Lenten Reflection – Day 22 of the Great Lent
Two Small Coins: St. Mark 12:35-44
“For they all put in out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all that she had, her whole livelihood.” (12:44)
Yesterday was Knanayto Sunday. A Canaanite woman argued with God and won. She asked for crumbs and received a miracle. The outsider outbelieved the insiders. The circle of the fast widened again.
Today Mark brings us to the Temple in Jerusalem. Two scenes. One warning. One moment of astonishing beauty.
In the first scene, Jesus warns against the scribes. The men in long robes. The men who love the best seats. The men who pray long prayers for show while secretly devouring the houses of widows.
In the second scene, a widow walks up to the treasury and drops in two small coins. She has nothing else. This is everything she owns.
Jesus watches. He calls His disciples over. And He says something that has haunted the Church for two thousand years.
She gave more than all of them.
Twenty-two days into the Great Lent. We have been fasting, praying, giving, confessing. The question today is not whether we have given. The question is what our giving has cost us.
The Question About David’s Son (vv. 35–37)
“Then Jesus answered and said, while He taught in the temple, ‘How is it that the scribes say that the Christ is the Son of David? For David himself said by the Holy Spirit: “The LORD said to my Lord, sit at My right hand, till I make Your enemies Your footstool.” Therefore David himself calls Him “Lord”; how is He then his Son?’ And the common people heard Him gladly.” (12:35–37)
Jesus asks a question the scribes cannot answer. If the Messiah is David’s son, why does David call him “Lord”? A father does not call his son “Lord.” Unless the son is greater than the father. Unless the son is not merely human. Unless the Messiah is more than the scribes have imagined.
The scribes had a tidy theology. The Messiah would be a descendant of David. A political king. A military leader who would restore Israel’s glory. They had studied the texts. They knew the genealogies. They had the Messiah figured out.
Jesus says: your box is too small. The Messiah is David’s son, yes. But He is also David’s Lord. He is human, yes. But He is also divine. The Messiah you have been expecting is smaller than the Messiah who has arrived.
This matters for the Great Lent because the scribes’ error is our error. We come to the fast with a tidy theology. We know what repentance looks like. We know what prayer looks like. We know what God is supposed to do and when He is supposed to do it. And Jesus keeps breaking the box. The Canaanite woman was not supposed to have faith. The tax collector was not supposed to go home justified. The master was not supposed to serve dinner to his servants. And the Messiah was not supposed to be greater than David.
The fast keeps showing us that God is larger than our categories.
Beware of the Scribes (vv. 38–40)
“Then He said to them in His teaching, ‘Beware of the scribes, who desire to go around in long robes, love greetings in the marketplaces, the best seats in the synagogues, and the best places at feasts, who devour widows’ houses, and for a pretense make long prayers. These will receive greater condemnation.'” (12:38–40)
After the theological question, a moral warning. And it is devastating.
The scribes love long robes. The robe was a marker of status. It said: I am educated. I am important. I am above you. The scribe walked through the market and everyone turned to look. Everyone greeted him. Everyone stepped aside. The robe was not just clothing. It was a performance.
They love greetings in the marketplaces. Not just casual hellos. Elaborate, honorific greetings. “Rabbi! Teacher! Master!” They lived for the titles. The public recognition. The visible proof that they mattered more than ordinary people.
Best seats in the synagogues. Best places at feasts. The front row. The head table. The seats that told everyone in the room: I am at the centre and you are at the edge.
On Day 18, we heard Christ redefine greatness as service. On Day 19, we saw the Pharisee stand at the front of the Temple and pray to himself while the tax collector stood at the back and went home justified. Today we see the same pattern from a different angle. The scribes have the appearance of devotion. The long prayers. The public piety. The religious costume. But underneath the robe is a predator.
“… Who devour widows’ houses.”
This is the sentence that changes everything. The word “devour” is katesthiontes. It means to eat up. To consume. To swallow whole. The scribes were using their religious authority to exploit the most vulnerable people in the community. Widows in first-century Palestine had no husband to provide for them. No social safety net. No legal standing. They depended on the community’s charity. And the scribes, the very men entrusted with interpreting God’s law for the protection of the vulnerable, were eating them alive. Taking their money. Taking their homes. Using religious authority as a tool of financial exploitation.
“And for a pretense make long prayers.”
The long prayers were the cover. The appearance of holiness that disguised the reality of theft. The prayers were not prayers. They were marketing. A brand. A performance designed to maintain the trust that the scribes were abusing.
