Back when I was in St. James in Knoxville, the church was located in the Northern part of downtown near a bunch of homeless service agencies. This church had these really high ceilings, white-washed walls, two stories of stained glass windows, and marble floors perfect for soaring hymns to echo off of. It was a beautiful space, no two ways about it, but it was also a little bit intimidating. And the folks who came on Sunday were upper crust folks from law offices, the university, doctors...you know...pretty rich. Dressed to the nines on Sunday. Exchanging business cards. But really nice, caring people who lived out a life of Jesus as much as they could possibly do.
Down the block from the church, the homeless campus bustled with all sorts of activity, and often that activity spilled over into our block. I suppose we had a couple of options. We could’ve worried ourselves sick, fretting over the homeless people getting too close. Or, we could embrace where we were and all those glimpses of Christ staggering by our doors. Thank God, we did the latter.
Working with leaders from other churches and folks from the homeless community, we started a side project called The Jesus Squad. The Jesus Squad was all about doing prayer, worship, and Bible study as a group, equal and joyful all together. And on our best days, the Kingdom of God shown through in ways I’ve never seen anywhere else.
One afternoon, as the Squad let out, I was chatting with a few folks, and they asked if they could go see the stained glass windows. Of course I said yes, and I reminded them that the doors to the church were always open during the day, and they could stop in whenever they liked. They also asked if it would be okay to come to services on a Sunday. Again, I said of course, and did my best to explain how, in spite of the soaring space, we were a pretty laid back congregation. Truth be told, it kinda bugged me that they felt like they needed to get permission. And then one of them, named Louise spoke up in a way that broke my heart. “I’d like to come here some Sunday, but I feel like I need to save up some money, first.”
Y’all, here’s my Lenten confession. I did not respond particularly well. I was so intent on making sure she knew she didn’t have to do anything special to come to church, that I missed something. I tripped over myself trying to explain how “come as you are” is a theologically significant statement and Jesus would welcome anyone wherever they are and blah blah blah. Of course, all that is true, but it wasn’t where she was coming from, and I got in the way of what she was trying to do. I stewed on this for a couple of weeks, trying to figure out what my big church was doing wrong, trying to figure out how to make those hard wooden pews a little more inviting for everyone. But I wasn’t getting anywhere.
And then, a few weeks later, I saw Louise. On a Sunday. Beaming in a brand new dress. I almost didn’t recognize her, she looked so different. She glowed! See, normally Louise had an expression on her face as though every eyelid, cheekbone, and lip-corner had little weights hanging off ‘em. She always looked like she was carrying more than she had the strength to heft, certainly more than I’d ever had to carry. But not that Sunday. She stood straight, taller than I’d known she could be, as though the smile plastered on her face began somewhere down in the marrow of her bones. She was proud. And happy. And so glad to be in that bright room.
After the service, we grabbed our coffee and cut-up donuts, and snuck off to a corner of the parish hall to chat. This took some waitin’ on my part, ‘cause, well-off or not, the folks at St. James loved loved loved greeting new people, and she was busy making friends with everyone she’d shared the presence of God with that morning. Louise was the belle of the Sunday ball, and she adored every minute of it. When we finally got to talking, I told her how happy I was to see her happy, and I told her about how badly I felt I’d messed up during our last exchange. And I asked her, delicately, the question that had been bugging me for so many weeks. Why did she feel like she needed money to come to church? “Well, just look at me!” she said, “I look beautiful, and I look beautiful for God.”
And I got it. Finally, I got it. See, a couple of weeks before the “save up my money to go to church” comment, the Squad had studied the parable of the Widow’s Mite, you know, when the woman went to the temple and gave all she had: a measly sum when looking at the temple’s bottom line, but everything to her. And the next time the Squad met, we’d studied today’s Gospel reading. Jesus’ dear friend, Mary of Bethany, gives Jesus this incredibly luxurious gift. She washes his feet with her hair and expensive oils. Seriously expensive oils -- Judas says they could’ve gotten 300 denarii for what she used. For some perspective, 300 denarii was basically a year’s wages. For some clearer perspective, 300 denarii then is equivalent to as much $20,000 today. This was pure opulence.
So, Louise was feeling the need to give to God from what she had, which wasn’t much. She resonated with the Widow’s Mite but she longed to be able to give like Mary. So she thought. And she prayed. And she saved. And it came to her. She couldn’t give much money, not in the way that would help keep the doors of the church open. And she couldn’t wash Jesus’ feet with $20,000 worth of perfume. But she could give herself, the greatest gift she knew she had. That’s why she saved up. That’s why she bought herself a new dress.
That’s why, when the offering came around, she dropped what was left from buying the dress in the plates. That’s why tears ran down her smiling face when she received communion. And that’s why she beamed with so much pride and joy among all those fancy Sunday morning folks.
But there was one more piece. See, Louise knew what I’d meant about not needing to have money to come to church. She knew Jesus spent his time with all sorts of folks, even the ones the rest of the world didn’t want. And she knew that, most of the time, she was the kind of folks the rest of the world didn’t want. She knew God would meet her wherever she was, with whatever she did or did not have. She knew that, and she’d felt that grace more times in her life than I’ll ever know. She knew all that, but when I tried to make it clear that we’d take anybody, no matter where they were coming from, she didn’t hear with the generosity I’d intended.
When I spoke, she heard what she’d always heard, which was a reminder that she was one of those castoffs, a modern day leper set aside as not right for here, not right for us. She should count herself lucky that a church as fancy as ours and a Jesus as generous as ours would deign to let her in. She was tired of all that. The God she knew didn’t mention it.
If Louise was going to come to big church, Louise was going to come big and bright and effervescent. And by God, did she. Even if she hadn't worn a new dress, Louise was the embodiment of Sunday Best. After so many years of gratitude for God showing up in the pits of her life, she was so, so proud to invite God in when she was at her best.
And here at the tail end of Lent, giving the best is just around the corner. In too short a time, Jesus will hang on the cross: the unfathomable gift of Holy Week. And in ways we know not how, a few days later, we will fill this church with the best we have. Our music. Our prayers. And Ourselves. Ultimately, it doesn't matter what we wear or how much we have. What matter is this: That we will be that gift, each and every one of us, an offering, the best, the worst, the humdrum-est versions of ourselves, each and every one, an offering to God. May we do Louise proud.