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Parish Ministry
The following article originally appeared in Salt of
the Earth. It is posted here for private use only. It may not be reprinted
in whole or in part without the permission of Claretian Publications.
What I learned
from handling
my church's mammon
Nancy Forest-Flier
SOME PEOPLE THINK IT'S bad theology—or at least bad manners—to talk about the church and money in the same breath. Not me. I'm the church treasurer.
I got drafted into this job a few years ago when our priest discovered that I knew how to use bookkeeping software, and I really couldn't say no. It was a pretty simple operation, he assured me, and it wouldn't take very much time. He was right—at least he was right at the time. Though our congregation was steadily growing, it didn't take long to count up the handful of coins we collected every weekend.
But last year our small Orthodox parish made the staggering decision to buy a building of our own, right around the corner from the little chapel we used to rent from the big Catholic church. Now there's a mortgage—and utilities, insurance, and endless repairs. Suddenly money is something we can't afford to be discreet about.
WE'RE A SMALL CONGREGATION, but there was no small amount of disagreement about whether we should take on such an enormous responsibility. How could we afford it—a whole church building in the center of Amsterdam? The optimists (I was among them) argued that we were moving because we had outgrown the chapel and that when we'd move, the congregation would expand and so would our income.
Fortunately, we (the optimists) were proven right. Collections have risen significantly. But this means that the time I spend actually processing the stuff has increased exponentially.
So I spend a lot of time with my hands in money, and I've come to realize that you can look at money in several different ways. As a simply physical substance, first of all, money is a nuisance. It's tiny little bits of metal and small sheets of paper that have value only because society agrees to impose value on them, and every coin and bill has to be counted and processed.
NEITHER OUR CHURCH NOR OUR banks have counting machines, so all the money that comes in from collections and the sale of candles and prosphora (the small blessed loaves of breads that Orthodox use in their liturgies) has to be counted, wrapped, and tallied. It takes an enormous amount of time. And oddly enough, the standard assumption that time is money doesn't apply to money itself: it takes just as much time to wrap up fifty pennies as it does to wrap up fifty dollars.
The banks know this, and they hate to handle cash. When I walk into the bank every Monday morning with my sagging bag of coins, I know the tellers are scowling at me (or is it my imagination?). The teller has to count and weigh all my little packets of coins and make sure I haven't tried to pull a fast one. And then I have to pay a fee just to deposit all that money in the bank.
But worse than being a nuisance, money is dirty. "You never know where it's been," my mother used to tell me as a child just before I began sucking on a penny. Money is tainted. It really is filthy. I always give my hands a good wash after I've counted the collection.
And in Amsterdam, you really never know where it's been. The money I count could have been used to pay a hooker in the notorious red-light district only a few blocks from our church. Or for drugs. Or for some other less-known but equally nasty sin. No wonder we don't want to talk about it.
WE WOULD LIKE TO THINK THAT the church could manage perfectly well without money, and I suppose to a certain extent it could. The church is not a paid-membership organization. You don't have to pay to receive the sacraments; you don't have to pay for your bit of space in the church. We know that ultimately there is no way we can possibly pay for the mercy of God and the gift of salvation—not even with acts of piety or ascetic practices.
Jesus taught that, far from helping us, wealth can even get in the way of salvation. Remember the parable of Dives the rich man burning in hell, and Lazarus the poor man safe in Abraham's bosom; or Jesus' warning that it is easier for a camel to get through the needle's eye; render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's; Christ driving the money-changers from the temple.
The church is built on love, not on money. No one should be turned away from the fullness of the church because he or she lacks the funds. No wonder we're reluctant, and even embarrassed, to ask parishioners for contributions; we must never give people the idea that their salvation depends on their purse.
And yet, for all that, the incarnation—the sanctification of matter—is the central fact of our lives as Christians. Balancing Christ's warning about mistaking money for human worth are the stories of how material wealth can represent love and commitment. There is the parable of the widow's mite. And the woman who anointed Jesus with precious ointment, much to the aggravation of his disciples.
GIVING OUR MATERIAL WEALTH is a sacrifice; it is one way of dying to self. I suppose this is why we take up the collection during the liturgy just before Holy Communion. It is our sacrifice, minuscule though it is in comparison with the great sacrifice of love that takes place on the altar.
If we begin to imagine that the church can and should exist without money, lest it be tainted, the story of Ananias and his wife Sapphira in the fifth chapter of Acts is enough to put the fear of God back into us. This comes right after that description of what some people refer to as the early church's "Christian communism"—that Christians gave up all they possessed and held everything in common, and that "there was not a needy person among them." Ananias and Sapphira sold some property and lied to the disciples about its worth so that they could keep a bit for a rainy day. Both of them were struck down dead.
