In a nation living with the legacy of a powerful church, the widow’s gift offers a way forward. (Listen here.)
Many years ago, a student Christian group I knew ran a community lunch in the borrowed hall of a local church. A few had left fundamentalist congregations, and were haunted by vivid depictions of a vengeful God, a burning hell, and a faith built on fear and control. Another had left a church whose senior pastor had unchecked power, and was on a mission to destroy.
Some had been significantly abused by religious leaders. Still others had walked away from endless committees which sucked the life out of everything. Most were disillusioned by the sidelining of women and the rejection of queer folk by the church, and the absence of creativity and life.
At university they found each other and, week after week, they also found the time, money, and passion to cook a meal for people from the nearby public housing estate. They ate together, had conversations and built connections, and cleaned up afterwards. This group also published a hand-drawn zine, which told faith stories and explored theology from different points of view. They gathered weekly in a staff worker’s home for meals and Bible study, and most of them were preparing for careers which were all about service.
Yet few if any of these students attended an established church. Conversely, nobody from the church whose hall they borrowed participated in the lunch. In fact, after several years a new minister arrived who shut the lunch down. He insisted that the space must be kept ‘holy’, by which he meant used only for worship on Sundays. This, of course, only contributed to the group’s sense of alienation from organised religion.
Many of us have similar stories, in which we have seen deeply faithful people leave the local church. And many would agree that much of the church is in crisis. Although mega-churches dominate the public imagination, the reality is that half of Australian churches have fewer than fifty people on a Sunday; a quarter, fewer than 25. All around, congregations are ageing and shrinking and amalgamating, and churches are closing. Small congregations freak every time the roof leaks or a slate falls off: for where will they find the money for maintenance? Committed members don’t attend meetings; giving is way down as a proportion of income; and for many, the buildings have become a burden. Indeed, many empty buildings are being sold off and turned into offices or housing.
And with church budgets so often strapped for cash, many pastors are now paid part time. This comes during an era of dramatic changes in Australian society regarding education, housing, work, and regulatory frameworks. The result is both a widespread collapse in volunteerism and an explosion in reporting requirements. Unsurprisingly, pastoral burnout is rife. Indeed, eighty percent of graduates leave ministry within five years; and forty percent of ministers have considered leaving their church in the last three months. Why? The most common reasons given are isolation and the stress of unrealistic expectations.
One solution, of course, would be to dramatically increase giving. We might not be wanting a state-of-the-art complex, but with increased giving perhaps the roof could be fixed and the pastor properly paid and some extra staff hired. You all know how those sermons go. ‘Whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly,’ writes Paul to the Christians in Corinth. ‘And whoever sows bountifully will also reap bountifully … for God loves a cheerful giver.’ (2 Cor 9:7-8). And so, such a sermon concludes, you must give ‘not under compulsion’, simply as generously as the widow in Mark’s story who hands over two coins, ‘everything she had, all she had to live on.’ (Mark 12:44)
But Paul is not writing to a widow or even an individual. Instead, he’s writing to a church, and he’s asking it to honour its promise to financially support destitute widows in Macedonia. There had been a famine there, you see, and the rich church said it would help. But all its promises have come to nothing, so now Paul is trying to persuade the wealthy church to keep its word.
This situation, in which a wealthy religious institution says it will support poor widows but doesn’t, was very familiar to Mark. For despite what you may have been taught in Sunday School, the story we usually call ‘The Widow’s Mite’ is largely about the dangers of religious power and wealth. Yet it’s almost always interpreted as being about the widow’s giving, often in ways which encourage poorer people to give money to already wealthy institutions. Indeed, I remember when Indigenous women on APY lands were found to be sending cheques to America in response to a televangelist’s impassioned appeals. He needed a private jet, you see, to more effectively spread God’s word. And so these generous-hearted women, the poorest of the poor, gave their coins like the widow in the story that he so often quoted, leaving nothing for rent or medical bills.
‘Beware those scribes who like to swan around in expensive clothes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplace, and to have places of honour at banquets!’ says Jesus. ‘They devour widow’s houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.’ (Mark 12:38-40)
The American televangelist didn’t preach on this bit, but it comes immediately before the bit about the widow’s giving: it’s all one story. Putting the pieces together, we see that Jesus isn’t so much praising widows who give away all they have to live on, but warning them. Beware. Beware those religious leaders who use their position for their own enrichment, power and glory, he tells them. They will take everything, right down to your house, while performing long sanctimonious prayers on tv: and they will receive the greater condemnation.
Jesus’ words should give every preacher planning a stewardship service more than a moment of pause. Because in any typical congregation, who actually gives? And who should be giving? What is the corporate responsibility here, particularly to the most vulnerable members of the congregation? And what exactly is the greater condemnation?
