For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, who – though he was rich – became poor for your sakes (2 Cor. 8:9)

After my last post, one reader pointed out that the content was rather high on the idealism scale. I have to admit that I shared the same concern. The problem with big ticket biblical issues is that they present a temptation to discouragement arising from how great, wide, and comprehensive they are. As disciples, we can’t ignore the sayings and instructions of scripture, nor can we contrive airtight rules or moralistic standards.  So how can we face the apparent pattern of perfection that Jesus puts before us without becoming perfectionists taking on a burden that God does not intend for us?

One way to resolve our dilemma might be to tackle a couple small parts of chapters 8 and 9 from 2 Corinthians, in which Paul is talking about an offering he is gathering for suffering Christians in and around Jerusalem. In order to inspire the Church of Corinth to fulfill their pledge to give to his campaign, Paul takes the first 5 verses of chapter 8 to introduce the Macedonians (not a 60s cartoon show or indie rock band), as an object lesson for Christians called to a life of financial freedom.

The first thing we discover about these believers is that they are afflicted by severe trials (probably intense persecution) and deep poverty. This seems rather a strange kind of starting point for generosity, running counter to both the narrative of the prosperity gospel and the idea that we need a lot of money margin before we can be generous. And yet we find that the Macedonians’ lack of resources presents an opportunity for faith, rather than an occasion for self-protective resistance.

Once he has revealed the Macedonian church’s circumstances, Paul follows with an account of their entirely counterintuitive and completely biblical response to his mercy mission. He begins with the observation that they were filled with abundant joy. Why is joy a starting point? Because the gift of joy, and joyful giving, arise from knowing and abiding in God’s goodness toward us. Joy is neither theoretical, merely emotional, nor dependent on circumstances. In chapter 3 of Habakkuk, the prophet explicitly expresses the transcendent nature of the joy that is ours even in times of extreme social and spiritual distress. His declaration is that, despite the presence of violent enemies and the absence of economic security, he will “rejoice in the Lord, and be joyful in the God of his salvation” (Hab. 3:8).

Habakkuk’s and the Macedonians’ joy comes from an expectant hope in God as their ultimate good. They are not resting their futures in a turnaround in fortunes the way I am when I look at my stock portfolio. Biblical hope is an eternal and unchanging thing that makes believers see themselves as perpetually rich, children of a loving Father who have access to whatever they need in every circumstance. But doesn’t that sound like a simple question-begging, self-justifying yet contradictory fallacy? Is not the poor person by definition missing what they need?

There are two primary responses to the question. The first (which I will pass over) has to do with the nature of the church as supportive community. The second (which I won’t) is the disciple’s understanding of God as entirely sufficient for their lives regardless and even in spite of what we have or don’t have in the realms of money, possessions, reputation, advancement, and so on. Joy has discovered that what makes us truly wealthy – what fulfills the ultimate desire of every human heart – is intimacy with the Father. In our generation there are countless poor “Macedonians” who experience joy’s freedom in the midst of poverty and suffering.*

It is no wonder that the Macedonians’ abundant joy overflows in rich generosity. The knowledge that the infinite God has given himself, and the best of himself, is a potent motivation to a grateful offering that, as Paul relates, goes beyond a careful, calculating measure. Instead of weighing their gift in a fine balance, the Macedonians gave “beyond their ability.” No only that, they gave not from compulsion or guilt manipulation, but willingly. In fact, Paul says, the Macedonians begged him to allow them to take part in the privilege – not the burden or the duty – of giving.

As it turns out, his mention of the Macedonians poverty and hardships is really only to establish a context for their interaction with and response to the Holy Spirit. There are countless ways of reacting to being poor and tested; theirs is to experience and express freedom unrestrained by the argument of conditions. For the Macedonians, the real test was not their poverty, but their heart orientation. They could equally have been dealing with being rich; the Lord would still have sought to convert their minds and inclinations.

Why and how do the Macedonians meet the test of their hearts? Are they simply constitutionally self-sacrificing? Are they grandstanding? Looking for lots of likes on their social media platform of choice? Hoping for a hundred-fold return from God for their offering? None of the above: Paul gives us two necessary bookends that border the story of Macedonian generosity. The first is in verse 1, where he prefaces his narrative with praise for “what God has done in his kindness through the churches in Macedonia.” A gracious gift from the Father has inspired gracious giving from his people.

Of course, not all generosity is divinely ordained; nor is every impulse to give of what we have. Certainly even our best offering, stirred by the Spirit, is subject to our imperfect motives (my right hand pretty much always knows what my left is doing). But drawing from God’s own open-handedness tends to rightly wear on our pride and self-satisfaction.

The second bookend, found in verse 5, helps us see how we come to inspiration in the first place. It describes how the Macedonians accessed the Lord’s grace for giving: They gave themselves to God first before they gave away their money, “just as the Lord desired of them.” Yes, proffering our money, our goods, our time, our abilities are crucial emblems of discipleship. But specific acts of liberality are just that: emblems – signs that we are our Beloved’s and he is ours.

Bounded by the Father’s extravagant heart on one end and his accepting the offering of our lives on the other, our generosity can grow in purity, humility, and fruitfulness. As we become convicted that our largesse does not arise from us, but from the Lord, we can be more confident that we are giving from his grace. We are more likely to align with the widow and her two coins rather than with pharisaical hypocrisy. And we will be less and less constrained by fear, anxiety, the excuse of false prudence, and the idolatry of greed.

There is nothing better than being desired, drawn to, and accepted by the Father – so we give ourselves to him first …

… and we bring our bank accounts with us, however large or small they be.

*I am not making a political or social statement here, and am in no way negating the biblical prophetic call to justice, which is also integral to Paul’s discourse in these same chapters.