A mighty powerful story—and not only for the guy who somehow justifies tossing a dollar or two into the plate. It's also powerful for the church, the people who hold the purse strings, and all the church treasurers and parish councils of this earth.
LAST YEAR, WHEN WE bought our church building, we had to scrape together as much money as we could to make enough of a down payment so that the mortgage payments would be within our reach. This meant eliminating quite a few of the charitable outlays that we usually make. It meant taking up a second collection just to cover day-to-day renovation expenses. It meant running the risk of arousing some people's ire by constantly asking for money in one form or another. And some people did get annoyed.
But just as it is important for every church member to understand that giving money can be an ascetic practice, so it is important for the church to make sure that the money gets used in the right ways. The buck does not stop at the parish treasury; it stops in the hands of the needy. The early Christians described in Acts were not successful because they had a big building, or because their priests had comfortable digs, but because "there was not a needy person among them." That's the acid test.
We were frankly shocked at the end of 1995 to discover that the contributions we usually make to help various institutions and individuals just didn't get made. In the bustle of renovation—turning this former Pentecostal church into an Orthodox one, building an iconostasis (the screen with icons that separates the sanctuary from the nave), installing a good security system so the insurance would be valid, patching up the roof—there wasn't a guilder left over. But now we're almost finished. There's still plenty to do, but it's not pressing. And as a parish we'll have to begin making hard decisions. We're an inner-city church with many immigrant parishioners from eastern Europe and Africa. We have plenty of needy persons among us.
THERE'S ALWAYS THE DANGER that giving will become routine and will lose its sacrificial edge. A few years ago our church joined a national campaign that encourages church members to contribute regularly to their own congregations through bank transfers, which is easy in the Netherlands: you instruct your bank to pay out a certain fixed amount every month into the church account, and you never have to think about it again. This way the church is assured of a regular monthly income, church members are never caught with empty pockets when the plate comes round, and there's much less counting and wrapping for the treasurer.
It's clean, it doesn't weigh anything, there are no bank fees, and the tellers don't snarl. But for all its advantages (and I for one have the most to gain from a program as hassle-free as this one), I would never want to eliminate altogether the collection of plain old money, no matter where it's been. We continue to pass the plate every Sunday, even with the bank-transfer system, and we continue to get a pretty sizeable collection. The counting and wrapping have not ended.
Why do I like it? Because you can see it. It's real. You have to take it out of your pocket and physically place it in the plate. This is a ritual act, and making a bank transfer is not. And the Christian life is a ritualistic life, a life in which we are constantly acting out our unworthiness, our gratitude, our joy, in which we depend on Christian rituals to help us overcome our laziness, our greed, and our tendency to justify even our most outrageous behavior.
IN THE ACT OF PLACING REAL CASH in the collection plate we seem to be making two contradictory statements. "I am not defined by my material wealth, nor am I essentially reduced by giving it away. See? I put this money in the plate, and I continue to live." But at the same time, "Somehow I am defined by my material wealth. It represents my time and my labor. And in giving it away, I am making an essential sacrifice of my self to the God who has given me life and to his world that sustains me. Now I have spread myself out beyond the limits of my own body."
We need to be able to make the first statement before we can make the second. We need to relinquish our fear of loss before we can understand the freedom that comes from sacrifice.
I find that, much to my surprise, it's easier to write out a bank transfer for 50 guilders than it is to put a 5-guilder coin in the collection plate. Why? Because the real, physical act of giving is difficult.
LIKE ANANIAS AND SAPPHIRA, I am constantly tempted to hold back a little bit, because I convince myself that I need it, that my identity is tied up with this money, that it would be foolish and reckless to part with it. I convince myself that not giving is the way of wisdom. I put it back in the bank. I buy a savings certificate or invest in mutual funds or works of art. I go to sleep at night feeling disciplined, secure, grown up, powerful. And yet, Ananias and Sapphira were struck dead trying to pull the same thing.
The act of giving is a two-way street. As treasurer I'm glad when the collection is substantial. Then I know we'll be able to pay the mortgage this month with some left over. But as a Christian I realize how important the act of giving is, what an essential part of the liturgy it is. Not only is it a way for me to support an institution that is very important to me, but it is a vital spiritual exercise.
It helps me understand who I really am, and it helps me recognize who my brothers and sisters are. It helps me keep my sights focused on the right goal. It helps me in my struggle to keep from trying to save myself by making myself valuable. And ultimately it helps me understand what true value really is after all.
© 1997 by Claretian Publications