Small Coins

In Mark’s gospel, we hear a lesson from Jesus as he and his listeners observe a widow putting a few small coins into the treasury amidst the large sums being put in by others.

Ever since I was a kid, the interpretation that I’ve most often heard associated with this scripture passage typically concerns our own sense of superiority. Whether in terms of material wealth or our spirituality, I learned, over and over again, that it’s all too easy to look at others whose practices differ from my own and cast judgment on them, especially when I feel that their standards don’t measure up to mine.

Now, Jesus, being Jesus, probably said what he knew his listeners needed to hear. To paraphrase, “Stay in your lane, keep your ego in check, and mind your own business. What she’s offering to God is every bit as valuable as what you’re offering.” Fair enough. I don’t know about you, but that judgy, self-righteous little voice in my head speaks louder than I care to admit sometimes. We could all use a lesson in humility now and then, I suppose.

But when I’m having a tough go of things, especially with respect to my vocation, I find myself thinking about whose benefit that lesson was actually for. Did the widow need to hear it too?

On my worst days, I can’t help but wonder.

Don’t get me wrong. There are days when I feel pretty good about the way I do this faith thing. I pray often. I serve others. I evangelize. I’ve got a decent handle on a variety of matters theological, ecclesiological, and liturgical. People often turn to me for advice or assistance. Lots of folks see me and think I’ve got it all together. And to be honest, when I feel secure about what I’m doing and how well I’m doing it, it’s pretty easy to offer myself and my work to God. The spiritual riches are practically spilling from my pockets and off the edges of my desk.

But the reality of this discipleship gig is that some days, a heavy tax is exacted before I reach the treasury.

The phone rings and I get blasted by someone telling me that my lack of orthodoxy is leading innocent children to hell. It’s followed by an email from someone who accuses me of being hateful and bigoted for upholding Church teaching. I’m too Catholic. I’m not Catholic enough. Both sides have told me I’m not Catholic at all. And I’m left wondering why I do this.

I’m called to provide pastoral care at an elementary school after a student commits suicide. I hold the hand of a friend who has just suffered her third miscarriage. I listen quietly as a coworker comes to my office to rail against a God who would be so cruel as to let his mom die. I have as many questions as they do. And I’m lost for words.

I see my prayers for others being answered every day, while a prayer of my own that I have been fervently praying for years continues to be met with silence. And I feel forsaken.

I reach the treasury, and like the widow, my purse is nearly empty too.

Days like this are hard. I look around and see what others with a robust faith and thriving discipleship are bringing to offer, and what I have left to give pales in comparison. In fact, I’m embarrassed to put it in. Everyone can see what I am bringing, and I know it’s not enough.

But I put it in anyway.

That’s all I can do. Every day, I show up and I put it in anyway. Some days I give from abundance, but the truth is that my messy faith and in-the-trenches discipleship means that there are also days when I give all I have and leave feeling inadequate.

Jesus told his followers it was enough, but sometimes I wonder if the widow overheard him. For my own sake, I hope she did.

By Darcie Lich