Thomas Kleinert
Two widows. One of them we know as the widow of Zarephath. Jesus talked about her when, early in his ministry, he preached a sermon at the synagogue at home in Nazareth.
“There were many widows in Israel in the time of Elijah, when the heaven was shut up three years and six months and there was a severe famine over all the land, yet Elijah was sent to none of them except to a widow at Zarephath in Sidon.” And when they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with rage, and they were ready to kill him.[1]
It’s a kind of jealousy we’re familiar with. We gotta take care of our own first, we say, sometimes quite emphatically. And when we’re filled with rage, we have a hard time remaining receptive to others, or at least curious about them. Most of us today aren’t filled with rage, though. Talking with folks over the past few days, I heard of disappointment and bewilderment, and there’s been considerable numbness and worry, but not much rage. So perhaps we can be receptive to the nameless widow from the other side and her gifts.
Elijah the Tishbite, the man of God, is introduced in the first book of Kings, chapter 17. He steps on the scene during the reign of King Ahab of Samaria, a king infamous for exploring other options than the Lord God as divine guarantors of the land’s fertility and hence the king’s power. Ahab had married a Sidonian princess, Jezebel, and in the book of Kings she is blamed for the fact that Ahab abandoned the worship of the Lord God of Israel and instead erected an altar for Baal in the house of Baal which he built in Samaria. We’re presented with a mighty clash of theopolitical systems: Who gives life to people, Baal or the Lord?
Elijah stepped on the scene and told Ahab, “As the Lord the God of Israel lives, before whom I stand, there shall be neither dew nor rain these years, except by my word.” And that was the beginning of the long drought. After a while, the Lord told Elijah, “Go to Zarephath, which belongs to Sidon (you know, Jezebel’s home town) and live there; for I have commanded a widow there to feed you.” When Elijah came to the gate of the town, he saw her. She and her son were one meal away from starvation, and she was gathering some wood so she could prepare their last supper. She also saw him, the stranger who asked her for a drink and something to eat. She gave him a drink of water and she told him times were hard, recalling for him how little meal was left in the jar, and how little oil in the jug. And the stranger said to her, “Do not be afraid. Make me a little cake of it and bring it to me, and afterwards make something for yourself and your son.”
Why say, Do not be afraid? Why would she be afraid? Ashamed perhaps for not being able to show proper hospitality to the stranger. Or heart-broken, knowing that there would be no more food the next day for her child, or the stranger, or herself. “Do not be afraid,” said the stranger. “I have a word from the Lord God of Israel: The jar of meal will not be emptied and the jug of oil will not fail until the day that the Lord sends rain on the earth.”
“Do not be afraid to trust the promise of the Lord God,” is what he was saying, inviting her — the Sidonian widow who had so little food left, and yet she had more than he did — inviting her to trust and share. And she did. She went and prepared three little cakes — and for as long as the drought continued in Israel, the story goes, the jar of meal in this widow’s household was not emptied, neither did the jug of oil fail.
We can hear this story as a colorful affirmation of the Lord God of Israel as the true life-giver, a story told with great delight in the villages of Israel while Ahab and Jezebel in the capital were pushing hard to remake the realm with Baal as the source of their power. We can hear this story as the first round in the clash between the prophet and the king, and the prophet didn’t just win, he scored a major victory on the opposing team’s home field in Sidon. What easily gets lost, though, in this triumphant take on the story, is the unnamed foreign widow who showed hospitality to the stranger from Israel, and whose trust in the promise of the Lord God unlocked blessings beyond anything our drought stricken minds can imagine.
I’m not starving for lack of food, there’s plenty for most of us in this country, thank God. I hunger for understanding, I thirst for truth and a renewed sense of community, and what I’m craving more than anything is the spark of courage the widow of Zarephath showed — whether she struck that spark herself or whether it simply came to her in the encounter. She’s the one who unlocked blessing for the stranger and her child and every guest who would come knocking on her door during the drought years. She’s the one who inspires me to trust the promise of God.
Now Jesus draws our attention to the other widow. We don’t know her name either. Had they had an annual temple report listing the names of major donors, hers wouldn’t have been in it.
“Beware of the scribes,” Jesus taught the crowd. He didn’t mean the scribes in general, but the ones who liked to walk around in long robes. The ones who liked to be seen, strutting around like peacocks spreading their tails, craving attention and seats of honor. The ones who never tired of reciting long, elaborate prayers so all would see and hear and recognize them — the ones who, famous for their piety, were nevertheless capable of devouring widows’ homes and livelihoods.
Ostentatious piety was one thing, but exploiting widows was a serious charge. Scribes enjoyed great respect as teachers of the Torah, and caring for widows, orphans, and strangers was known to be a central concern of God’s commandments. The law was clear:
You shall not abuse any widow or orphan. You shall not deprive a resident alien or an orphan of justice; you shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge.[2]
The prophets were equally clear, and the Psalms also reflected that sacred commitment to caring for the most vulnerable people by declaring,
The Lord watches over the strangers; he upholds the orphan and the widow, but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin.[3]
Jesus was teaching in the temple, at the heart of an institution established to the glory of God and for the flourishing of God’s people, but one that was used and abused for the worst of very human ends: vanity, self-promotion, and exploitation.
Jesus sat down opposite the treasury and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. Nobody was paying attention to the poor widow who put in two small copper coins. Compared to the gifts of the rich, is was like nothing, like a penny in the parking lot nobody bothers to even pick up. To her, it was everything.
Nobody was paying attention to her, but Jesus points her out to us. He notices her because his eyes, as Debie Thomas put it, “are ever on the small, the insignificant, the hidden.”[4] Jesus wants us to see what he sees, be attentive to what he notices.
“Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”
So much attention for those who gave much, so little for her who gave everything. Everything. Are we supposed to cheer or weep? Jesus doesn’t applaud or commend her, nor does he tell us to go and do likewise. All he does is describe the scene. And there’s no hint in the text to let us know if he speaks with joy in his voice about this woman’s act of complete devotion to God, or if he speaks with anger because he is witnessing how a corrupt institution that is supposed to glorify the God who upholds the orphan and the widow, takes a poor widow’s last coin like some shameless TV preacher.
The day after Jesus and the disciples had come to Jerusalem, he entered the temple and he overturned the tables of the money changers and the stalls of those who sold doves. For a moment, he practically shut down the entire temple operation. “Is it not written,” he shouted, quoting Isaiah and Jeremiah“‘my house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers.”[5]
When the poor widow left the temple, Jesus left it as well. One of the disciples, awed by the magnificent architecture, pointed out some of the details, inviting Jesus to admire them with him. Jesus’ response was quick and short: “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”[6] He had just watched a poor woman give her all to an indefensible institution, one whose leaders refused to honor God by protecting the poor. No edifice steeped in such injustice will stand.[7]
Tossing her last coin into the temple treasury that day may not have been an act of devotion at all, but of judgment. An act of prophetic judgment against leaders who would take her last coin, but not see her, not recognize her dignity as a member of God’s household.
So much is uncertain as we try to imagine the months and years ahead. But trusting the promise of God, and letting ourselves be made into God’s dwelling place on earth together, we can assure each other that numbness will again give way to loving attention and sparks of courage, and no structure steeped in injustice will stand.
[1] Luke 4:25-28
[2] See Exodus 22:22 and Deuteronomy 24:17
[3] Psalm 146:9
[4] Debie Thomas https://www.journeywithjesus.net/theeighthday/446-the-widowed-prophet
[5] Mark 11:15-17
[6] Mark 13:1-2
[7] Debie Thomas, see note 4.