The Widow's Mite and The Missionary's Joy by Wil Triggs

Jesus sat down near the collection box in the Temple and watched as the crowds dropped in their money. Many rich people put in large amounts. Then a poor widow came and dropped in two small coins. Jesus called his disciples to him and said, “I tell you the truth, this poor widow has given more than all the others who are making contributions. For they gave a tiny part of their surplus, but she, poor as she is, has given everything she had to live on.”  (Mark 12:41-44, NLT)

Jesus’ observation seems almost absurdly out of step with our world. I mean, what financial planner would tell the widow to give the way Jesus praised her for giving? We don’t expect that kind of giving. It isn’t wise, not to mention that her two small coins wouldn’t get her into members-only events at the temple or get her name engraved on a brick or stone.

Did she give because of the well-run temple? Because she liked the priests? Because of the beauty of the temple building itself? Or did she give because she knew someone who was even worse off than she herself? Had she been waiting to give until the priests did things the way she thought they ought to be done?

The gospel writer described her as a “poor widow.” Two strikes against her. She was the one in need. In just a few years, the apostles would focus on caring for people like her in the newly born church. And a few years later, the temple would be destroyed.

That widow was no more in step with the giving of her own time as with ours. Yet perhaps her greatest need at that moment was what prompted her to give, and it didn’t have anything to do with the temple.  

She wasn’t in step with the world she lived in, but she was in step with the heart of God.

When I served with Russian Ministries and we had summer camp ministries in Russia, I got to know an elderly lady, a retired missionary, who attended College Church. She walked her donation for the camp outreach to the mission's office rather than mail it in. She gave enough to send at least one child to camp. For her, this gift was personal and from the heart.

A few years later, I was getting ready to go on one of our STAMP trips as part of that same camping outreach. The retired missionary lady enthusiastically gave toward the trip.

She wasn’t a widow. She had never been married. As I got to know her, I realized what an amazing and unrecognized lifetime of service she had given to God.

But you kind of had to find that out along the way. She wasn’t interested in people knowing the triumphs of her life—and God had used her overseas in some amazing ways. Now, she wanted me to know that she cared. She was genuinely excited about the kids and wanted to give. The gift she gave was monetary, but a lot more. Her humility, excitement to be a part of God’s work and her spirit of service shined brightly.

And there she was, this time wanting to give her gift not to the mission’s office, but into my hands, to give to the trip.

There are many reasons to give or not give. But the spirit of the widow Jesus praised and this missionary who befriended me amaze me.

The widow Jesus praised wasn’t a parable. She was a real person. She gave real money, the last she had, to a real institution. She would be one of the people we would say ought not to give. But maybe it wasn’t the institution she was giving to at all, but the God of all things, her maker, creator, redeemer and friend.

Where did the widow get her next meal? What happened? Is there ever a time when it’s bad to give more to God?

That retired missionary lady has moved away. I think of her often. She had such joy when she gave her money away. I am confident that if she is still alive, she is more and more like Jesus in what she gives away. And that doesn’t even get at her faithful prayer support for us and many others.

I don’t think they teach this stuff in Bible college or seminary. But Jesus didn’t shy away from it.

Think of the rich young ruler who went away sad because of Jesus' admonition to give his wealth away to the poor. Think of the alabaster jar of pure nard that Judas, the keeper of the money, thought should have been sold and given away to the poor. He thought of it as a terrible waste poured out on Jesus before he paid the ultimate price and gave more than any of us ever will.  And he wasn't the only one.

We were watching a news program a few days ago and the talking heads were talking about how a second stimulus check may be coming.

Really? Probably not, I thought at the time. It’s such a crazy time, isn’t it.

As we watched together, Lorraine said, “If that happens, let’s just give it to the church.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Good idea.”

I confess, while her head was going there, I was thinking about using it to get a new front door. If you saw our door, you’d know what I mean. So I don’t have it all figured out. But the spirit of the widow, and the missionary lady, I don’t know . . .

There’s something about giving and living the way they did that doesn’t make sense in this world. Yet their examples are a crying out “Yes” from somewhere that’s not in this here-and-now great and wondrous world, but from a different place than we naturally know.

