Faith and Finances

Now faith, says the writer to the Hebrews, is “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Which is a poetic way of saying: “Faith is trusting in something you can’t yet see, while other people are looking at you as if you’ve lost your marbles.”

Abraham, we’re told, set off “not knowing where he was going.” Imagine that conversation:

Sarah: “Where are we headed, dear?”

Abraham: “Dunno.”

Sarah: “And when will we get there?”

Abraham: “No idea.”

Sarah: “Right. I’ll just go and pack the tent, then.”

Faith like that is not about ticking a doctrinal box. It’s about living as if God’s promised future is worth building here and now — even before we’ve seen the blueprint. That’s what makes it progressive faith: we’re not nostalgically gazing at the ‘good old days’ (which, incidentally, were never as good as people remember). We’re leaning forward, straining our eyes towards the city “whose architect and builder is God” — and we’re not afraid if the plans include solar panels, ramps for accessibility, and a community kitchen.

Then Luke’s Gospel comes along and makes things even more awkward. Jesus says, “Sell your possessions, and give alms… make purses for yourselves that do not wear out.” Which is a lovely metaphor, but inconvenient if you like your purse stuffed with a nice reserve for rainy days. Jesus is being deeply annoying here, because he’s asking us to live as if our real treasure is in heaven — which means our resources here are tools for love, not trophies for display.

And this is where faith and finance bump into each other like two strangers in a supermarket. Because when we talk about “treasure in heaven” in church, it’s tempting to think of it purely as a warm spiritual glow, rather than anything to do with our bank statement. But Jesus won’t let us separate the two. “Where your treasure is,” he says, “there your heart will be also.” In other words: “Show me your budget, and I’ll show you what you worship.”

Here at St Faith’s, our budget is both a source of pride and a challenge. Pride, because we manage to do an enormous amount with relatively little. Challenge, because the reality is that we are heavily reliant on income from our property lettings and from the charity shop just to keep the lights on and the heating running. Without those, we simply couldn’t cover our basic running costs. And on top of that comes our Parish Share — our contribution to the life of the whole Diocese, funding the stipends of clergy in places that could never afford them on their own, and enabling mission across Hampshire.

Our Parish Share this year is around £68,000. That’s before we’ve spent a single penny on local ministry, music, outreach, or maintaining our beautiful but rather high-maintenance buildings. Last year, we fell short of that target, and the truth is that unless we increase our giving, we will fall short again. And I don’t want us to become a parish that survives only by selling things and renting rooms, while our regular, sustained, faith-filled personal giving stagnates.

From a purely financial point of view, it might make sense to say, “Well, let’s just keep more of our money here, for our own needs.” But that’s not faith talking — that’s fear talking. Faith says: “It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” Which is a very churchy way of saying: “God’s not stingy. The kingdom is already on offer. You can afford to live generously.”

And generosity is infectious. When a congregation catches the vision that what we give changes lives — when we see that a little seed planted here grows into a great tree there — something shifts in the heart. We stop seeing giving as “loss” and start seeing it as “investment in God’s future.”

Faith is not about sitting back and waiting for God to magic the kingdom into existence. Faith rolls up its sleeves. Faith signs a standing order. Faith trusts that even in a cost-of-living crisis, generosity is possible — and that generosity plants seeds which will grow into a harvest we might not yet see.

So let’s talk practicalities for a moment. If you are already giving regularly — thank you. You are the backbone of our financial stability. But if each of us who gives were able to add just £5 a week — the price of a couple of takeaway coffees — we would raise an extra £10,000 a year.

If some could manage £10 a week extra, we’d add £20,000 a year — enough to close our Parish Share gap significantly and invest in new ministry. 

And if you’ve never yet set up regular giving, even £20 a month — less than most people pay for streaming TV — would make a huge difference if enough people joined in.

This is mustard-seed stuff. Tiny acts of trust that grow into something sheltering, beautiful, and life-giving.

And if you are one of the poor, those so strapped for cash that they need to give nothing, then come and talk to me or Sandra, privately, about how we can help you get on your feet, financially.  We do that, you know.  That’s what the Rector’s Discretionary Fund is all about.

So today, I’m not just asking us to hear the words of Hebrews and Luke and nod sagely. I’m asking us to live them. To give with joy, to serve with gladness, and to keep our eyes fixed on the city that God is building — the one with foundations strong enough to bear the weight of all our hopes, and walls wide enough to welcome everyone in.

And if anyone ever asks you why on earth you gave away so much of your time, your money, your love — just smile and say, “Faith. The assurance of things hoped for. The conviction of things not seen. And the joy of being part of God’s ridiculous, generous, world-changing plan.”

Amen.