He gave more than he should’ve; he has less than I have

Photo: Gerald Farinas.

Today, I found myself staring into a Gospel story come to life.

There’s a young man we see regularly at church who lives in a transitional healthcare facility across the street. For fear of losing his prized possessions, he carries them in a busted up roller-board luggage and worries about leaving it behind.

He’s had a hard road—harder than most would guess. In fact, many of us have been quick to judge him in negative ways because of his appearance, how he talks, how he gets angry when he’s frustrated.

We’ve been unfair to him.

Some Sundays, he asks if there’s extra food he can take with him. He’s always grateful when we do have something to give—though his eyes are glazed with the wish there was more.

Some Sundays he seems so hungry, he begs for us to see if there is food somewhere.

I know he’s just getting by.

Scraping.

Balancing coins while the world demands dollars.

And yet today as I walking the collection plate out of the Sanctuary after Pastor Kristin processed out, I noticed him walk up to me while pulling out dollar bills out of his wallet.

He was going to drop in more than he could afford.

I tried to stop him—not out of disrespect or judgment—but because I knew the cost. I knew how little he had. I knew he might go without lunch tomorrow or skip a train ride he needs.

“You don’t have to do this,” I told him gently. “God knows your heart. You will need this money for yourself.”

But he shook his head.

His eyes were dead set on what he wanted to do. He said, simply, “I feel like I have to.”

I stood still.

Because what he was doing wasn’t for show. It was just him and me.

It wasn’t out of obligation or guilt.

It wasn’t even about the church or the plate.

It was something sacred.

A soul’s response to grace, even in the midst of suffering.

A gift not from abundance, but from empty hands.

Just like the widow in Luke’s Gospel, who gave her two small coins, while others gave from their overflow.

He gave what little he had when I don’t. I honestly don’t. I tithe time, sometimes talent, but not like that, I don’t think.

Not like him.

Not from need.

Not when it hurts.

This young man, who has comparatively “nothing” gave “everything.”

It reminded me that real generosity is not measured in dollars but in sacrifice.

In the willingness to give when no one’s looking, when no one’s asking, when it would be understandable not to.

It’s not about the size of the gift. It’s about the size of the heart behind it.

I don’t know what will happen to him this week. I don’t know what needs he’ll face or what he might have to go without.

But I do know this. Today, he became my teacher.

Today, he preached a sermon with no words.

Today, I saw faith in its purest, most fragile, most powerful form.

And it left me wondering:

Would I do the same?