Like a master washing the feet of his servants.  

Like thousands eating lunch from one boy’s lunch where the baskets of leftovers are far more than the few fish and loaves they started with.

Or like the empty net cast on the other side, filling with so many fish that the net starts to break. That’s crazy. I mean, why?

Most out of step of all, the king of heaven leaving the splendor and wonder of it all to be born in a manger, to die forsaken and alone, some of the last words spilling out of his mouth like the blood from his side, “Forgive them.”

Jesus, help us break the alabaster jar, whatever that means, and pour it out in worship—never looking back, not looking at others, only gazing at you. All for you, sweet carpenter, fisher of people, gentle shepherd. Master. Friend. God who saves us from the cares of this world and walks before us into today and tomorrow and all that is to come.

The Mother Who Chose to Die by Wil Triggs

A few years back, our summer book group read Bryan Litfin’s book Getting To Know The Church Fathers. I had not known much about the people featured in this book. So often I don’t look back in church history, and if I do, I don’t look before the Reformation unless it’s at the lives of the apostles or their contemporaries. Bryan's book opened up the people in between, people I never paid attention to before.

There is one person in this book who was not a church father at all, but a church mother.

Since it’s Mother’s Day tomorrow, it seems a good time to ponder the life of Perpetua, a Christian woman who lived in Carthage and died there at the beginning of the third century.

She was a mother, but barely. Her only child was just an infant when she was thrown in prison. After a time of separation from her baby, arrangements were made to get her baby to her so she could nurse and care for the infant while imprisoned.

Separation from her baby put Perpetua in great turmoil, but that was lifted when her child was brought to her. At that, “I grew strong and was relieved from distress and anxiety from my infant and the dungeon became for me as a palace, so that I preferred being there to anywhere else.”

Only 22 at the time of her death, Perpetua had to choose what to sacrifice. If she gave up her faith in Christ, and recanted, she would be freed. She could return to her family, raise her child, probably bear more children and live a long(er) life.

Her father put considerable pressure on her to choose recantation. After all, her baby needed her. He, in his old age, also needed her. These were natural responsibilities and obligations with family and the culture of the time. How could she turn her back on them for this religion?

And the government itself appealed to her maternal nature. 

“Spare the infancy of your boy, and offer sacrifice for the well-being of the emperors,” the governor pleaded.

“I will not do so,” she replied.

This exchange took place with her desperate father among the crowd watching.

“Are you a Christian?” the governor asked.

“Yes,” she answered, “I am a Christian.”

And with that, the death sentence was passed. Her father took his grandson, and she never saw her baby again.

The more difficult sacrifice was the one she chose. Dare we consider what our answer would be were we to face such a question?

The roles we take on in life, even those that seem so core to who we are—what are they in light of the eternal family? I don’t mean to downplay our families, my wife, my son, those dearest to my heart. What a terrible choice. But Jesus? Can he be tossed away for the call of home? Certainly there were others in her time who chose to do that.

I’m not sure who might be on your list of “spiritual mothers,” but I’m fairly certain that Perpetua would not make the list. Her story is so old and strange to modern eyes.

But she knew well the call of Jesus on her life. That call mattered more to her than her father or her child or even her own life. This is a faith worth emulating and a mother worth celebrating. May we never have to face such a choice, but let’s consider Perpetua in light of whatever circumstance we face today.

“Yes. I am a Christian.”

A Prayer for this Saturday by Wendell C. Hawley

From A Pastor Prays for His People by Wendell C. Hawley

Holy Father, God of our salvation

We take refuge in your divinely appointed sanctuary—

the covert, the asylum—

where we are protected from the condemnation and judgment of sin.

Once upon a time we did not care about our sinful condition.

Sin was fun, righteousness was old-fashioned.

God? Unnecessary.

Salvation? Irrelevant.

But everlasting thanks to you, glorious God,

friend of sinners,

rescuer of the perishing—

You tenderized my heart,

opened my eyes,

enlightened my understanding,

sanitized my desires,

directed my pathway.

