Then he said to them, “How can they say that the Messiah is David’s son? For David himself says in the book of Psalms, ‘The Lord said to my Lord, “Sit at my right hand, until I make your enemies your footstool.”’ David thus calls him Lord; so how can he be his son?” In the hearing of all the people he said to the disciples, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and love to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets. They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”
He looked up and saw rich people putting their gifts into the treasury; he also saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins. He said, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them; for all of them have contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty has put in all she had to live on.”
-Luke 20:41-21:4 NRSV
The Widow’s House
My wife, Teresa, and I were driving to Battle Creek, Michigan, for the Thanksgiving holiday when Courtney called and asked us to meet her at a hospital in Grand Rapids. I reeled upon hearing the words, “It’s cancer.” Her husband Brian was roughly my age, in good health, and a proud dad. The markers hit close to home.
Brian was covered up when we arrived, which struck me, because the man was so infernally hot all of the time. Even in winter, he hardly wore anything more than a Carhartt sweatshirt and some ratty overalls to the job site. It was apparent that he was planning on going to work that day. His clothes showed the wear of a life out of doors, with the ever-present trappings of saw dust, subfloor adhesive, and red chalk set into the fabric. I hugged him. He smelled of pine.
In the cure of souls, you learn to steer some conversations toward the pain. But this was the first time that steering toward the pain meant steering myself toward the reality that we are never promised another day. No words were necessary at that point or warranted. Presence is what mattered. To sit in the ash next to someone is one of the deepest ways we can love one another. And I’ve learned that the silence born out of such encounters will give birth to something. In my case, that something was a promise.
Brian spoke first. “Will you promise me something?”
“Anything,” I said.
“Promise me that when I’m gone, you will be here for my kids.”
“Of course,” I said.
A nurse stepped between us to take his vitals. She turned to tell her counterpart something and Brian looked at me and said, “I want you to come because I don’t want my kids to hate God. I want to see them again.” Turning back toward Brian, the nurse asked him if he needed water. That allowed me just enough time to breathe and resist the temptation to offer a counter theology. I’ve thought quite a bit about this exchange since then and about what it implies of God’s nature, death and judgement, and the afterlife.
Always, it seems, we live in that space between death and resurrection, holding on to the promise that nothing can separate us from the love of one who loved us first, even if sometimes we don’t believe it. It’s not that such a promise is untrue, but that sometimes grief renders the promise unreal.
When it came time for us to leave, I asked Brian if there was a piece of scripture that he had been holding close to his heart. He closed his eyes and quoted Romans 8:38-39. His shoulders relaxed as he spoke. Teresa and Courtney stopped to listen. I felt in awe of his conviction, which as expressed drew everyone in that room together and spoke directly to the longing of our hearts. “Will you come?” he asked. I promised.
***
My friend is the nearer presence of our Lord now. And with his death and burial came the medical bills. Courtney and the kids were forced to sell the home that Brian had built for them and the day the door closed, I heard the widow whose house had been devoured say to her kids, “I love God. I have seen His grace at work. I have faith and your father did too. I’m just done believing in miracles.”
In the face of all that, Courtney’s love for God often brings me to my knees. And her truth? Well, Courtney’s truth is perhaps that, “Faith in God is less apt to proceed from miracles than miracles from faith in God.”
For the fact that Love remains – is miracle enough sometimes.
The Rev. Nick Phares
Rector
St. Luke’s, Bartlesville