The Pickle Jar
It was the third anniversary of my being the pastor of a church in Texas. I made an announcement early in the morning service that went something like: “This marks my third year as your pastor. I don’t know that I have very much to brag about or many victories to proclaim but surely I have done something, so I am going to take up a love offering for myself. I think I am worth at least a dollar so if you have a dollar and are willing to give it please get it out and pass it to the end of the aisle. I do not want anyone to give more than a dollar and, if you don’t have one that is fine, but the ushers will now collect the ones you chose to give.” The ushers collected $473.00 and I asked them to pile it on the communion table and the service continued as normal while the congregation stared at what looked like a large pile of money and steamed at the brass they had just witnessed. “How dare him take up a love offering for himself” seemed to be the majority opinion in the room.
My sermon that morning was very short. First, I said, “Does anyone know anyone who needs any of this money? If so, would you please come forward and take some of it to them? No one moved. I asked again with no response. Then I said, “If we are setting here and do not know anyone who needs any of that money then we came to church on the wrong side of the road. The two men who passed by on the other side of the road in the good Samaritan story were on their way to church possibly to hold a conference on winning the world. The money will be here until it is gone and the only way it will be gone is if some of us take it to someone in need,” and the sermon was over.
I found a large and ugly pickle jar to hold the money and every service I simply placed the pickle jar on the table without saying another word. The pickle jar preached the best sermon I ever delivered. It began to scream at us. It became the talk of the town. Members of other churches called to tell me how much trouble I was in and how angry my members were with my antics.
It took us six weeks to give away $473.00 and no one should judge us. It would take that long in the vast majority of churches even today.
After six weeks of struggle, there was $63.00 left in the jar. That Sunday I said, “We have agonized in our efforts to personally find someone who needs this money while the loneliest people in town are sitting in the jail, a city block from us right now. Jesus said, “I was in prison and you ministered to me.”
A young woman who was struggling with a terminal illness offered to use the money to give comfort to those in the jail. What she bought became interesting. She bought such things as magazines, decks of cards, snack food, candy, maybe even cigarettes. No gospel tracks, no Bibles. Just cups of cold water in His name.
I spent forty years as a clergy person. Thirty as a paid pastor of traditional churches and ten as an unpaid worship leader in the starting and building of a contemporary church and a small house church. When I am confronted on Facebook with many of the folks who suffered through my sermons, many are friends I dearly love, but their posts show prejudice against Hispanics, Muslims, those with different sexual preferences, anyone who is of a different political persuasion and poor people on welfare. I begin to think all my sermons blew away with the wind, but I cling to the idea that at least the pickle jar hit home. Long years after the jar went away all I had to say was “remember the pickle jar” and the point was made. Amazingly just as I finished the first draft of this blog a friend called. I told him I was writing about the pickle jar and he said he was in church that Sunday morning. He remembered the tension in the room and said no one wanted to look at anyone else, they all stared at the floor. I dared not ask if he remembered any of my other sermons, I already knew the answer to that. Nor do I want to even guess how long it would take that same group of people to give away another $473.00. Do you reckon we will ever begin to actually love one another?