And now the God of peace,

the great Shepherd,

through the blood of the everlasting covenant, works in me to do his will.

O let us praise God!

May the praise of your people never cease.

We gladly give thanks for your goodness, which is our daily benefit.

Your provisions for us surprise us continually.

Your mercies refresh us in every time of need.

Praise be to God, we are never placed on some “quota” system—

You have never said to any of your beloved,

“That’s all the grace you get, lest I run out.”

No, never . . . never!

We are promised grace for every time of need.

I shall list all my needs—every one—and still your grace is sufficient

Economic quandaries?

Health issues?

Difficult decisions?

Troublesome relationships?

Sinful allurements?

Failed plans and promises?

Unanswered prayers?

These, and more, we leave with you, assured that as our Great Shepherd

you will care for your sheep.

Evermore do we rest in you, O Lord, our strength and our Redeemer.

Amen

Social Distancing from Death by Wil Triggs

Wil first gave this as a talk at last Wednesday's Men’s Bible Study, when the teaching topic was death and the intermediate state.
Lately when I wake up in the morning, I check my weather app to see if the weather is 50 with wind or 25 with snow. I want to know how to dress when I walk the dog and what I’m in for when I step outside.

The other day, I noticed that the Weather Channel added a feature to its app—the COVID-19 button down in the bottom right corner. I clicked on it and got a Coronavirus graph of how many people have been diagnosed and how many people have died in DuPage County every day for the last seven days. You can get it by county or by the whole state. You can choose infections, deaths or both.

To tell you the truth, it seems a little macabre.

The thing is, COVID-19 is not the only thing that’s killing people. All the other ways people die are continuing unabated—flu, cancer, heart disease, stroke. Wouldn’t it be nice if all the other things killing people just stopped? Is it supposed to make me feel better when I see social media posts that say more people die of the flu than COVID-19? That really is not a comfort. 

When it comes to death, each of us is going to be part of a statistic like that someday. Every single one of us. It strikes me in the midst of this pandemic, that in normal life, death is something most of the modern world would choose to forget. Maybe this is not a modern phenomenon—perhaps it has always been that way. As humans, we do our best to social distance from death. 

But not now. Now, as I check my app every morning, I can’t help it. I look to see how many people died of COVID-19 yesterday in DuPage County. I’m kind of fixated on it. And I don’t think I’m the only one. I mean, they’re talking about mass graves in New York. So 125 deaths as of this morning in DuPage County isn’t so bad. But death is death. 

And since death is on my mind more than usual, I end up thinking about some of my best friends in life who have died.

I think of Jim. The best man in my wedding—and I was the best man in his—he was a youth pastor, magician, puppeteer, trombonist, master of the pun and corny jokes, Christian formation professor at Trinity and Biola Universities. Jim just sort of got me in a way that is hard to describe. People appreciate me. They like me, but with Jim, it clicked. He just got me.

One day he was walking with his wife, and his leg went numb. He thought he was having a stroke. But it turned out to be inoperable brain cancer.

I did my best to walk with him through that, even though I was here in Illinois and he was out in California. I called him most nights, and we checked with each other on how things were. Then, when he couldn’t talk anymore, his wife would tell me what was going on. Toward the end, he said he saw Jesus in the room with him, praying. And then he went to heaven. For me, there’s no replacing Jim.

And there’s Peter. He was the missionary force that God used to put my heart in Russia and Ukraine, to serve the church there. Mostly, though, Peter was a man who wanted to do everything he could to help other people know and follow Jesus. I was part of a handful of people who worked here in Wheaton while he lived in Moscow. Every morning there would be 20-30 sheets of handwritten fax pages telling us the latest news of what was happening and what we needed to do that day on top of our regular work. Then email replaced fax, and 20-30 fax pages became 20-30 emails. We worked to impact legislation on religious freedom, connected church leaders with key partners or directed them away from cult leaders who looked like any other Christian from the West.

Then, out of nowhere, he and his wife were coming home early and heading to Mayo Clinic. His lymphoma was aggressive and fast. He fought hard. and we prayed hard. One of the last things he told me was about our plans to do summer camp ministry with kids in Russia. Go, he said, you need to go. And we did. Peter’s energy, humility and ministry partnership with his wife have shaped me and Lorraine in ways that I can’t even begin to express. For me, there’s no replacing Peter.

