[The sermon was preceded by the hymn, "Take my life and let it be," number 706 in our Hymnal 1982.]

She sat for a long time, embarrassed. You see, the problem was that big horn-like thing that you threw your money in. It was really just a big, ornate funnel, kind of a cross between the speaker on an early phonograph (you know, the one the dog sticks he head in) and the basket you throw coins in at a tollbooth. That was understandable enough; it was a very convenient design for catching coins. And all money was coins; no one had ever heard of paper money. So when you gave your contribution at the temple you went up to the horn and, in front of God and everybody (and trust me, people were watching), you dropped your coins in.

She sat for a long time, embarrassed. The problem was that the big horn-like thing that you threw your money in — was made of copper. So your coins made a racket as they went down, and it was easy enough to identify the amount of the contribution by the sound. In fact, there were some people who had devoted a lifetime to interpreting the sound of coins in the funnel and were quite expert at it. Before the coins hit bottom, they could tell you exactly how much had been given.

She had been sitting, embarrassed, watching person after person, wealthy person after wealthy person, go to the funnel and in front of God and everybody have the satisfaction of dropping their coins and knowing that everyone — God and everybody — heard the deep, resonant, rich sound of large, heavy, valuable coins sliding down the funnel.

She sat, embarrassed, thinking of the shrill, cheap sound her two coins, worth almost nothing, would make. She was a widow, a powerless person, a very poor person. Shelter was an issue. Food was an issue. Clothing was an issue. She was very poor.

And she knew that her shrill, cheap contribution would amount to almost nothing compared to the heavy coins she had been hearing all day. But this was what she had, and she would not be denied the opportunity, the right, to give to God. So, mustering her courage, she stood up to take her turn. As she did, she saw him out of the corner of her eye. He was looking at her very intensely, this man she did not know. Her embarrassment flushed, but she had committed now.

And so she stepped up, and dropped her coins. And, of course, there was a shrill, cheap sound as they went down the funnel. She thanked God for giving her the courage to do it, and then she left, her heart lighter.

It’s too bad she didn’t stay to hear what the stranger said. He called his disciples to him and said, "Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on."

This Friday and Saturday, I was with our delegation to the Annual Council of the Diocese of Atlanta in Macon. There was a Communion service on Friday night and the Bishop announced that the offering would go to relief efforts in the dioceses of Lousiana and Mississippi, which are still devastated from Hurricane Katrina. As we began our session on Saturday morning, the Bishop announced that the collection had totaled $5,365.68. Five thousand, three hundred sixty five dollars and sixty-eight cents. That meant that, in addition to other coins, there were three pennies in the collection, and without thinking much about it, I said to no one in particular at my table, "So who puts in three cents?" And without thinking much about it Robbin Iddins, our Senior Warden, said, "Maybe that’s all they had." And, thinking about it, I suddenly felt like the guy who had become and expert at interpreting the sound of coins going down the funnel.

William Williman tells the story of the report of a large church that hired a church fund-raiser to direct its ambitious financial campaign. The fund-raiser proposed his strategy at the first planning session. He wanted committee members to visit every home. He was met with immediate resistance. One cynic on the stewardship committee said that this church had a high percentage of retired people on fixed incomes. They could not be expected to pledge, he argued.

The fund-raiser asked for permission to see in confidence the list of major givers. At the next meeting he told the stewardship committee that he had completed an analysis of the church’s giving patterns. "Please note that the majority of your top 50 contributors are ‘widows on fixed incomes.’ And please note," he said, "that, according to my calculations, those ‘widows on fixed incomes’ pay about 60 percent of this congregation’s annual budget. I’d say if you want to improve the giving in this congregation," he went on, "you need to talk to those women first, find out why they give, then try to infect the rest of the congregation with the faith of these ‘widows on fixed incomes.’"

I have seen that faith here. And I sure hope it’s infectious. I believe it is. We have a lot of people here who have fixed incomes or who don’t have a lot of disposable income and who are very faithful in their giving.

This week, you should have gotten a letter from the Stewardship Committee asking you to make a pledge and enclosing a pledge card. I want to talk about that for a moment in light of the story we’ve just heard. First of all, I know that some of you are embarrassed that you can’t give more. The biblical standard is the tithe, ten percent of what you have. Some of you can’t do that, I know. And I also know from talking to some of you that you wish you could, which is fine, and you are embarrassed that you can’t, which is not fine.

What do you suppose the widow in the story would say? I think she would say, "Honey, you give what you can." And if we ever fall prey to judging people by the sound of their coins going down the funnel, shame on us! What you give is between you and God.

But also keep in mind that Jesus did not care about the amount, but he did care about the intention. The widow gave sacrificially because she loved God. That was all Jesus needed to know. If you do that, you’ll be fine, and I know we will too.

So, how hard will that be on you? How difficult will it be for you to give sacrificially because you love God? I’m going to make a broad, sweeping statement that holds true after fifteen years as a priest. You ready? Here it is: the people who give sacrificially, the people who give out of love for God, the widows and those on fixed incomes — the very ones for whom this should be the hardest — they don’t complain about it. Other people complain. People who give for the sake of recognition complain. They often think they don’t get enough recognition for what it cost them. People who give in order to buy their way into heaven complain. They worry about whether they gave enough (want to be sure their ticket will be at the "will call" window), and they worry about whether they gave too much (don’t want to leave money on the table).

But people who give sacrificially because they love God, I’ve never heard one of those people complain about it or worry about it. If I did, if they were constantly telling me how hard and painful it was, my job, which involves asking people to pledge, would make me feel really bad about myself.

But that’s not what I hear. What I hear is joy. What I hear is, "I’m sorry I can’t give more." What I hear is, "I am committed to this place, to this work, to God." What I hear is infectious.

What I hear is a song. (Don’t worry, I’m not going to sing it!) But you know it. What I hear is a song that goes like this: "Take my life and let it be / consecrated, Lord, to thee."

Take my life and let it be / consecrated, Lord, to thee.