Generous Resistance
- Randall Nichols
- 1 day ago
- 2 min read
This time of year has a way of stirring something deep in us, doesn't it?
As Thanksgiving festivities draw down and Christmas sits glowing on the horizon, we naturally start to reflect — on what we’ve endured, what we’ve received, and where God has carried us. These seasons come wrapped in familiar rituals: crowded tables, exchanged gifts, candlelight, carols, children’s laughter. But beneath the tradition is something steadier and older — the call to generosity. Not the frantic, consumer-driven version, but the kind rooted in a kingdom imagination. Generosity becomes a quiet resistance; a refusal to live by scarcity. It’s trust that God is the giver of every good thing, that our neighbors carry His image, and that love actually grows when it is given away.
And this time of year, the needs around us sit closer to the surface. Families pushed beyond exhaustion. Parents navigating medical crises. Grandparents stepping in because the alternative would be unthinkable. Kids carrying grief and trauma they don’t yet understand. It’s easy to miss how thin the line is between “holding it together” and “falling apart.” Generosity matters precisely here. An act of provision — a bed, diapers, support, training, a safe place to land — becomes the difference between unraveling and finding stability. These small mercies are not peripheral to the spirit of the season; they are at the core of it. They put flesh on the hope we proclaim when we sing about peace on earth.
Generosity becomes a quiet resistance; a refusal to live by scarcity.
But maybe the most beautiful thing is what generosity awakens in us. Every time we open our hands, something in our hearts opens too. We become the kind of people who hunger for a world made whole, a world where the lonely find family and the weary find rest. This is where generosity becomes more than kindness — it becomes an act of longing. A way of saying, through our giving, “Let earth look a little more like heaven today.” It’s a way of refusing resignation. A way of stepping into God’s dream for the world with whatever we have to offer.
But maybe the most beautiful thing is what generosity awakens in us. Every time we open our hands, something in our hearts opens too.
So this season, generosity becomes both a gift and a testimony. It reminds us who we are: people formed by grace, people entrusted with one another’s good, people who believe that heaven keeps drawing near. And as we give — our time, our presence, our resources — we’re not just meeting needs. We’re participating in this generous resistance; in the slow, steady work of restoration. We’re building the kind of community where no family walks alone. And in doing so, we become living invitations for others to imagine, and work toward, a world where light breaks through just a little more every day.