Death is the enemy. Even Jesus prayed for the cup to pass if there was any other way. Of course, when we die, we won’t be taking the sins of the world on ourselves as he did, so his cup is a lot different than the ones we will all drink.

Death is with us because of sin. We aren’t supposed to embrace it.

I miss these people more than I can say. My life felt better with them physically here. The grief of losing them doesn’t end. But Jesus called them home. I trust him. Our days are in his loving, nail-scarred hands.

I don’t want to think so much of those dear friends that l lose out on the amazing wonder of the people right in front of me. I mean, every person is a universe of creative wonder, a unique expression from the hand of God.

God’s stamp is on each of us, and it’s not some kind of die-cut cookie cutter stamp. Everyone is different. My table guys at Bible study—Mike and Michael and Val and Rick and Jeff and John—what a gift to walk with them and pray together and look together at the wonder of God’s Word. Seeing their faces in little boxes on my laptop, that’s better than nothing. It’s good. But walking together through life with them—that’s so great. For me, there’s no replacing those guys either.

We aren’t people of death. We Christians are all about life. The hymn isn’t "Jesus Died and So Shall I." It’s "Jesus Lives and So Shall I"—and that means that I will see Jim and Peter again. That means that someday all of us connecting on Zoom won’t have to use the internet and our devices to connect. We won’t have to drive to church and find places to park. That day is going to be richer and fuller and better than we can even imagine, and we’re going to get to see Jesus and one another and Jim and Peter all at the same time and cry out together,

Worthy are you, our Lord and God, 
    to receive glory and honor and power, 
for you created all things, 
    and  by your will they existed and were created.
(Revelation 4:11) 

There’s one more thing. Not everyone’s going to see Jesus and have all this. People we know, people we love, some will go to a different place. Let’s not forget that and do all we can to show them the fountain of God’s love that none of us deserve but we all get to drink from because of the wondrous flow from the Lamb of God.  

Come. Drink. Live. 

Back to the Basics by Heather Owens

Heather and her husband, Daniel, and their two sons are College Church missionaries, serving the Lord in Vietnam.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. (1 Corinthians 13:4-7)

We are embarking upon week ten of closures and social distancing here in Hanoi. In the past two weeks, I haven’t left the house at all except to walk a few hundred yards to the corner grocery to buy vegetables and eggs. We live in an up-and-down house in a row of up-and-down houses facing an apartment block, so we don’t have a yard or a place to be outdoors. We also don’t have a car, and now that public transportation is shut down, we couldn’t go out even if we wanted to risk being fined. My teenager told me he wishes he could just hibernate.

Our family is used to spending a lot of time together. We homeschool even when we don’t have to, and Daniel works part-time from our house even when the college is open. We always eat dinner as a family and often lunch as well. We like each other. We like spending time together. However, we are not immune to the irritation generated by these long days in each other’s company. Did I mention this is week ten? Our fuses are all a bit short and my threshold for annoyance is suddenly very slim. I’m wondering if I need a room to call my “growlery” like Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House.

Somehow I never seem to graduate from Kindergarten when it comes to living and loving well. I keep having to go back to the basics. Be nice. Don’t be mean. Treat others the way you want to be treated. First Corinthians 13 is famously read at weddings, but its instructions certainly don’t end at the altar. These basic reminders spoke to my conscience this week.

“Love is patient and kind” even when towels are left crumpled on the floor or there is a sticky mess around the trash can. Love is not “arrogant or rude” forgetting that I too have grating habits and personality quirks. Love “does not insist on its own way” or declare the rest of the afternoon “me time.” It is not “irritable or resentful” when expected to provide the third meal of the day for the umpteenth day in a row. Love does not “rejoice at wrongdoing” or self-justify or make excuses. It speaks hard truth to my rotten attitudes. Love bears quarantine, believes God is in control, hopes for the good that will come, and endures quietly while we wait. 

