A couple Sundays ago, my priest asked all the children to sit close to the front of the church. After service, he brought up one of the “Food for Hungry People” cans we distribute during Lent to collect change in. He reminded them that the money we put in there gets brought into church at the end of Lent and goes to needy people.

I was nodding approvingly, until he threw in the challenging part. (Why do priests always have to do that just when I’m feeling smug?) He said, “And remember, we don’t just give the spare change that we won’t miss. We don’t give the poor our junk. We eat less for Lent, and the money we would’ve spent goes in here. We spend the money on them that we would have spent on ourselves.”

I have heard that before, but I hadn’t really thought about it. Last year, I filled the can up easily during the six weeks of Lent and was glad to have a place to put all that annoying change that overflows the change tray by the door.

But I didn’t really miss it.

I hadn’t been aware of doing without, and I hadn’t thought about it when I got on with the job of shopping and cooking for Lent. So last week when I went to the store, I tried to keep it in mind. “What if I was poor? What if I had to watch every penny?”

And the troubling follow-up question: “How long could I get by on what I give to the poor during Lent?” Not very long.

I didn’t think it would affect my shopping very much, but I was wrong. Every time I was about to reach for the best ingredients, the name brand items, the fancy spices, even the fresh fruits and vegetables, I had to ask myself “What if you had to live the way that poor people live? What if you had to make every cent count?” And every time I passed on the good stuff and settled for things more common (or just skip it altogether), I tallied up the difference so that I could add it into the can at home.

I ended up putting $25 in the can from that one shopping trip. The groceries I had for the week weren’t as flavorful, not as fresh. The textures were sometimes gluey or pasty, and they lacked quality. But they were sustaining, and every time I looked at them I had to face the fact that I have gotten spoiled. In Lent after Lent, I’ve tweaked my recipes, shopped to get the most out of my Lenten dishes … and given the poor my junk.

Two quotes come to mind. The first is from a book I got of collected writings of Mother Theresa (link HERE). She told this story:

Some time ago I made a trip to Ethiopia. Our sisters were working there during that terrible drought. Just as I was about to leave for Ethiopia, I found myself surrounded by many children. Each one of them gave something. “Take this to the children! Take this to the children!” they would say. They had many gifts that they wanted to give to our poor. Then a small child, who for the first time had a piece of chocolate, came up to me and said, “I do not want it. You take it and give it to the children.” This little one gave a great deal, because he gave it all, and he gave something that was precious to him.

I don’t want people donating just to get rid of something. There are people in Calcutta who have so much money that they want to get rid of it. They sometimes have money to spare, … I don’t like people to send me something because they want to get rid of it. Giving is something different. It is sharing.

I also don’t want you to give me what you have left over. I want you to give from your want until you really feel it!

The next is a story about Abbot Nazarius from “The Little Russian Philokalia: Vol. II” (Link HERE):

In the reign of Paul I, the Elder Nazarius was once invited in St. Petersburg to the house of a certain K., who at that time had fallen into the Tsar’s disfavor. The statesman’s wife begged the Elder: “Pray, Father Nazarius, that my husband’s case will end well.” “Very well,” replied the Elder, “one must pray to the Lord to give the Tsar enlightenment. But one must ask also those who are close to Him.” The statesman’s wife, thinking he was referring to her husband’s superiors, said: “We’ve already asked all of them, but there is little hope from them.” “No, not them, and one shouldn’t ask in such a way: Give me some money.” She took out several gold coins. “No, these are no good. Haven’t you any copper coins or small silver ones?” She ordered both kinds to be given him. Father Nazarius took the money and left the house.

For a whole day, Fr. Nazarius walked the streets and places where he supposed poor people and paupers were to be found and distributed the coins to them. Towards evening, he appeared at K.’s house and confidently said, “Glory be to God, all those close to the Tsar have promised to intercede for you.” The wife went and with joy informed her husband, who had become ill out of sorrow, and K. himself summoned Fr. Nazarius and thanked him for his intercessions with the high officials.

Father Nazarius had not even left the sick man’s bed when news came of the successful end of K.’s case. Immediately K. in his joy felt already stronger, and he asked Fr. Nazarius which of the Tsar’s officials had shown the more favor to him. Here he found out that these officials” were paupers — those close to the Lord Himself, in the words of Fr. Nazarius.

So what is it worth to give away more and make do with less? It might turn out to be worth a lot. A couple years ago a church I was with had the children make boxes of non-perishable food that could be given to people begging for money. They had crayon drawings and blessings on them and contained little packages of crackers, juice and snacks.

I was hesitant to take my three boxes. I thought the recipients would throw me a dirty look or something worse. I was wrong. In all three cases, it was as if their frozen look thawed out for a minute. They looked at the box — really looked at it — and then looked at me. And they all said “Thank you! God bless you!” as if this was something wonderful, something they’d been waiting for.
It wasn’t much, of course. But it was more than I usually gave them, because there was thought behind it and care and love. And apparently, that was more than they were used to getting.

Two weeks of Lent left. I’m wondering how much I can get into that money can.