutal death.

Perhaps, in watching the widow, Jesus saw someone after his own heart, a kindred spirit, someone who was living the kind of faith that Jesus himself lived every day.

And perhaps, this widow was a living lesson to the rest of us on what the kingdom of God is really like.

And then, reflecting even more deeply, I asked myself: what could I give, like the widow gave, in faith? What was so precious to me that it would make an offering equal to hers? That’s when my reflection became very challenging. 

I am a respected person, with a solid reputation. Could I give up my pride? Could I live a life of humility? I am not wealthy, but I am financially secure. Could I surrender my security? My good health is a great blessing. Would I be willing to lose it?

That widow has gone on to her reward, but her act is still speaking to me now, years later. She is gentle. But persistent. I can picture her in glory with my Lord, Jesus. And I take great comfort in that image. It makes me smile. But I still feel challenged by her example. What about you?