Heather first posted this on her blog, In This Meantime.

Handwashing for All Time by Lorraine Triggs

When it comes to handwashing, the CDC has nothing on my mother.

As a child, I probably washed my hands at least 10 times a day as a matter of course. Routine handwashings included before and after meals, before reading books, (magazines were exempt), after playing with the cat or doing daily chores.

Then there were seasonal handwashings: after digging trenches in the sandbox in which to race small pet store turtles, after any game played in the street, after poking any critter—dead or alive—and after eating grape popsicles in the summer or caramel apples in the fall. My mom's one-size-fits-all advice for anything that ailed us summed up her philosophy: Wash your hands and face and you'll feel better. (She was right.)

My mother came from a long line of handwashers that began with the tabernacle priests who washed their hands at the basin before and after entering the holy place. A symbol of the need to present oneself clean in God's presence.

Over and over in the Old Testament, that simple act of handwashing and clean hands is a picture of righteousness and a pure heart. And when David sinned, he pleaded with God to "wash me throughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin!" (Psalm 51:2) No amount of soap and water would do the trick. David needed to be totally disinfected from sin. As much as we are into handwashing, it takes more than these good habits to get rid of sin's infection.

People say that cleanliness is next to godliness, and maybe there is some basis for that thought in traditions like these. But what do we do with Jesus, who seemed sometimes to go out of his way to get his hands dirty in the filth of human everything.

Ironically, the One who came to cleanse us from sin didn't always remember to wash his hands. Or, if he started off with clean hands, he was always getting them dirty. Like when his writing in the dirt made accusers fall away. Think of him touching the man with leprosy or making mud from his saliva and—gasp—touching the blind man's eyes.

In a display of love so amazing, so divine, Jesus' bloody, dirty, wounded hands embraced our sins, gathered our filthy rags and washed us thoroughly from the inside out. Jesus beckoned Thomas, the one with doubts, to touch, to reach, to feel where the nails pierced into the divinely human flesh, yes, to touch his side, torn and scarred for all eternity by our self-actualized dirt that no soap but the sinless blood of our dying God would or could ever wash away. But wash it did, and does and will forevermore.

“My Lord and my God!”

German Pancakes by Diane DiLeonardi

Day number? Well, I’ve lost count.

“What should we tackle today?" says my husband whose back is still tweaked from endless painting projects. My growling stomach signals what to do first—German pancakes.

As soon as my mind conjures up those two words, I’m instantly transformed into my 11-year-old self walking with my friend Jill the three blocks to Geneva Carlburg’s Victorian house (which, by the way, is still standing in this tear-down neighborhood) on a Saturday morning.

She greets us at the front door, inviting us down the long hall. A glimspe to the left, and we see her husband asleep in an easy chair in the living room. We continue into the room where good things happen—the kitchen.

Ingredients ready on her counter. Mrs. Carlburg guides us in how to make the perfect German pancake. She places the pan with butter in the hot oven. As we mix the batter she talks, we listen, we answer. The specifics I have no recollection, but her smile and love are so evident.

We pour the batter into the sizzling pan and immediately put it back in the oven with a stern warning not to open the door for 15 minutes. Our heads touching, Jill and I peer into the small oven window, mesmerized as the batter begins to puff around the edges, butter pooling in the center until it, too, raises itself like a perfect marshmallow on an open fire, browning with no char.

You must act quickly if you want to post your pancake on Instagram since leaving it in the hot oven causes instant deflating. Of course, back then, there were no pictures taken. Instead, a table set, prayer given, mangia. Eat.

This ritual was repeated many times, the consistency welcome, never griddle cakes, waffles or crepes. God’s love poured out on two little girls of divorce by a godly woman who felt led to do so. Our departing gift each time, beautifully calligraphied verses on crinkly vellum, fit into a paper frame. (I’m sure to find them this week as I go through old boxes)

Today, as I watched the batter rise, I wasn’t craving Alton Brown to scientifically explain how this thin liquid burst into action. Instead I metaphorically saw how God put people in my life at just the right time, again and again. Maybe a German pancake doesn’t bring you to awesome tears, but there’s a food, a song or an event that no doubt triggers your heart.

