Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

Entering through the least crowded entrance, she paused in the shadows assessing the situation, attempting to ascertain the least conspicuous path to the offering box. She had no desire to be seen. Not that there was anything to look at. Not anymore. Years ago, when she’d been young and her husband was still alive, she’d looked so much better, had so much more. Then, her offering would be confidently made after standing in the queue with her peers. His death had changed her life. Nothing was the same. Although combed and clean, her face bore worry lines and anxious wrinkles. Her hands were chapped and worn from hours of hard work. Secondhand clothes hung off her gaunt frame, worn and threadbare, patched in mismatched fabric. It was all she had. As were the two coins clutched tightly in her hand. 

There was nothing else. Nothing tucked in the back corner of a drawer for a rainy day. No stash of mad money for going out with friends. Those two coins were the only ones of their kind inhabiting her tiny hovel. They were all she had for food and necessities until the next job came through. The next load of laundry. The next floor to scrub. The next batch of mending. Until it did, she’d be begging for scraps, accepting handouts, asking for leftovers. And she was fine with that. Because these last two coins were designated elsewhere. They were going into service for her Lord. 

She wasn’t the only one there to donate. It must have been payday all over the city. The place was teeming with people. Every class and station seemed to have turned up. Most notably, the wealthy. Unlike her, they meant to be seen. By everyone. They had dressed in their finest clothing and draped themselves in their most impressive jewelry. Their entrance had been at the most congested place, the one where everyone would see them. Tilting their heads at what they deemed an aristocratic angle, they condescendingly strutted to the front of the queue, convinced standing in line was beneath their station. Having gained the attention of the entire room, they paraded up to the giving place, and, with much ado, carelessly tossed in enormous amounts the poor widow could only begin to imagine owning. 

Whispers ran through the crowd. Excitement at being in the presence of celebrity. Awe over the amount so thoughtlessly given. Interest in this height of fashion that was surely all the rage in the upper echelon. In the midst of the crowd’s distraction, she saw her moment. Wasting not one second of the diversion, the spry widow unobtrusively slipped to the front of the queue, dodged up to the offering receptacle and tossed in her beggarly contribution. Wheeling around on worn-out sandals, she melted into the exiting crowd. 

Her heart pounded. Her anxious breath came fast. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one noticed her, visibly relaxing when she saw the people were staring with rapt attention at the next approaching aristocrat. She’d made it. No one had seen her. No one had turned their back as she approached. No one had wrinkled their nose at her clothes or elbowed their neighbor to whisper disparaging things about her tiny gift. No one had noticed her flight, nor had she wanted them to. The gift wasn’t for praise or glory or notoriety. It wasn’t for the people haughtily waving their fortunes about. She didn’t need their praise or attention. Her gift was for God alone. 

The casual observer would have missed her daring stunt. Distracted by the arrival, departure and generous public giving of the wealthy, a tiny, destitute widow wouldn’t have registered on their radar. But Jesus wasn’t a casual observer. Some time ago, He’d sat down across from the offering place to do some people-watching. Humanity was intriguing. Such interesting beings. Complex yet simple. Humble but proud. Giving yet selfish. Free will had them pulled in different directions, their hearts yearning to be good and pure and selfless, but their humanity tugging them toward selfish ambitions, worldly possessions, treasures stored up on earth. Except the widow. He’d seen her the moment she approached. Neat but clearly poor. Hesitant yet intent. Seeking privacy not prominence. He hadn’t taken His eyes off her. 

Intrigued by her reticence, He’d watched intently as the event unfolded. Had seen every move. Known the moment she saw her opening. A gentle, congratulatory smile turned up the corners of His mouth as she hurried to complete her task and make good her escape. The urge to audibly applaud her success nearly overtook Him. He didn’t want to deflate her joy. She was convinced no one had noticed her. And no one had. Except Jesus. And what a beautiful thing He’d seen!

Watching her ragged self approach the crowd, Jesus had seen beyond the patched clothes and worn-out sandals to the glorious, selfless intent of her heart. He’d known all along what was clutched in her white-knuckled fist. He also knew there wasn’t anything else. No cupboard full of filling food. No extra oil for the lamps. No bulging piggy bank of emergency funds. There were just two coins. The giving could unpleasantly impact every aspect of her life. She knew that. Knew all the risks. Yet still she gave. 

