I suspect I have a different take on generosity than most people.
I don't think generosity is giving when it's easy.
I think generosity begins when it costs us something.
If giving money doesn't change my budget, was it generosity or convenience? If volunteering fits perfectly into my schedule, was it sacrifice or simply participation? If I only serve when my family benefits, my child is involved, or the outcome somehow comes back to me, am I being generous or just investing?
Those are uncomfortable questions.
If I'm honest, I've been very generous when generosity was easy.
I've donated here and there. Supported fundraisers. Volunteered for organizations my son was involved in. Given my time where I knew the return on investment would eventually make its way back to my interests.
But giving when it inconveniences me?
Giving when I'm tired?
Giving when I don't particularly want to?
Giving financially when it means saying no to something I wanted for myself?
That feels different.
That feels costly.
And perhaps that is exactly where generosity begins.
Scripture paints a very different picture of generosity than our culture does. We tend to celebrate generosity when it is comfortable and manageable. God seems far more interested in generosity that requires trust.
Jesus sat in the temple and watched wealthy people give large sums of money that they would never miss. Then came a widow who quietly dropped in two small coins — all she had to live on.
Jesus wasn't impressed by the size of the gift.
He was moved by the size of the sacrifice.
The widow gave not from her abundance but from her poverty (Mark 12:41-44).
The Good Samaritan did not simply stop to check on the wounded man and wish him well. He interrupted his plans, used his own supplies, put the stranger on his own animal, took him to an inn, paid for his care, and promised to cover whatever additional expenses might come later (Luke 10:25-37).
Compassion cost him time.
It cost him money.
It cost him convenience.
A little boy handed over his lunch to Jesus — not his leftovers, not what he didn't need, but the entirety of what he had brought for himself. Five loaves and two fish became enough to feed thousands because someone was willing to release what little he had into God's hands (John 6:1-14).
Boaz intentionally instructed his workers to leave grain behind for Ruth to gather (Ruth 2). This wasn't accidental generosity. It was purposeful generosity that reduced his own harvest in order to protect someone vulnerable.
Again and again, Scripture reminds us that generosity often costs the giver something.
Perhaps that is the point.
King David once said, "I will not sacrifice to the Lord my God burnt offerings that cost me nothing" (2 Samuel 24:24).
That verse lingers with me.
Because if generosity costs me nothing, perhaps I have not yet reached generosity at all.
The truth is, I am not naturally gifted at this kind of giving.
I like budgets.
I like plans.
I like margins.
I like knowing there is enough.
And yet following Christ consistently calls us beyond comfort and into trust.
Thankfully, I am married to someone who understands this far better than I do.
My husband has an uncanny ability to just respond immediately. He pushes me beyond my comfort zone. More than once, he has reminded me that generosity in the Kingdom of God rarely makes sense on paper.
And honestly, that is exactly what I need.
Because the Gospel itself is a story of costly generosity.
God did not give us what was convenient.
He gave what was precious.
"He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all..." (Romans 8:32).
The cross was not convenient.
Grace was not cheap.
Love cost something.
Maybe generosity was never meant to be measured by how much we give, but by how much trust is required to give it.
Perhaps generosity lives in the places where our comfort ends and our faith begins.
I am still learning that lesson.
But I suspect abundant living may have something to do with open hands.
