A slight disclaimer: What follows is the basic text (minus the occasional digressions) of a sermon that I preached at Comox United Church, Comox, B.C. on November 7, 2021. It is not an essay. It is written to be spoken and in a manner that reflects my preaching style, which I suspect might be described as “informal.” Nor does it have the full assortment of citations, acknowledgements, and footnotes normally (and quite reasonably) expected in a more formal work. Please forgive the grammatical peculiarities!
Blessings
Phil Spencer
Let me share with you two vignettes, two pictures that I have in my mind. The first is of me sitting in the living room with a friend, a young man, about 45 years ago. Some years later we both moved to different communities and lost contact, sadly enough, but we were good friends at the time. I’ll call him “Dave” for the purposes of publicly talking about him today, but I’d love to know where Dave’s life took him. We were both involved in an organization that required us to spend some time working together and we discovered that we quite enjoyed each other’s company and began spending social time with each other. I was at university and he—a few years older than me—was a fairly new member of the RCMP, a job that, not surprisingly, was profoundly shaping his life. Being “a member” was the primary way he was identifying himself and he was well-aware of the peculiar demands that his work made of him and what it might one day, call on him to do. That evening in the living room he admitted to me—no, confessed to me—that he found his work really challenging, that he was burdened by the possibility that he might one day be asked to risk his life for the safety of the community, and this was crushing him. In some split-second decision-making process, would he actually carry through with the responsibilities that he’d promised to shoulder? When push came to a shove, would he follow through, even at the cost of his life? Did he—a good and honourable man whom I admired—did he have what the job demanded? Would he be obedient even at the cost of his life? As I said, we lost touch, but I often wonder how Dave made out.
Second vignette: it was a year before my father passed away, and he and I were walking into the Qualicum Civic Centre for the November 11th Remembrance Day observance. My Dad was 93 and quite frail at this point, and he was needing to hold on to my arm. I remember his medals on his chest, and how his best blazer and slacks were now loose-fitting on him—he was slowly losing weight, as old and physically declining men sometimes do—but I was so proud. I was basking in reflected glory for this was my Dad, a one-time pilot in the 2nd World War. He’d joined at age 18 and 3 months—the time when his parent’s permission to enlist was no longer required (yes, there’s a story there) and he began a 6-year stint in the RAF serving a variety of roles in different theatres, but most memorably flying Lancasters in Bomber Command. Dad never spoke much about what he did during the war in my growing up years and he showed no interest at all in the formal or informal gatherings of veterans, that is, until after my mother passed away, and he suddenly began to share with me all sorts of information. And yes—we began to attend Remembrance Day services together. I remember one dinner (Dad would always come over on Monday nights) and I asked him about how he felt flying over Germany, doing what he was required to do, with flack exploding all around him, and with friends just disappearing at an alarming rate. It was a really high-risk job—RAF aircrew had a 60 percent attrition rate, with 46 percent losing their lives and the remainder being wounded or taken prisoner.1 My Dad replied saying that he was utterly terrified. I then asked him how old he was, and after a while he said, “20.” We then both automatically looked at my son, his grandson, who was sitting on the other side of the table, all of 20 years old, and to both our minds, still very much a boy.
I was able to fill in a lot of historical blank-spots about my family in my father’s last years, but occasionally I still have questions that bubble up that I wished I’d asked him. I think now that I should have asked him that night at the dinner table, “So what kept you going when you were so afraid?”
