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The Heart of Giving

“In all things I have shown you that by working hard in this way we must help the weak and remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he himself said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’” (Acts 20:35) There is a kind of courage that comes before generosity. A quiet, interior yes. The willingness to admit that our lives are filled with gifts we did not create and cannot keep forever. Breath. Beauty. Friendship. Forgiveness. The daily miracle of being sustained. We often speak of grace as God’s gift to us. But there is also a grace that wakes us up to the fact that we are already surrounded by grace. A light that has been shining on us all along. God has not left the world empty of himself; traces of him are everywhere. And when we love, serve, or give, we are not starting something new—we are joining something that began in God. That is why tithing is not really about law or pressure. Under grace, it cannot be reduced to a rule. It is closer to Sabbath: a rhythm that reminds us who we are and whose we are. Giving becomes a way of saying thank you with our lives. It is a natural response to the God who made everything, who lives among us, and whose image rests in every person we meet. Tithing gently resists the tight fist of the ego. It loosens our instinct to cling. It turns our attention outward in three clear ways: toward those who are struggling, toward the words and way of Jesus, and toward the deep truth that life is richer when we give rather than grasp. So we work—not just for ourselves, but in love. Our labour becomes part of God’s generosity moving through the world. I confess how easily my heart shrinks. How quickly I calculate, protect, hold back. Lord, grow in me a freer spirit. Teach me to live with open hands, an open wallet, and an open smile, ready for whatever chances to give you place before me today. Amen. Prayer God of the open table,who never withholds dawn from the just or unjust,you are the Giver before every gift,the generosity beneath all generosity. Before I ever loosen my grip,your hands were already open.Before I learned to give,I was carried by a thousand kindnessesI did not earn,did not notice,did not repay. You have placed bright, breakable things into my keeping—time, breath, bread,the quiet trust of others,the strange and holy weight of being alive.Save me from mistaking possession for permission,from clutching what was meant to move,from calling fear “wisdom”when it is only the tremor of my own small kingdom. Give me that earlier courage—the courage that comes before the act,before the decision,before the generous gesture has a name.The courage to believethat there is more beauty than I can safely store,more mercy than I can sensibly budget,more love than I can afford to hoard. Teach my heart the freedom of glad giving.Not the anxious arithmetic of duty,but the deep grammar of grace—where gifts circulate like blood,where blessing is a current, not a container,where what leaves my handdoes not leave your keeping. Let my giving be a form of remembering.Remembering the weak who bend beneath hidden weights.Remembering the words of Jesusthat still overturn the ledgers of this world.Remembering that I, too, am always receiving—forgiveness I did not fund,hope I did not manufacture,a future I did not secure. Work this truth into my habitsuntil generosity feels less like lossand more like alignment with the grain of the universe.Until my earnings become offerings,my work becomes worship,and my open hand becomes a small echoof yours. Make me useful in the quiet, radiant way of your kingdom.And in all my giving,give me yourself again—the only treasure that multiplieswhen it is shared. Amen.