Looking around at Australia today, the last question is easy to answer. Survey after survey tells us. We know that many people know a bit about the man Jesus. People find him inspiring. They describe him as gentle, witty, wise, loving, compassionate, generous, and forgiving. A man who loved people on the margins, and spoke truth to power. Jesus is a man they are curious about, a man they can respect.
We also know what many people think about the church, but they tend to use other words. Words like judgmental, self-righteous, narrow-minded. Harsh, prejudiced, uptight. Hypocritical. Misogynist. Homophobic. Transphobic. Trapped in the 1950’s, and trying to drag everyone else back. These are the sort of reasons why my friends who ran the community lunch ended up outside the church. Indeed, someone said to me just this week that they don’t understand why so many churches are so negative. ‘They’re all about the things and the people they don’t like,’ they said. ‘There’s nothing positive or joyful about them. They’re so miserable, so pinched.’
Truth be told, for many in this nation the church is far worse than pinched. For many Indigenous people, the church was a weapon of the state, used to remove children from their families, strip people of language and culture, and theologise about it all, while covering up what was often horrific abuse in institutional ‘care’ homes. For many single pregnant women, church hospitals stole their babies immediately after birth and gave them up for adoption, while telling the women their babies had died and shaming them for their pregnancy and grief. For many thousands of children, church schools were a site of violence, horror and despair, leaving scars which a Royal Commission found are continuing to devastate generations. For countless women and queer folk, churches continue to be sites of limitation, silencing, shaming and denial as their bodies and their gifts are rejected.
And for many observers of politics, with the rise of Christian nationalism the church is an alarming source of reactionary teaching and violence. In many countries, Christian nationalists are seeking to control or erase brown, female, queer and Muslim bodies, and to destroy diversity and democracy through coordinated campaigns. Russia and Hungary are great examples; America is well on the way; and there are ripples of this now in Australia.
The Jesus we encounter in Mark is full of warnings for times like ours. Beware! he says. Beware those who, like the Gentiles, lord it over others (Mark 10:42). Beware those who honour God with their lips, but teach human precepts as doctrine (Mark 7:6-7). Beware those who put stumbling blocks before little ones (Mark 9:42). Beware those who strive for wealth and power and use religious language to achieve it; they shall receive the greater condemnation. And I suggest the greater condemnation includes this: shrinking congregations, falling down buildings, burned out pastors and alienated Christians: for people have very sensibly fled organised religion in droves. The more dominating the church becomes, the lower the engagement of the wider population. Indeed in Russia, where church and state are murderously intertwined, less than 1% of the population attended church on Christmas Day.
So things are very bleak. But I am a great believer in the healing power of speaking truth, even when those truths are hard. So let’s not pretend that the church has been good news for all people in Australia. Let’s not pretend that the church can clutch onto its costly buildings and government funding and colonial wealth while insisting on its moral authority. Let’s not pretend that a judgemental, hostile, fearful and at times abusive stance corresponds in any way to the gospel of Jesus. And let’s not pretend that the church will grow without radical repentance and change. All too often, the church in Australia has betrayed its mandate to love, to care, and to serve the most vulnerable. The people in this country have seen, and great is their condemnation.
What, then, is our hope? Paradoxically, perhaps, it is to go back to the story of the widow who gives everything away. This is not because her giving shores up the Temple or the church and keeps the system running. Instead, it’s because she’s the Christlike figure in this story. Unlike those religious leaders who devote their lives to their own power and wealth and glory, the woman with nothing trusts God for everything and gives her life away.
Let’s take a step back. To be a widow then was to be in a state of desperation. When your husband died, you could go back to your father or brother. But they were also destitute, and had nothing to care for you with. In reality, survival for you and your children meant prostitution or slavery or theft: all activities which exiled you from the people of God. If you paid enough, the priestly class would declare you clean and a member of the community: but giving away even some of your meagre earnings kept you trapped in a daily cycle of poverty, sin and temporary redemption. You earn some money, you give some away, you have nothing to eat, you go sell your body again.
What Jesus observes, however, is a widow who gives everything away. All she had to live on, the story tells us: her food money, her rent money, her medical bills. All of it, she has given over to the Temple system as a sacrifice, as a gift. And in doing so, she offered up her life: for she had nothing left to live on.
What happened next is a mystery. What we do know, however, is the arc of the gospel story. What we do know is that, like the widow, Jesus gave everything to the Temple system as a sacrifice to human sin, as a gift. What we do know is that he emptied himself of power and gave even his life away: for they killed him. And what we do know is that, on the third day, he rose from the dead and is now present in every group of followers who gather in his spirit.
