Jesus looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the offering box, and he saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins. Luke 21:1
The day was stretching toward its end; soon the trumpet would sound and the gates of the city would swing ponderously shut. The Teacher starts through the courtyard, past a little cluster of sheep being herded toward the pens, past anxious sinners hoping to get their sacrifices done before the Passover feast, past Levites and scribes with their studious, self-important air who eye him narrowly as he goes by with his handful of disciples.
At the entrance to the courtyard he pauses. A temple collection box stands here, a receptacle with a trumpet-shaped opening where drachmas, shekels, rians, and minas clink and rattle against its bronze sides all day long. A rich man drops in a handful of coins, followed by a pair of Pharisees, each of whom delicately pull back their long flowing sleeve to drop a half-shekel. Whether by chance or practiced technique, each coin makes an identical silvery chime as it strikes the bronze horn. The two press on, apparently deep in conversation though a close observer might have caught a furtive sidelong glance from one of them, to see if anyone had noticed.
Someone had; the Pharisee caught his eye and blinked, startled. Then he gathered his dignity about him and hurried on.
“Beware the scribes,” the Teacher said. “They love to walk around in their long, flowing robes and nod at 
each other gravely in the marketplace. They love to score the head tables at banquets and front seats in the synagogue. They make sure to settle estates in their favor, leaving widows the short end, and then they spout long eloquent prayers in the temple court for our edification. Their reward is waiting—only it’s not a reward.”
His eye rests upon a poor woman, obviously a widow, who approaches the steps of the courtyard with the kind of habitual deference that circumstances have forced upon her. No one spares her a glance as she reaches out a hand and drops two copper coins in the box. The sound they make is a tiny, tinny clack.
“They give out of their wealth,” said the Teacher. “She gives out of her poverty. And in the end, it’s more than all of them.”
As the woman turns to go, back to whatever hovel or crowded corner she calls home, she happens to glance their way.
He gazes at her, a complex look that she afterwards remembers differently—sometimes as a smile, sometimes as a nod, sometimes just a searching glance. It turns her inside out, leaves her both exposed and cleansed. She feels no special righteousness, bringing her little offerings. She fears the Lord, that’s all—she takes him at his word, whatever her circumstances. She doesn’t expect him to notice her; no one else ever did. Until today.
She gave out of her poverty. Don’t we all?
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