Why Do You Give?
The quest for self-preservation.
I made a groundbreaking discovery.
I don’t like being broke.
As earth-shattering of a discovery it was. I know I’m not the only one. There are very few people that like being broke. So yes, I really don’t like being broke. I find that I’m five times more likely to be irritated by someone’s breathing patterns when I’m broke. Something I wouldn’t note otherwise.
Now, why is that important for you to know, and why am I writing a whole blog post on it?
There is a bible verse-turned song that I grew up singing, “Give and it shall come back to you, good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running overrrr”. I sang that song with all the fervor and vigor of a naive 8-year-old. My mother deliberately avoided exposing me to the value of money when I was young. She bought all the snacks, novels, and everything in between by herself.
The years wore on, and I became more conscious of the value of money on my own and by exposure. I couldn’t buy the nice fish rolls they sold at the tuck-shop because I didn’t have money. I vividly remember the first time I made a purchase. It was on the fish roll that had been calling my name.
I knew my mom was impenetrable, so I begged my father to give me two hundred naira. Wisdom is the principal thing, of course. Throughout the car ride to school, guilt was eating me up because I knew my mother wouldn’t approve.
I had to appease my conscience and not give up the money. The ‘nice and smart’ compromise I made was to scream, “Mummy, my daddy gave me two hundred naira for fish roll!” while running into the school gate so that she wouldn’t be able to stop me. I was such a lovely child.
I was introduced to tithing, but it wasn’t a bother. I liked it. I liked the idea of giving to God from whatever I had. One time I tithed twenty naira on the hundred naira a relative gave me because I “wanted to give God twenty percent instead.”
Somewhere along the line, however, giving became a bargaining chip to guarantee my well-being. I had learned that if you give, God will give you. And I wanted God to give me. I wanted my good measure to be pressed down, shaken together, and running over.
Subconsciously, I began to stand at my proverbial window every night, waiting for my gift to arrive in chariots of fire every time I gave. I gave cheerfully because I was cheerfully expecting a reimbursement from God. Where I was meant to have a heart of good will, I had a heart for profit. My act of giving became a method of self-preservation. To secure my future.
Because who doesn’t want to be in God’s good books?
You can imagine the endless frustration I felt when, after generous acts, month in month out my account remained blissfully silent. I wondered about people who got miracle alerts. What is all this? When am I going to receive my own shaking?
Foolishness.
One month, I decided to save my money instead. Since this giving thing wasn't really working out. But that’s not how I pitched the idea to myself. Of course not. I rationalized it. Hmm, what if I don’t tithe this month? What if I don’t give? Let me just keep everything since I’m always broke by the end of the month anyway.
It sounded logical. Of course, it was logical.
Guess what? I was still broke by the end of the month.
A huge unexpected expense came and carried the tithe money plus jara from my hands. I laughed so hard. Who was I fooling? Charity and tithing were never the problem. Even the amount of money I had or did not have was never the problem.
The problem was my heart.
I had subconsciously turned God into an investment app. And that’s why I was upset every time things didn’t turn out a certain way. And my set ideologies also blinded me to the other ways I was receiving goodwill. As long as they were not alerts, I no gree.
For God loves a cheerful giver.
The Lord showed me the sliminess of my heart. It was humbling. “Yeh”.
Then understanding began to shine her light in my heart. Bit by bit. Poco a poco.
I don’t give because I have in excess. Or I am waiting for the Bouillon van that will show up at my gate after I give. I don’t give because it’s easy access to God’s blessings.
I give because I am already blessed. I am already favored, and I am blessed to be a blessing to people. It may sound cliche but it’s true. I give because God loves people, and I love Him by loving them. I give because I have received so much. In Christ, I received the greatest gift that nobody can beat.
Besides, giving is not only in cash; it is also in resources, in time, in knowledge, in a listening ear, in an extension of mercy and grace. A mother gives her body for the birthing of a new life. When you realize all the ways you can give, you will see how much you have received.
Giving still remains a form of self-preservation. Not just in the way that I had originally thought it to be.
It is self-preservation to care for your neighbor and to have a heart for others. I believe that when you ignore the problems in Sokoto1, it won’t take long before you find them in your ‘sokoto’2.
But you see, the difference now is that even if giving didn’t offer any reward, if there was no promise attached, I would still give. Because I know now that I have in abundance. I no longer give to be given; I give because I have been given.
I am slowly learning that generosity is a state of being, not just an action. And as such, external circumstances do not rattle it. The economic state of the nation does not easily shake it. And it doesn’t act to prove a point or to be liked by people. This is a whole other article on it’s own.
Generosity is close friends with wisdom. And together, they invest themselves freely but shrewdly, as the Lord does.
Today’s piece, as much as I have tried to communicate a lot of what I have learnt, is just a surface brushing of this conversation. Maybe another day I’d write more extensively on it. But today, I leave you with the question that titles this whole piece.
Why do you give?
Sokoto- a state in Nothern Nigeria
sokoto- Sokoto is a type of traditional Yoruba clothing that refers to the long, loose-fitting pants worn by men as part of the agbada, a formal three-piece attire: