The Widows’ Might

Homily for November 8, 2015 (32nd Sunday in Ordinary Time)
1 Kings 17:10-16; Psalm 146; Hebrews 9:24-28; Mark 12:38-44
The Widows’ Might

Television critics this fall are raving about the number of strong (though certainly not perfect) women characters in a variety of shows, including Empire, Madam Secretary, Quantico, Scandal and—last but certainly not least—Super Girl.  Of course, strong women have always been around, even if we haven’t always recognized or respected them in popular entertainment, government, business or the Church.  We meet two of them in today’s scripture readings.

At first, it seems odd or even contradictory to think of widows, particularly in the Bible, as strong; and there’s good reason for that.  In fact, widows in ancient times were often quite vulnerable.  The vast majority of them were poorly educated; they had no inheritance rights; there was no system of social security; and while their own families or in-laws could possibly take them in, that often didn’t happen.  Many were left to fend for themselves and their children; and in very patriarchal societies with relatively few options for women, that meant that they were exposed to all kinds of abuse and exploitation.

It’s no wonder, then, that in ancient Israel widows were counted among the anawim, the “little ones” who were in special need of God’s care and protection.   Both the Law of Moses and the writings of the prophets made respect for the rights and needs of widows, along with immigrants, children and the poor a touchstone of Israel’s covenant with God.  The early church even had an “order” of widows—a group of women who devoted themselves to prayer and service.

The two widows we encountered in today’s readings were definitely vulnerable:  one had a small bit of oil and a handful of flour to feed her and her son, as well as to provide hospitality to a prophet; and the other was left destitute after offering her last remaining tithe at the temple—what’s come to be known as “the widow’s mite.”  Yet it was their recognition and acceptance of their vulnerability that also awakened them to the reality of their dependence on God.  Placing their faith in God, they had the courage to do things that may have seemed almost suicidal.  One, very literally preparing for her last meal, fixed a small cake for a prophet from a foreign land.  The other gave to the temple treasury “her whole livelihood.”

As the author of the Letter to the Hebrews noted, in a similar though even more radical way, Jesus offered his own life on the cross “to take away the sins of many.”  What gave him and those widows to place their lives in God’s hands so completely?  It was an inner strength:  the strength to let go of whatever illusions or pretensions they had about their self-sufficiency and to recognize and serve others’ needs even in the face of their own, which seemed overwhelming.

But there was something else, too:  desperation.  At some point, they had only a little left to give:  some flour and oil, a couple of small coins, a body on a cross.  They didn’t have much to lose and, seeing with the eyes of faith, they could see that they had everything to gain.

In the end, the most that any of us can give of ourselves is—ourselves.  It may not seem like much, but it’s all we have.  It’s easy to hold on to; but it’s much harder to let go.  That kind of radical gospel living requires the strength of a superhero—you could say a widow’s might. +