Obviously, I’m thinking about these stories this morning because of the day we’ll be marking this next week—Remembrance Day. We, in the Commonwealth countries have—since the end of World War 1—taken a little time out of our lives on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month each year to remember those who gave their lives—“gave their all,” as it were, at the call of their countries. I’m pretty much a layman when it comes to things military—truth be told I flirted with the idea of that particular kind of service when I was in my mid-20’s, but as you can see, that wasn’t where I ended up. Nonetheless, it’s always been a field of endeavor that’s interested me—in no small part because my father and other family and friends have served their countries in that way, and the inevitable complications that arise in relation to the life of faith. From my particular vantage point, it’s always seemed to be clear what the expectations were of those who offered themselves in that form of service. Obedience isn’t “a negotiable”—the only way military and para-military service works is through a sense of duty, a preparedness to act on instruction even if the rationale for the task isn’t fully understood or if consequences aren’t especially pleasant. There’s always the awareness that this obedience might lead to injury or even to death, that the stakes of the enterprise are so high that it might require the giving of one’s life. Not that this should be a surprise to those who enlist—this reality, this “price-of-doing-business” is generally well-spelled out early on: obedience and a preparedness to offer everything.
I dare say that the Church would be wise to make note of this, because, in my opinion, the stakes are no-less serious, and the price of doing business can be just as substantial in the calling that we’ve received. But for some reason, in the Church we aren’t always so clear about that, which is odd, because while the Church, the Body of Christ, is sometimes a bit vague about the price of being a follower, Jesus himself is quite clear about the cost, as I think today’s reading from Mark’s Gospel illustrates.
This passage—sometimes referred to as the story of “the widow's mite”—has been well-used by the Church to help us grow in our understanding of what we call “stewardship.” And in that sentence I’ve just used two expressions that aren’t as commonly employed in general conversation, not used as they may have been at another time. One is a prime example of our jargon, our “church-talk”: the word “stewardship,” which is our technical term for how we relate to and manage our resources, our time and our talents and our treasure. Stewardship sermons and conversations have often referred to this Biblical text, because it has a lot to say about how we give and how we might not give.
You heard the account: Jesus and his followers have arrived in Jerusalem and they’ve taken a trip to the Temple. The Temple, remember, was the spiritual heart of Jerusalem, of Israel really! For the Jewish faithful it would be a most natural place to visit and even for non-Jews it would be on their “must-see” list—you go to Jerusalem, you “take in the Temple.” It was a 1st century Judean version of, “You go to Vancouver Island and you go to Tofino.” (A complete aside: something I’ve found in my travels in Europe, is that when people find out I’m from BC, they ask about 3 places. Whistler, Tofino … and “Goats on the Roof in Coombs.” Really!) Anyway, Jesus is more than a tourist or even a pilgrim on this day for we learn in the preceding passage that he’s actually doing some teaching in the Temple, and we can also see earlier in the chapter—through the whole Gospel, really—that he’s had some conflict with some of the religious leaders of the day. It never hurts us to remember that Jesus’ main opponents in the Gospels are usually church-folk, and particularly church leaders.
Anyone noticed it’s a bit warm in here?
That conflict becomes quite obvious in the first part of our reading this morning when he makes a point of drawing his disciples’ attention to the scribes. The scribes were those who studied the Scriptures—the first 5 books of the Old Testament, what was referred to as “The Law”—and so they taught and interpreted them, and other sacred writings. They were essentially religious lawyers and they enjoyed a particular prestige in their community. Jesus pointed out to his hearers how they seemed to enjoy that status and standing in some unhealthy ways. It seemed that they were too often rather full of themselves, they dressed in flashy ways—that kind of “look at me” way of dressing—and they expected to be treated as people who had elevated social standing. Jesus, on the other hand, thinks they’re not only self-important poseurs, but he actually goes so far as to claim that they’re corrupt and that they take financial advantage of widows.
What makes that charge especially harsh is that fact that, in the highly patriarchal culture of 1st century Judea, widows were an especially vulnerable segment of society and at least some scribes were exploiting that exposure. As he’s drawing his friends’ attention to this they’re also watching all sorts of other folk making donations to the Temple treasury. People are dropping off large cheques and seemingly doing so in ways that makes it absolutely certain that just no one misses out on seeing what generous people they are, but just out of the sight of the TV cameras, there’s a poor widow—and not just a widow—but a poor one (which in a world where widows were so often on the low end of the economic spectrum, to be notably poor is no small feat).
