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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Offering Plate The offering plate started at row one I was in row ten. I reached in my pants knowing I had a five down there somewhere. I pulled a crumpled wad from my pocket. A receipt from MacDonalds, couple of one's and a---- "ten"! I jammed my fists back into both pockets. Where was it, that five that I was so generously going to give. Monuments and statues were to be erected in my honor for the noble contribution of that five. "But ten?" Did God really need that extra five, more than I did? Thinking about the theological and the existential implications hurt my head. The plate was starting the second row. Going from one generous hand to the other. Five is one thing, but ten? I smoothed out the wadded ten, as I tightened my grip on it. The plate was on row four. The passing plate seemed to accelerate. Do I give it? I saw my monuments and statues crumble right before my eyes. The plate was at row six. What happened to row five? My heart quickened, the breathing became more shallow. My fingers held tightly to the ten like it was my only child. The plate was steaming along row eight, like a piston, faster and faster. My eyes darted between the plate and the ten, as my grip tightened like a vise. Beads of sweat began to appear. My mind raced, ten or no ten. Righteous obedience or succulent avarice. The plate has now cleared row nine. It feels like my eternity hangs in the balance. The plate comes to me. With gritted teeth, and gritted heart, I drop the ten in. The ten snuggles into the plate, up next to a "twenty." It's funny, but ï didn't hear the Hallelujah chorus as the ten left my hand. Nor did I hear: "Well done my good and faithful servant." The offering plate continued it's one way journey. Songs were sang, the preacher preached. One last question entered my little mind: Was God impressed, or embarrassed? 5-7-17
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