The Secret of the Three R’s — Religion, Responsibility, and Relationships

Character and integrity are built on a foundation of trust

There’s a lot said today about money and churches — about the relationship between finance and religion, and how the measure of your contribution often indicates the magnitude of your faith.

Granted, the currency of salvation has always had two sides.

But in a general sense, when the faithful consider making a purposeful contribution, we usually think about a well-intentioned need to fund ministries in near and far-off lands — to bring the good news to those who might otherwise never hear it.

But if we take a quick look at most contemporary, faith-based ministries, it’s clear there are usually lots of “other expenses” involved.

There’s the fellowship hall, the worship center, private schools, salaries for the head minister, youth minister, property manager, and groundskeeper.

Then there’s a monthly retainer for an on-call marriage and family counselor, payments into the property acquisition fund, the payment on the Jesus bus, a new car every three years for both ministers, and a monthly allocation for the elder’s annual trip to the holy lands.

Sounds like a lot of overhead for a local house of worship.

But it pales in comparison to lofty megachurches boasting an international reach and a financial base to match.

Their budgets may include a second home for a celebrity-status minister, a limo and driver for his family, and a private jet for travel. Because after all, there’s nothing like a Lear model 70 to bring the leader of the faithful a few thousand feet closer to God.

And it’s all paid from the pockets of devout and loyal parishioners.

Need to budget your contribution?

No problem. There are plans for monthly billing through Visa and MasterCard — and if absolutely necessary, American Express.

Big time Religion.

But none of what I’ve described was part of the financial reality of the little Christian bible church I grew up in.

With a membership of about three hundred souls, the preacher was the only paid employee.

He prepared and delivered two sermons and two bible lessons a week. He performed marriages, delivered eulogies, and was available 24 hours to any parishioner who expressed the need. He also visited hospitalized church members and shut-ins who were sick or infirmed.

The building was paid for, so there wasn’t a mortgage payment. That left an electric bill, payments for water, postage for the weekly bulletin, and a small contingency fund to cover repairs to the twenty-five-year-old air conditioning system.

“Essential services” were provided by volunteers.

Women took turns preparing the communion every Sunday. A group of men always showed up twice a month to trim the trees and pull weeds. And when the building needed painting, a dozen members arrived early on a Saturday morning to get it done.

My earliest memories concerning the use of money in supporting the Lord’s work came from my dad’s role in handling the donations made every Sunday morning.

He did the counting.

He would ask one of the other men to accompany him to the basement where the two of them would divide the money into piles, based on denomination. The one-dollar bills always created the biggest pile.

They counted it twice and wrote down the amount on a receipt signed by both men. My father then stuffed the money into a brown paper bag, tucked it under his arm, and took it to his car.

After passing the plate, the total collection was around five hundred dollars. The actual amount varied from week to week, but not by much.

That five hundred dollar weekly contribution represented more than the financial life-blood of the congregation.

It symbolized a collective trust, a sense of confidence that the money would be used for the greater good, in continuance of the Lord’s work.

One Sunday, after placing the bag under the car’s front seat like he always did, another church member approached my dad and began chatting about the sermon. Distracted by the conversation, my dad walked away from the car without locking the doors, or even rolling up the windows.

As was usually the case following Sunday morning services, another family invited us to join them for lunch at one of the local restaurants.

A few minutes later, we were on our way, riding in the rear seat of the other family’s car.

At the end of the meal, my dad took the bill to the register and prepared to pay for our lunch. As he counted out the bills, I saw his expression change.

He’d remembered the bag of money.

He’d also remembered he’d forgotten to lock the car.

Looking down at me, he shook his head. “I left the collection in the car. I hope it’s still there when we get back.”

I could tell by the tension in his voice, he was worried. As we walked outside, I asked him what would happen if the money were gone.

“I’ll have to take care of it,” he said.

“But if you tell them what happened, they’ll understand,” I reasoned. “It wasn’t your fault, not if somebody stole it.”

He was quiet for a second, then said, “It doesn’t work that way. If the money’s gone, I’ll go to the bank on Monday and replace it.”

Financially, we lived week-to-week. The grocery store my dad owned made us a basic living, but nothing more.

“But how will you pay the bills this month?” I asked.

“You don’t need to worry about that.” That was all he said.

Thankfully, the money was still there, right under the car seat where he’d left it.

He didn’t seem to be overly relieved, just pleased he could get home and mow the lawn before dark. The next day, he took the money to the bank and deposited it — just like always.

It was a good lesson for a nine-year-old.

Responsibility.

Doing what you’re supposed to do — what you’ve agreed to do.

And if you screw up, you take care of it. You fix it. You make it right. If that means enduring some personal hardship or making a sacrifice, it’s all part of the program.

I could stop right here — end the article with this simple example of personal accountability.

But the second half of the lesson — the real jewel in the message — didn’t emerge until years later, after being put into situations that required me to evaluate not only the character of others but to appraise the probability of their future performance based on their past behavior.

Those experiences led me to an interesting conclusion . . .

Repairing your mistakes doesn’t entitle you to special recognition for efforts that became necessary because you caused the problem.

I notice that a lot today — people making mistakes, then wanting to be congratulated for correcting them.

“Yeah, I took drugs, beat my wife, abandoned my kids, and stole from my employer. But I’m all better now — got a new wife, adopted a dog from the pound, and haven’t missed a day’s work in over two months. Wow, am I on the fast-track to winning the title of man of the year, or what?”

Sorry, I’m not buying it.

Yes, we’ve all made mistakes.

Some large, some small. But it’s what we do about them, how we correct the fallout — the impact to others, and ultimately, to ourselves — that makes the difference in building a future that is potentially superior to the past.

If I see something that warrants congratulations, I’ll be the first one there with a fruit basket.

Otherwise, don’t expect a standing ovation for simply showing up and doing what you promised to do in the first place.

Gold stars are for excellence — for going above and beyond. For fighting adversity with persistence.

And in 1959, for teaching a nine-year-old about personal responsibility.

© 2020 Roger Reid. All Rights Reserved.

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Roger A. Reid, Ph.D. is the host of Success Point 360 Podcast and author of Better Mondays and Speak Up. A certified NLP trainer with degrees in engineering and business, Roger offers tips and strategies for achieving higher levels of career success and personal fulfillment in the real world.