We’re talking destitute and this poor widow makes her way to the donation chests and drops off two small copper coins, which brings me to the other unusual expression that I used earlier on, “the widow’s mite,” the phrase traditionally used to identify this story.
The “mite,” which in this case is actually plural (it’s really 2 mites). The “mite” is a reference to the widow’s offering of two copper coins (“mite” meaning “coin”) which—using my advanced math skills means that she was making a total contribution of one whole penny. And even for those of us old enough to remember a penny being valuable enough to actually buy something, instead of being a “rounding error,” which is what it is for us today we’re not talking a whole bunch of money here. This has been calculated to be the princely sum of 1/64th of the pay that would be given to a day-labourer. So, just to be clear, the widow has contributed what would be something less than half the price of a cup of coffee in this community. And yet Jesus points her out and praises her—says with delight, “Look at her!” lifting up her generosity above all the other ostentatious examples of giving that are about to be shown on the 6 o’clock news. What’s with that?
Well, here’s “what’s with that”: it’s everything she’s got. Giving those two coins actually drains her bank account. She’s just given God everything she has—she’s holding nothing back—she’s given it all. And Jesus has now introduced a revolutionary concept to his followers—proportion and proportionality. It’s not the total that impresses God. I mean seriously—do you think God—the one who created the universe with words, who made human beings out of dirt , do we seriously think that God’s going to be especially impressed with our giving of a hundred bucks? A thousand? A million? A trillion? I rather doubt it.
No, it seems that what delights God is obedience. There, I’ve said it! Normally I try and disguise and make more palatable that disturbing term “obedience” by trying euphemisms like “faithfulness” but who am I trying to kid here? As a liberal baby boomer—born in the 50’s and a child of the 60’s—indeed, the very apex of human existence J —the notion of obedience doesn’t always get a lot of traction with me and mine. On the other hand, God seems to rather like it when we live in the way that Jesus described and lived himself, when we self-actualize by choosing obedience. In this case, obedience is the giving of a percentage of the total—the proportion. And that percentage? Well, if this story is telling us anything, the number seems to be 100% … to which I say: oh, dear. This subject’s always a little touchy and maybe even more so when we’re budgeting for the coming church year. But then again, maybe it’s timely. What especially warms God’s heart? When we give it all—100%. As I said, this text is often preached as a stewardship text, offered as a Bible reading about giving money. And while it can be appropriately used that way, I have a hunch that Jesus was thinking of a lot more than mere money when he pointed to the widow that day.
About 25 years ago I decided that there’d be some benefit in sitting down and reading The Bible from cover to cover, and so I took a week of study leave, went to my in-law’s cabin on Lake Cowichan, and read for 8 hours a day. I sure enough, I finished reading it in a week—it isn’t that hard if you’re speedy reader (thanks for passing that on to me, Dad!)—but it was different than reading it in my normal fashion, in a few verses or paragraphs or even a few chapters. One of the things that became clear to me, as we stepped back from the specific Biblical details and looked at the larger themes we encountered, was that it seems that God is always asking God’s people this question: “Do you trust me?” “Do you trust me enough to … fill in the blank?” So much of the Biblical story is built around that question and our answer. “Do you trust me? Will you trust me enough to be obedient, to give me 100%? … to go ‘all in’ and to give me everything?” The subtext being: “Do you think I’m not going to care for you when you honour the call I have on you?”
On this Sunday when we take some time to remember those who answered the call of the nation and “gave their all,” assuredly doing so with mixed motives, most afraid and filled with uncertainty, but nonetheless, people who gave their lives in service to our nation … and also to remember poor widows and others who loved God so much that they withheld nothing people who gave 100% … on this particular and peculiar Sunday, I find myself wondering about the call on my life and pondering this question: what’s the part of my life that I’m holding back? Is there an area of my being that I’m holding back, that God’s asking me to give in a much greater proportion than I have in the past? How is God asking me, and you, “Do you trust me?” Amen.