Impressed with the stunning beauty of her heart, Jesus called His disciples to gather around. Maybe they had seen her. Maybe they hadn’t. It didn’t matter. Jesus was going to make sure they knew about her. He wanted them to know her contribution, no matter how small, was not to be discounted. He wanted to contrast the selfishness of those who had much with the selflessness of the woman who had nothing. He wanted them to know that although everyone there was giving something, some were giving everything. Just like they had. (John 12:41-44; Luke 21:1-4)

Called from their boats, nets, and tax booths, the disciples left everything to follow Jesus. Not just employment and financial security. Everything. Family. Friends. Dreams. Plans. They’d missed things. Important things. Births. Deaths. Lives. Loves. Yet they’d willingly given it up, believing the cause of Jesus more important than the call of the world. Having nothing else to give, the widow had sacrificed the one thing she had. Her coins. Sustenance for her body. Oil for her lamp. Medication for her ills. In so doing, she’d willingly destined herself to more back-breaking tasks, staunchly believing the cause of Christ to be more important than food or clothes or creature comforts. Different in type, but the same in measure, her gift matched that of the disciples. A gift willingly given from a heart that absolutely believed it was worth all she had. (Mark 1:16-20; Matthew 4:18-22, 9:9-13; Luke 5:2-11; John 1:40-51)

Not everyone could say the same. Racing up to Jesus, the wealthy young man asked what he could do to gain eternal life. He’d kept all the commandments, been kind to his neighbor, and showed respect to his parents. If simply obeying the law would earn him eternal life, he had already arrived. Except it wouldn’t. There was an enormous heap of material must-haves, worldly prestige, and earthly comforts in the way. Perhaps he could have parted with some of them. Maybe he could have donated more funds, cleaned out more things. But Jesus asked for everything. The man couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. His possessions, his power, his prestige were more important to him than the cause of Christ or eternal life. The disciples surely stood in shocked silence as he hung his head and walked away, willing to give something, but unwilling to give everything. (Mark 10:17-22)

Nothing has ever sounded more familiar. In a society constantly screaming for more money, more things, more power, more fame, no one is talking about sacrifice. The concept is largely forgotten. Unless there’s some notoriety that goes along with the check you write. Unless there’s a celebrity name as the face of the charity. Unless you need another tax shelter. Even then, giving looks like donating a small portion of your excess. It doesn’t pinch. It doesn’t hurt. You don’t even notice it’s gone. 

Among the churched, giving looks a lot like ten percent, judiciously figured to the penny and carefully scraped off the top of your paycheck to appease your conscience. It looks like 10-day mission trips to destitute places from which you can return to your comfortable homes with photos and stories to garner praise at your alleged selflessness. It looks like warming a pew expecting to be served and blessed but never offering to bless or serve others yourself. It doesn’t look like sacrifice. It doesn’t look like self-denial. It doesn’t look like humbly “esteeming others better than yourself.” (Psalm 126:6; Romans 12:6-13; Philippians 2:3-11; Proverbs 11:25)

It should. Why? Because giving it isn’t just about money. It’s not about cutting a bigger check for charity. It’s not about dropping more in the church collection plate. It’s not about handing a couple dollars to the guy standing on the corner with a “please help” sign. It’s about giving everything. Yourself. Your time. Your talents. It’s about holding onto the things of the world so loosely. Parting with the unused portion of your overfilled closet. Generously dispensing from your bulging pantry. It’s about sacrificing your television binge to volunteer at the local shelter, lead a Bible study, or open your home for a small group. It’s about honestly offering God all of you, not just the extra bits. It’s about believing, like the poor widow woman, that the cause of Christ is worth anything, worth everything. (Mark 10:17-22; Matthew 6:21, 16:24; Luke 14:25-33; Mark 8:35; Proverbs 28:27)

So do you? At a time when it’s so easy to throw a few dollars in the collection plate and tell ourselves we’ve given enough, do you truly believe the cause of Christ is worth everything you can possibly give? Time. Talent. Treasure. If you weigh what you’ve given against what you have, would you find you are someone who has given something or are you someone who has given it all? (I Corinthians 10:23-33; Philippians 3:8-21; II Corinthians 9:6-8; Luke 6:38; Hebrews 13:16; Deuteronomy 15:10; Proverbs 21:26)