Part II: The Widow Casting Her Two Mites into the Treasury

Illustrating the character of the poor but liberal widow.

‘•’And Jesus sat over against the treasury, and beheld how the people cast money into the treasury: and many that were rich cast in much. And there came a certain poor widow and she threw in two mites, which make a farthing. And he called unto him his disciples, and saith unto them, Verily I say unto you, that this poor widow hath cast more ?n, than all they which have cast into the treasury: for all they did cast in of their abundance; but she of her want did cast in all that she had, even all her living.” — Mark xii. 41 — 44.

THE treasury here spoken of, we should suppose, was a large chest fixed near the entrance to the temple and divided into different compartments, for receiving the offerings of the people. These were appropriated to the purpose for which the donor presented them; some for the repairs of the building; others for the expences of public worship; and some, perhaps for the relief of the poor. The chest was well placed. Piety and liberality should be always associated. Piety should stimulate charity; charity should be the fruit of piety. On one occasion, Christ placed himself opposite this receptacle of benevolence, to watch the offerings of the people. The affluent passed on and deposited their wealth; for “they cast in much.” This is so far to their credit; they who possess much, should give much. God expects it, yea, demands it. Among the richer worshippers came one who united in her circumstances the double affliction of poverty and widowhood. She, of course, will offer nothing. She needs to receive, rather than to impart. All she has to bestow, it may be presumed, is her good wishes. But, no; her hand is not empty. She drops two mites — a farthing. Perhaps the smallness of the sum excited a smile of contempt from some proud proprietor, as he followed her, and magnified, by contrast, the amount of his own contribution. But there was another eye that watched the widow’s offering, and another mind that drew a contrast. And Christ called his disciples unto him and said, “Verily I say unto you, that this poor widow hath cast more in, than all they which have cast into the treasury.” Yes, there is the scale on which the Saviour estimates the amount of our contributions to the cause of religion and humanity; not abstractly by the sum given, but by the sum given in proportion to the wealth possessed. A mite from one, is vastly, incalculably more, than a pound from another. Much and little, are relative terms. That would be munificence in one, which would be niggardliness in another. No commendation had been pronounced on the gifts of the wealthy; for they had, perhaps, after all, given little compared with what they retained; but this widow’s offering has immortalised her. She gave all she had. We do not stay to enquire about the prudence of her contribution, whether it was proper to bestow her last farthing; doubtless there were some circumstances in her case which justified the act, and with which the Saviour was acquainted. There were, perhaps, no needy children, whose wants should have reminded her that charity begins at home: perhaps it was a thank-offering for some special mercy received: some gracious support in one of those troubles, which widows, and especially poor widows, only know. At any rate, the gift and its principle, attracted the notice, and drew forth the eulogy of the Saviour. It was but a farthing, but that farthing was as much a manifestation of her disposition, as David’s almost countless amount of gold, was of his.

Our Lord Jesus Christ still holds his seat opposite the treasury of the temple, and watches from his throne in heaven, the offerings of those who give to the cause of religion and humanity. His celestia glory has diminished nothing of his condescending regard to the beneficence of his people. It should be our aim in all the good we dop to approve ourselves to his all-seeing eye, both by the purity of our motives, and the amount of our donations. Alas, what are we the better for the notice of those perishing and impotent eyes, which can only view the outside of our actions; or for that word of applause which vanisheth on the lips of the speaker? Thine eye, 0 Lord, is piercing and retributive. As to see thee, is perfect happiness, so to be seen of thee, is true contentment and glory.

It may be fairly inferred from this passage, that the Lord Jesus, while he beholds with favour the gifts of all, receives with special acceptance the offerings of the poor widow. It is often the sorrow of such, in. this age of Christian missions, that they cannot share in the glorious undertaking of converting the world to Christ. In happier times, when the candle of the Lord shone in their tabernacle, and the light of prosperity irradiated their path, they too had something to give, and delighted to give it, to pour the blessings of salvation on this dark earth: but now they feel shut out from the feast of benevolence, and denied all fellowship in the great work of evangelising the nations; for they have nothing to give. Nothing? “Nothing,” you reply, “worth my giving, or any society’s receiving!” Is that the language of pride, despondency, or parsimony? Can you not, then, stoop to give a penny, after you have had the privilege of giving a pound? Do you blush to offer the copper, after the silver and gold have glittered in your hand, as you approached the treasury? 0 woman, cast away that feeling, and carry your two mites, and if given “with a glad heart and free,” that little offering will draw upon it a more benignant smile from the Lord of all, than ever he bestowed upon your costlier gifts in the days of your prosperity. If you are ashamed to give it, he is not ashamed to receive it, nor backward to reward it. Ashamed of your little! Why it is relatively more than the hundreds of the rich. It is all self-denial, and sacrifice, and generous zeal.

“In the obscurity of retirement, amid the squalid poverty, and tb<* revolting privations of a cottage, it has often been my lot to witness scenes of magnanimity and self-denial, as much beyond the belief, as the practice of the great; an heroism borrowing no support, either from the gaze of the many, or the admiration of the few, yet, flourishing amidst ruins, and on the confines of the grave; a spectacle as stupendous in the moral world, as the falls of the Missouri, in the natural; and like that mighty cataract, doomed to display its grandeur, only where there are no eyes to apprehend its magnificence.” Yes, there is an eye that looks on both, but with more admiration on the little offering of benevolence that drops unheeded and unheard by man, into the receptacle of mercy, than on the river that falls with the roar of thunder into the basin of its mighty waters. Think of aged widows sacrificing the sugar of their tea, and poor men giving up the small portion of their heverage at dinner, to save a mite or two for the missionary cause: 0 how little are the offerings of the rich, though the announcement of their hundreds from the platform makes the building to shake with applause, compared with the penny of such self-denying friends to the cause as these, but whose contributions find their way in silence, to the mighty agregate of funds. Ashamed, my friends! Your mites are the richest trophies of your cause; and if it were possible to divide the results of our success, and apportion so much usefulness to each particular contribution of property, we should find, perhaps, the richest allotment assigned to the widow’s farthing.

Is there a less worthy motive, that holds back your slender offering? Is there a feeling of grudging? A reasoning in this strain, — “Surely they cannot take the poor widow’s penny for the cause of missions.” Certainly not, unless she feels it to be one of poverty’s deepest woes, to have nothing to give to such an object, and would esteem herself unhappy, if her little contributions were despised. Have you nothing then to give for widows poorer than yourself? “Poorer than myself,” you exclaim, in a tone of indignant surprise, “who can be poorer than I am?” I answer, the Pagan woman, left forlorn and desolate, without a Bible, a sabbath, or a minister, to direct her to the widow’s God: and there are millions of such. You have the gospel, which abolishes death, and brings life and immortality to light. You can look beyond the grave, and see the orb of celestial day rising in majesty before the eye of Christian hope, and gilding with his glorious effulgence, the dark clouds which collect over the valley of the shadow of death. You hear voices of joy, and sounds of life, floating like heavenly music, over the still chambers of mortality. In pity, then, to those who clasp the urn in silent despair, give a little, even of your little, to send them the gospel, which keeps you from sorrowing as otheis which have no hope*. Have compassion on the widows that sit down by the grave of a husband, who has gone away in the darkness of paganism, or who still, in some parts of India, are doomed to mingle their ashes with his, in that funeral pile, the flame of which is kindled by the hand of a first-born son. Is there not, then, a widow far more wretched than yourself, for whom the scant penny of poverty, or the two mites of all but absolute destitution, should be consecrated to God.