And this pandemic comes with its fair share of triggers to your heart and to the hearts of those you love. But, Easter is coming and what we do this Easter is essential. Find a way to share God's love, think outside the box. Your traditions are still viable with minor adjustments. Your Savior has risen.

Let your actions be a reward to others—Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. (Romans 12:10-11, NIV)

Geneva Carlburg’s German Pancake Recipe

Stay at Home to Save Lives by Daniel Bair

Daniel is the executive director of Englewood Family Outreach and one of our College Church evangelists.

Stay at home to save lives. That is sage advice. However, organizations that provide charitable and social services are exempt from this edict. Therefore, we as a ministry are faced with the difficult question of what to do in the face of such an unprecedented outbreak in our time.

The board of Englewood Family Outreach held a meeting the Friday night Governor Pritzker issued his order to discuss the ramifications for ministry.

We agreed unanimously that we cannot operate as normal, but there was room for discussion on how exactly we should respond in a way to love our neighbors. Do we stay home and eliminate all physical contact in order to halt the spread of this virus, or do we take the risk for the sake of restoring those in need? Staying home is probably the best way for most of us to love and serve our communities, it is not an easy question to answer for those who serve the vulnerable who will be disproportionately impacted by all this.

As I pondered this, I couldn’t help but wonder what Jesus would do if he were here right now. There was a flesh-eating disease in that time known as leprosy. From fear of the spread of this disease or defilement, those who had it living outside the camp wore rags and had to proclaim loudly, “Unclean! Unclean!” When Jesus approached a leper in Matthew 8, he did something unexpected. Before he healed him, Jesus touched the leper. Granted, we are not Jesus. He knew he was going to heal the leper and (therefore) wouldn’t spread the disease but cure and end it. But more than the method, I marvel at the message—Jesus saw a person in need, not a disease. 

Our ministry has neighbors in need, and we are brainstorming ways that we can encourage them and help meet their needs, from the physical to the mental to the spiritual. There is a virus spreading rapidly; if it goes unchecked it will likely overwhelm our medical facilities. But there are people buried under the headlines of fear and toilet paper shortages who are being crushed by the havoc the coronavirus is leaving in its wake. Sure, the government is doing much to try to alleviate their suffering, but without the organizations that have already been serving on the frontlines, the organizations that know the people of the streets, there are many who will be lost and out of reach. We must see the people buried under the rubble. We must see them, touch them (in a no-contact sort of way) and point them to Jesus.

At the end of Matthew 25, Jesus says that he will come back as king and reward his righteous sheep for clothing, feeding and visiting him. Baffled they will ask, “When, oh King, did we do this?” The King will respond that as they did it to one of the least of his brothers, they did it to him (Matt. 25.40). 

In some divine mystery, we are given the privilege of serving King Jesus as we serve the least of his brothers and sisters in the neighborhood. That is the attitude we come to the community with—not the attitude of the hero riding in to save the day, but the lowly servant coming in to help his King. One way to serve them is to stay home and not spread the virus—we could make things physically worse if we become a link in that chain, and staying home is a prudent decision. There is also a second option.

There is something great at stake here. Right now, people are confused, vulnerable and scared; and that is nowhere more true than in our under-resourced communities (just today I spent time praying with a mother from our neighborhood who, full of fear, called me sobbing). We have a unique opportunity to speak peace into their lives. While helping insure their physical, mental and emotional well-being, we can also impact their spiritual trajectories. There may be no greater opportunity than the one afforded by this virus to speak into their lives. It may be that this virus strikes while we are positioned here for such a time as this. 

Yes, the coronavirus has been killing thousands and we want to curb that as much as possible. But in the end death will come for us all; our greater concern is the thousands who may face death from the coronavirus without the hope of Christ. Hopelessness is in the air. The streets are emptied. Businesses are closed. The lights have almost all gone out.

But we will keep a lamp burning. A light will shine forth from our refuge to possibly be the spark of revival in the hearts of people in our community. There may be a day that our light goes out, but it is not this day.

Discover more about Englewood Family Outreach.