St. John Chrysostom, in his homilies on the Gospels, warns that the combination of visible devotion and hidden exploitation is the most dangerous form of evil in the religious community. He says that a thief who steals openly is less dangerous than a thief who steals while wearing the robes of a teacher. The open thief can be identified and stopped. The religious thief is protected by his reputation. Chrysostom argues that Jesus placed this warning immediately before the widow’s offering for a reason. He wanted the disciples to see what religious exploitation looks like before they saw what genuine devotion looks like. The contrast is the point.1
“These will receive greater condemnation.”
Greater. Not ordinary condemnation. Greater. Because they used the name of God to steal from the poor. Because they turned the Temple into a business. Because they wore the robes of servants and behaved like wolves.
The Widow at the Treasury (vv. 41–42)
“Now Jesus sat opposite the treasury and watched how the people put money into the treasury. And many who were rich put in much. Then one poor widow came and threw in two mites, which make a quadrans.” (12:41–42)
Jesus sits down and watches. Not what people give. How they give.
The treasury was in the Court of the Women. Thirteen trumpet-shaped collection boxes stood along the wall, each labelled for a different purpose. People came and dropped in their offerings. The rich gave large amounts. The coins clanged against the brass. Everyone could hear.
Then a widow came. She dropped in two small coins. Two lepta. The smallest denomination in circulation. Worth together about one sixty-fourth of a day’s wage. Not enough to buy a meal. Not enough to buy a candle. The sound they made dropping into the brass trumpet was barely audible. No one heard. No one noticed.
Except Jesus. He noticed.
Mark tells us she was a “poor widow.” Not just a widow. A poor widow. She had already lost her husband. Now she was losing her last coins. She had every reason to keep them. Every reason to say: I need this more than the Temple does. Every reason to hold back, to give one and keep one. She put in both.
St. Ephrem the Syrian, in his Commentary on the Diatessaron, writes that the widow’s two coins reveal the inner logic of all true giving. The rich gave from what they did not need. The widow gave what she could not spare. The rich gave and went home to full tables. The widow gave and went home to nothing. The rich gave an amount. The widow gave herself. Ephrem teaches that God does not count coins. He weighs sacrifice. And the widow’s two mites weighed more on God’s scale than all the gold in the treasury because they carried the full weight of her trust.2
The connection to the previous scene is not accidental. The scribes devour widows’ houses. Then a widow gives her last two coins to the Temple those same scribes control. She is giving to the institution that is exploiting her. And Jesus does not stop her. He does not say: save your money, the scribes will steal it. He honors her gift. Because the gift is not about the institution. It is about the heart of the giver. The scribes’ corruption does not diminish her offering. Her faith transcends their betrayal.
She Put In All That She Had (vv. 43–44)
“So He called His disciples to Him and said to them, ‘Assuredly, I say to you that this poor widow has put in more than all those who have given to the treasury; for they all put in out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all that she had, her whole livelihood.'” (12:43–44)
Jesus calls the disciples. He wants them to see this. He does not want this moment to pass unnoticed. He has been teaching about greatness all through this section of Mark. The greatest is the servant of all. The first shall be last. The child is at the centre. Now He adds the final piece. True giving is not measured by the amount. It is measured by the cost.
“She put in more than all.”
More than all. Not more than most. More than all of them combined. The rich donors who filled the trumpet with gold. The merchants who gave generously. The Pharisees who tithed their herbs and spices. All of them together gave less than this one woman with her two coins. Because they gave from their surplus. She gave from her need.
“Her whole livelihood.” The Greek is holon ton bion autēs. Her whole life. Not just her money. Her life. Everything she had to live on. When she dropped those two coins into the trumpet, she was dropping her next meal. Her rent. Her security. She walked out of the Temple with nothing. And she did it voluntarily. No one asked her. No one forced her. She chose to give everything.
St. Cyril of Alexandria, in his commentary on the parallel passage in Luke 21:1–4, teaches that the widow’s gift was not an act of desperation. It was an act of faith. She gave everything because she believed that God would provide for her. She did not calculate. She did not hold back a reserve. She placed her entire future in God’s hands and trusted Him for tomorrow. Cyril compares her to Abraham offering Isaac. Abraham gave his only son because he trusted that God could raise the dead. The widow gave her last coins because she trusted that God could feed her with nothing. Both gifts were absolute. Both givers held nothing back. And both were honored because the gift revealed the giver’s total trust in God.3
This is the hardest word in the entire Lenten series. Because it asks a question we do not want to answer. What has the fast cost us?
We have fasted. But we fasted from surplus. We skipped breakfast but ate dinner. We gave up one thing but kept ten others. We tithed our time to prayer but kept the vast majority for ourselves. We have given. But we have given from our abundance. Like the rich donors who filled the trumpet with gold.