The God made known in Jesus Christ is not behind the sacred curtain in the Temple. He’s not in the churches or buildings or monuments to his name, nor in nations or flags or the heretical rants of violent patriarchal presidents. He’s not in grand or impressive places but among humble people who share in his life and give their own lives away. For it’s in trust and gentleness and generosity and goodness where Christ’s life continues to be found.
And just in case we missed it, first we heard Jesus critiquing religious powerbrokers who devour widow’s houses, then he observed the widow’s mite: but what happened next? Well, many Christians in Australia are greatly impressed by large stones and beautiful cathedrals, and if my Facebook feed is any guide, they often travel overseas to see the most magnificent. ‘What large stones!’ they marvel. ‘What vast buildings!’
Rarely do they seem to think about who benefitted and who paid for these buildings. To comfortable Christians on holiday, they may seem strikingly beautiful; but to poor peasants, corralled in every Sunday to be terrified by images of hell, extorted of funds to ease the afterlife, banned from reading or studying the scriptures, and exhorted to participate in the colonial project via the crusades, these large buildings were about social control. They were about ensuring subservience while the super-rich continued to increase their lands, wealth and social status.
So, ‘Do you see these large buildings?’ Jesus asks one such awed disciple. ‘Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.’ (Mark 13:2). We can understand this metaphorically, but it is good to know that forty years after he spoke these words, the Roman army crushed a Jewish insurrection, killing up to half a million people and turning Jerusalem and its Temple into rubble.
The Temple had been the epicentre of life, the site of pilgrimage, God’s house. It was the place where faithful Jews, including Jesus and his followers, came to worship and learn and argue about faith. Its destruction was absolutely devastating.
But did the faith die? No, it did not. Because faith was never about those religious leaders who sought to centralise power and lord it over others and devour widow’s houses; nor was it about the buildings. Instead, for ordinary Jewish people and then Christian folk, households were the centre of religious practice.
If you read carefully, you soon notice that most of the New Testament is about households. Households welcomed Jesus, fed Jesus, and invited their family and friends over to listen and engage with him: and then they did the same with each generation of disciples. Households were where people met to talk, to laugh, to weep together; to eat together and pray together; to share one another’s burdens and activate one another’s gifts; to study the scriptures together; and to pool their resources so that all would have enough. The book of Acts is full of stories where, simply by coming together in love, households were able to care for and protect countless vulnerable people including many, many widows.
And through this explosion of sharing, miracles happened in kitchens and bedrooms; revelation and conversion over the dinner table. Teaching, healing, anointing; befriending enemies; baptism; economic transformation? It all happened on the road, yes, but mostly it happened in people’s houses.
So Christianity spread like wildfire throughout the Roman empire. It wasn’t because of churches like palaces and priests like kings, but because of its culture of radical sharing. It grew because ordinary folk invited others to eat with them, and join their lives to the common good. The buildings we know as churches came later, when Christianity became a tool of empire; but before then, and for most of us now, the real intimacy, vulnerability, and growth, the commitment to daily love and prayer, the feeding of the hungry, the caring for the sick, the protection of little children, the engagement with the neighbour, and all the other practices of faith happen(ed) in ordinary households.
I think this should be encouraging for the Australian church. The church as we know it may be in crisis. But we don’t need to worry about the size of our congregations or the state of our buildings or our voter base or our political power or our moral authority: because they were never the point. ‘For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.’ (Mark 10:43-44)
And so, like the destitute widow and like Jesus in his absolute vulnerability, we too are called to give our life away. For our faith insists that Jesus has made a once-and-for-all sacrifice which has overcome death forever, and our faith insists that life given away will always spring up with renewed vigour and force.
If we keep trying to protect our life – our status, our authority, our buildings and our assets –, we will most certainly lose everything: and we see this happening in churches all around. But if we are willing to lose our life, relinquishing everything and entering into our death, then where there is currently hostility, fear and condemnation our faith assures us that love, peace and a new and fruitful flourishing will very soon emerge.
The church in the West is at a crossroads. Will it continue to act like the Gentiles, lording it over others? Will it continue to demand respect in the marketplace and a seat at the political table, and become hostile and resentful when no longer accorded these honours? Will it continue to trust in its own power, and aggregate wealth and influence to itself?
Or will it become like the poor widow: trusting in God and yielding its life so that God’s goodness can pour into the world? For this possibility, for vulnerability, for the paradox of our faith and for transformation, let lay down our lives, and pray. Ω
A reflection on Mark 12:38:13-2 given to Rosanna Baptist Church on 10 November 2024 (Year B Proper 27, extended reading) © Alison Sampson 2024. Photo by Phil S on Unsplash. This reflection was prepared on the lands of the Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung people of the Kulin Nation in Poorneet Tadpole Season. This week, warm air and cool are in constant dramatic dialogue.
Alison and the whale 