James R. Gorman

November 12, 2000

It's a strange story really. Strange in its utter simplicity.

Elijah gets this odd message from God to go and live in a suburb of Sidon named Zaraphath; "for I have commanded a widow there to feed you." So he set out and went to Zarephath.

Don't you think that is odd? Go to West Allis which is in Milwaukee County and live there; for I have commanded a widow there to feed you." You'd get up and go wouldn't you? You'd just get up from behind your TV set and go, wouldn't you?

What?

Mystical stories in all the great religious traditions often begin like this. With odd instructions to the chief character, and it is not apparent to the reader what to make of the instruction or the motivation of the character who so easily follows. I've always thought this about the stories of those who were called to follow Jesus. Jesus just said, "let the dead bury the dead, come and follow me." And the disciples just left their recently deceased father behind and followed him.

I always think that there must have been more to the story. Some background that isn't reported. Something that would make the story more comprehensible. But then the story wouldn't be so mysterious. It would be explained and easy to understand. And then there wouldn't be much use for preachers.

So Elijah goes to West Allis and there the widow is, right at the entrance to the mall where the Allis Chalmers plant used to be. She had just picked up some groceries at the Sentry and was rolling her cart with the one bag in it out to the bus stop. She had this odd way of rocking back and forth as she walked, probably because of a hip that needs to be replaced. Up comes Elijah. "Bring me some water," he says. And she is willing to oblige and heads back into the store, but he calls after her and says, "Oh, by the way, please bring me a morsel of bread." She said, "I have no bread; just this small bit of flour and a tin of Crisco. I was just going home to make some bread for myself and my son. It's all we have. It's barely enough to keep the two of us alive. I'm not sure there's enough to share." The mysterious stranger said, "There will be enough. There will be more than enough. As the Lord God says, 'The bag of flour will never be empty and the tin of oil will not fail.' "

So, she did what the strange man said, and there was enough. There was more than enough. There was enough for the widow, her son, her entire extended family. For the bag of flour never emptied and the tin of Crisco did not fail, according to the word of the Lord which he spoke to Elijah."

Like many if not most mystical stories, it is short. Lacking in character development and details that might get in the way of its utter mysterious simplicity. It might get in the way of this simple story becoming part of your story.

Elijah is a character of great mystery. At the Passover meal that Jews share every early spring, there is a place set for Elijah. An empty chair and plate. The cup of wine is filled, awaiting the arrival of this mysterious figure. At one point the youngest child is told to open the door to the room to allow Elijah to enter, and then all the children gather around the cup of wine to see if the level goes down. Elijah, in the Jewish tradition, is a man of God, so much a man of God that his presence is a sign of God's mysterious presence.

When Elijah asks for water and bread, there is always enough. Indeed, there is always more.

This is the heart of the mystery. It's not in the strange call to go to someplace and find a widow there. It is not in the strange request of Elijah. The mystery lies in the dilemma of the widow. Can I share? Will there be enough? I will take a chance and share. There is more than enough.

There's always more than enough.

I don't know about you, but for myself, I'm not much of a risk taker. I'm pretty careful in the way I live my life. And the few risks that I am willing to take are usually around obtaining things that I do not have and cannot afford. I take few risks in giving and sharing.

Because, perhaps, I don't trust that the flour jar will never be empty and that the tin of Crisco will never fail.

Or to use another image, I'm not always sure that God will prepare a table in the presence of mine enemies. I'm not always convinced that my cup will be running over and that I will always be pursued by God's goodness and mercy all the days of my life. I always think that I've got to hold some in reserve for a rainy day. Because I'm too often convinced that on a really rainy day I will be completely on my own.

And yet, this is fundamentally opposed, not only to this strange story about Elijah and the widow, but to the whole of the Biblical witness. For it says in a variety of ways that "yeah though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thy rod and thy staff they will comfort me."

" Give us this day our daily bread."

This is a tough prayer for those committed to the idea of earning each day our daily bread. Or saving each day enough bread for tomorrow.

In this season of reflection on how we give away money and promise to depend only on God's rich grace, it is just here that we enter the greatest mystery of all. The mystery of the outrageous promise that, despite all the evidence to the contrary, God will provide. It is possible to share because God will provide.

The larger story that we treasure and that we gather around each Sunday of the year is just this: God will provide. Our journey is always alongside the power and purpose of God, which changes all the circumstances of our lives. Wilderness becomes home; isolation becomes companionship; scarcity becomes generosity, and the whole world in which we live is mysteriously transformed into the kingdom of God through our simple willingness to enter it.⁽¹⁾ It's just that simple. It's just that mysterious.

Life in God is a life lived with an ultimate security that makes generosity possible because of the conviction that God provides. Now, you might think that all this is sweet stuff, sweet and unreal, something only for old and tired people who don't have much of a life anyway. To the contrary. This conclusion about the good life is reflective of a maturity. It is a reflection of an ultimate desire to love and be loved by that which is ultimately good and true rather than seeking approval from things that cannot be trusted over the long haul.

The story is told about a very wealthy man who was crossing the Atlantic Ocean with much of his vast wealth in a treasure chest on board the ship. A storm came up and the man ran to the ship's hold to embrace the chest with all his wealth in it. The ship broke in two and the man went straight to the bottom of the ocean with his wealth in his arms. The narrator of the story then asks the question, one has to wonder whether this man owned his possessions, or his possessions owned him.

This idea of risking a sincere portion of ourselves in order to gain everything that is of value in life is not a new idea. Nor is it an idea peculiar or unique to Christianity. All the world's great religions share this insight. The only uniqueness in the Christian story is that our main character, Jesus, acted this principle out in his own life. He gave up everything so that we might have everything. Finally, this is the lesson of that second widow story in the Gospel of Mark. The woman, Jesus said, "Gave all that she had," which was likely a reference to himself, for the story is situated right on the boundary of the passion narrative and the last week of Jesus' life.

All that we have and all that we offer

comes from a heart both frightened and free.

Take what we give now and give what we need.

All done in your name.

1. paraphrase of Walter Brueggemann, "Trusting in the Water-Food-Oil Supply", in The Threat of Life, ed. Charles L. Campbell, (Fortress Press, Minneapolis, 1996). p. 94.