In the Gospel reading yesterday morning, the road to Jerusalem in Mark’s account of the Gospel at last brings Jesus and his followers to the Holy City.
It’s worth remembering when we read this story in the U.S., where “church” and “state” seem separated on paper only, that first-century Jerusalem was the seat of Judean religious power and also Roman imperial power for the province; these two forms of power come together at the temple treasury in the story from Mark (12:38-44).
Mark wastes no time in setting the stage for violent conflict in Jerusalem. Mark’s Jesus quickly clashes with every possible authority group in that capital city; in yesterday’s encounter, it was the “scribes,” the interpreters of Mosaic Law—the religious lawyers, in other words.
Mark’s Jesus has been arguing with these scribes about a wide range of issues and his patience has simply run out. Many Christians are familiar with Mark’s rendering of that moment, but probably not with an exasperated Jesus. While rich people drop big sums of money into the temple’s donation boxes, a poor widow contributes two small coins—all the money she has.
The lectionary compilers know quite well that late autumn is the time for fundraising campaigns in most churches—thus the readings about money at this time of year. But the temple story from Mark is far too often and too crudely used to guilt people into giving more money: If even a poor widow can give all she has to the Temple, then surely you can give a bit more to the church…
Mark would be horrified by using his story that way. The poor widow in this story is not the poster child for stewardship campaigns; she is, rather, the shining emblem of God’s own commitment to a world of justice. (Ched Myers provides an invaluable resource for interpreting Mark in the frames of social and economic justice; I am indebted to his analysis of this Markan story.)
As Mark’s Jesus continues his teaching in the temple, he issues a warning: “Beware of the scribes,” he says. Beware of the religious lawyers who tell you what the law means but then “devour” the houses of widows.
That rather strange phrase refers to a first-century legal practice regarding estate management. When the male head of a household died, his estate was given over to the religious scribes to administer because the widow, as a woman, was considered unfit to do so. (And by the way, lest we look down with smugness on that ancient practice, let us not forget that women in the United States were not allowed to have a credit card or take out a loan in their own name until 1974.)
Back in the first century, the scribes were compensated for their estate services by taking a percentage of the estate. As you might imagine, abuse was common in this system, forms of embezzlement to the point of impoverishing the widows—or as Mark’s Jesus puts it, the houses of widows were devoured.
“Beware of these religious scribes,” Jesus says, and then he sits down “opposite the treasury,” Mark says—a phrase we should read as not merely about geographical location but moral orientation: over and against it, as opposed to the temple treasury, where this social and economic abuse of widows is on display.
Quite honestly, after many decades of reading and hearing this story, I have consistently failed to see Mark’s point in telling it. The reason the widow is poor in this story is because the scribes have stolen her money—some of which they were putting in the offering plate, right in front of Jesus! These religious experts would have known that the Mosaic Law they claimed to interpret explicitly provided for the care of both widows and orphans; it was a divine commandment.
But right there, in the temple of God’s presence, the scribes no longer protect the poor but crush them, and then flaunt it. Right there in the outer court of the temple, economic oppression is on display and barely concealed with “long prayers,” as Mark puts it.
Jesus is outraged.
Despite all the pietistic sermons I have heard (and yes, preached) in the past about this impoverished woman giving all she has, Jesus is not commending the widow for her religious piety; he’s calling out the scribes for their religious hypocrisy. Jesus then leaves the temple in disgust, and, it turns out, for the last time before he is arrested and killed.
Among the four gospel writers, Mark is especially keen to address economic injustice as a vital component of the Gospel. Mark is also eager to point out how religion gets used to support the financial inequities of social systems—systems that are almost always designed to favor men.
When Mark’s Jesus insists that the poor widow has actually given more than all the rich people, he is not congratulating her or recommending this practice; he’s drawing attention to the injustice of a system in which the poor contribute proportionally far more to the system than those who are wealthy, a common dynamic in nearly every human society throughout human history—including the United States.
This kind of social and economic analysis can make most of us deeply uncomfortable, including me. But that is precisely the “discomfort zone” the Gospel calls us to inhabit, and I am fairly confident that this will increasingly be the case in the weeks and months to come.
Given the rocky road likely ahead of us, it’s worth remembering that the road to Jerusalem in Mark is the good road of the Gospel, the one that leads not only to the Cross but also the Empty Tomb. The good road of the Gospel marks a journey of costly discipleship for the sake of flourishing—for all. The good road of the Gospel is not easy to find, but just ask anyone on the margins of a wealthy and powerful world; they will have a map.
The many books of the Bible, written over many centuries by different communities, are remarkably consistent about this: care for the orphan, the widow, and the stranger is religiously non-negotiable; and resisting unjust systems of oppression is the very definition of discipleship—not because people on the margins deserve our pity (that tired old noblesse oblige of the wealthy West) but because the excluded and forgotten can usually show us the best road home.
Yesterday’s lectionary texts all confirm this—from the story in the Hebrew Bible about Elijah and the widow of Zarephath, a city of Gentiles and outsiders (1 Kings 17:8-16); or from the psalmist who praises God for giving justice to the oppressed, care to the stranger, and who sustains the orphan and widow (Ps. 146); and of course from Mark, whose story in the temple I now read quite differently than I ever have before: the poor widow embodies a fierce faithfulness, the persistence to live with the dignity God gave her while living with virtually nothing that the world should have given her.
Searching for appropriate visual images for worship this past week, I did a Google search for “poor widow,” and the usual suspects appeared immediately. But scrolling down the screen I stumbled on an odd match: “The Calla Lily Vendor,” by Alfredo Ramos Martinez. I still can’t figure out why Google included this one, but I’m glad for it. The “poor widow”—too often a frail old lady in my imagination—is just as likely a determined single mother doing whatever she must to care for her children as she is a demure recipient of social security checks.
The stubborn faithfulness of widows—my own dear mother embodied this to the very day she died—showed up in all sorts of guises in recent days. A gay friend of mine posted on social media last Wednesday morning, the day after the election. He wrote about waking up disappointed and also afraid. “But then I realized,” he wrote, “that I woke up with the same two arms and the same two hands that I had yesterday. I realized that no election can take away my capacity for kindness, and love, and service.”
He noted that this election might very well take away his rights as a gay man; it might take away still more rights from women, who are already afraid for their safety. While this election might very well cause harm in countless ways, he wrote, “I will continue to choose kindness and love and service.”
That’s exactly the good road of the Gospel God always calls us to walk but especially right now. Mark’s story in the temple offered me a powerful reminder about how we learn to walk that Gospel road: in solidarity with the poor in a rich world; and with women in a patriarchal world; and therefore and also with LGBTQ people in a world of bullies.
Standing in solidarity with all those on the margins is a Gospel posture.
Walking with them is the way of discipleship.
Offering kindness and love to each other on the road is our service of healing.
This is always true, and that has always been how disciples of Jesus walk the Gospel road home, regardless of election outcomes.
Yes, and, I think it is especially true right now.