The widow gave her whole life.
Two Economies
The passage reveals two economies operating side by side. The economy of abundance and the economy of poverty.
In the economy of abundance, giving is easy. The rich donors gave large amounts. Their giving was real. Their coins were genuine. But their gift did not cost them anything that mattered. They went home to the same comfortable life they had before they walked into the Temple. Nothing changed. Nothing hurt.
In the economy of poverty, giving is everything. The widow gave two coins. Her gift was materially insignificant. It would not fund a candle in the Temple. It would not feed a priest. It would not repair a wall. By any practical measure, her gift was useless.
But Jesus was not measuring usefulness. He was measuring sacrifice. And by the measure of sacrifice, her useless gift was the largest offering in the history of the Temple.
St. Basil the Great, in his homilies on wealth, teaches that God does not need our money. The Creator of the universe is not short of funds. What God wants is our hearts. And the way we know whether we have given our hearts is by how much it costs us to give. The gift that costs nothing reveals nothing. The gift that costs everything reveals everything. Basil says: “Do not tell me how much you gave. Tell me how much you kept.”4
The Great Lent operates in the economy of poverty. The fast is designed to move us from abundance to scarcity. From comfort to need. From surplus to dependence. Every meal we skip is a step from the rich donor’s economy into the widow’s economy. Every act of sacrifice that actually costs us something is a coin dropped into the treasury that Jesus notices.
On Day 20, we learned to bring our seven loaves. On Day 21, we learned that the crumbs are enough. Today we learn the final lesson in the sequence. The offering that God values most is the one that costs us everything. Not the dramatic, public, impressive offering. The quiet, invisible, costly one. Two coins that no one hears drop. A fast that no one sees. A prayer no one knows about. A sacrifice that leaves you with nothing except trust in God.
For Our Journey Today
Give something that costs us. Not from our surplus. From our need. Not the spare change in the bottom of our bags and purses. Something that hurts to release. Time we cannot afford. Money we actually need. Energy we do not have to spare. The economy of the kingdom runs on sacrifice, not surplus. Today, give something that leaves a gap. And trust God to fill it.
Examine the robe. Are there places in our spiritual life where the appearance of devotion has become a performance? Long prayers that impress others but mean nothing to us? Visible fasting that serves our reputation more than our soul? The scribes looked holy and devoured the vulnerable. Today, look under the robe. Is the inner life matching the outer life? If not, the fast is offering us the chance to strip the costume and start being real.
Let the gift be invisible. The widow gave where no one noticed. Jesus noticed. That was enough. Today, do something generous that no one will see. No social media post. No announcement. No record. Give in secret. Pray in secret. Serve in secret. The economy of the kingdom has a different audience. An audience of one. And He sits opposite the treasury and watches how you give.
Lord Jesus Christ, who sat opposite the treasury and noticed what everyone else missed, notice us today. We confess that we have been giving from our abundance. Our fasts have been comfortable. Our prayers have been convenient. Our sacrifices have cost us almost nothing. Forgive us. Teach us the widow’s courage. The courage to drop in everything and walk away with nothing except trust in You. Strip away the long robes and the long prayers and the performance of a faith we have not yet fully lived. Give us two-coin faith. Small. Quiet. Invisible to everyone except You. And enough. Always enough. Because You do not count coins. You weigh sacrifice. And the smallest gift given with the whole heart weighs more on Your scale than all the gold in the world. By the prayers of the Most Holy Theotokos, the holy Evangelist Mark, and all the saints, have mercy on us and save us. Amen.
References
- St. John Chrysostom (c. 349–407) – Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers (NPNF), Series I, Vol. 10: Homilies on the Gospel of Matthew, translated by George Prevost and M.B. Riddle (available at newadvent.org and ccel.org). Also St. John Chrysostom: On Wealth and Poverty, translated by Catharine P. Roth (St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, Popular Patristics Series, 1984), which collects related homilies on the misuse of religious authority for financial gain. ↩︎
- St. Ephrem the Syrian (c. 306–373). Commentary on the Tatian’s Diatessaron, translated by Carmel McCarthy, Journal of Semitic Studies Supplement 2 (Oxford University Press, 1993). ↩︎
- St. Cyril of Alexandria (c. 376–444). Commentary on the Gospel of Luke, on Luke 21:1–4 (the parallel passage to Mark 12:41–44). ↩︎
- St. Basil the Great (c. 330–379) – Saint Basil: On Social Justice, translated by C. Paul Schroeder (St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, Popular Patristics Series, 2009). ↩︎
