Giving Isn’t Loss — It’s Alignment With Divine Flow

I have come to see that much of the tension surrounding money, generosity, and spiritual life arises from a single misunderstanding: the belief that we are owners rather than stewards. For many years I wrestled with the language of giving that often circulated in religious environments — language that sometimes sounded transactional, sometimes heavy with obligation, and sometimes disconnected from the grace that I believe sits at the very center of the gospel. Yet as I have reflected more deeply, both through scripture and through my own metaphysical understanding of consciousness as foundational, I have come to realize that the issue is not whether stewardship or generosity should exist. The issue is how we understand our relationship to the resources that move through our lives.

If consciousness — or what many Christians call Father God — is truly the originating ground of reality, then nothing we encounter is ultimately self-generated. Trees, soil, cattle, minerals, crops, creative insight, and even the opportunities that come our way arise from a deeper Source. The psalmist’s poetic language that God owns the cattle on a thousand hills has begun to feel less like a declaration of control and more like a revelation of origin. Everything belongs to the divine field of life, not because God hoards it, but because God is its source. When this realization settles into the heart, the idea of ownership softens. We may hold property, run businesses, or build organizations, but ultimately we are caretakers of a flow that began long before us and will continue long after us.

This perspective does not require hostility toward capitalism. In fact, I have come to see that markets, entrepreneurship, and innovation can function as instruments of stewardship rather than as rivals to spiritual awareness. Capitalism, at its healthiest, is simply a system through which human beings organize resources, create value, and collaborate in the unfolding of possibility. The problem is not enterprise itself; it is the illusion that success originates solely from the isolated self. When consciousness is understood as foundational, even the most successful entrepreneur becomes a participant in a larger movement rather than an ultimate owner. Wealth becomes entrusted energy — a form of life moving through human hands for a season.

I have found it helpful to observe how some modern figures embody this principle without always naming the metaphysics behind it. Brandon Fugal, for instance, is known as a highly successful capitalist, yet he often speaks of himself as a steward rather than a true owner. He manages vast resources and operates within free markets, but he frames his role as responsibility rather than possession. Similarly, evangelical entrepreneurs like S. Truett Cathy and David Green have spoken openly about stewarding what has been entrusted to them rather than claiming absolute ownership. These examples reveal something important: stewardship language does not undermine success. Instead, it reframes it. Success becomes not a fortress to defend but a platform through which generosity, creativity, and service can flow.

In my own spiritual journey, this has begun to reshape how I understand giving itself. Giving, when stripped of fear and obligation, is simply love in motion. It is not a spiritual tax nor a mechanism to persuade God to act. Grace always comes first. Grace announces that nothing must be earned, that nothing is withheld, and that we already belong within the life of God. When grace becomes the foundation, generosity emerges naturally. We do not give to secure ourselves; we give because we are already secure. The closed fist relaxes, and the heart begins to trust the flow of life rather than clinging to the illusion of control.

This is where I believe pioneers like Dr. John Avanzini made an important contribution, even if I sometimes express it differently. He helped many believers rediscover that resources function like seeds — that what is released can grow and empower the work of the kingdom. While some expressions of biblical economics have at times drifted toward transactional language, the deeper insight remains valuable: resources are meant to move. They are not static possessions but living instruments of participation. When I reinterpret this through a grace-centered and consciousness-based lens, sowing becomes less about purchasing blessing and more about aligning with the circulation of divine life.

Malachi’s invitation to “bring the whole tithe into the storehouse” can be understood not as a demand rooted in ownership, but as a reminder of stewardship within a living relationship with God. If all resources originate in divine consciousness — if the cattle on a thousand hills, the harvest of the fields, and the wealth beneath the earth already belong to the Source — then generosity becomes an act of alignment rather than obligation. The prophet’s warning about “robbing God” speaks less about depriving heaven of resources and more about losing awareness that we are entrusted stewards, not ultimate owners. When generosity flows from grace, the “windows of heaven” symbolize the restoration of harmony between the steward and the Source, where provision moves freely and life becomes fruitful again. In this light, Malachi’s words do not stand against grace; they call us back into the joyful rhythm of participation, where what has been received from God continues to move through us as an expression of love, trust, and faithful stewardship.

Abraham’s offering of a tenth to Melchizedek, long before the Mosaic covenant, can be seen as a beautiful expression of stewardship flowing from recognition rather than obligation. There was no law compelling him, no command enforcing a percentage — only a spontaneous response of gratitude and reverence toward the divine presence he recognized in the priest-king. In this moment, Abraham acts not as an owner protecting his gains but as a steward acknowledging that victory and provision ultimately come from God. His giving reflects alignment with the Source rather than compliance with a system, revealing that generosity rooted in grace existed before any formal structure. Seen through this lens, the tenth becomes less about requirement and more about remembrance — a symbolic act that points back to origin, honoring the flow of divine provision that moves through human lives long before covenants, rules, or religious expectations were ever established.

Jesus himself seemed to embody this rhythm. He spoke openly about money and stewardship, yet he never manipulated people through fear. He lived from an awareness of abundance that did not depend on accumulation. His generosity flowed from trust in the Source, not from anxious calculation. In this light, stewardship becomes an expression of awakening. It is not about proving loyalty to God but about recognizing that everything we hold is already part of a larger story.

As I reflect on this, I find myself returning again and again to the idea that we are conduits rather than containers. Consciousness expresses itself through form — through land, resources, and human creativity — and stewardship is simply the practice of allowing that expression to remain healthy and life-giving. When we cling too tightly to ownership, resources stagnate and anxiety increases. When we see ourselves as stewards, generosity feels less like sacrifice and more like participation in a living ecosystem of love.

Even structured practices such as tithing or regular giving can be understood in this way. Rather than rigid requirements, they become rhythms that help us remember the Source from which everything flows. Some people will resonate with percentages; others will give in more fluid ways. What matters most is the heart of openness. Consciousness does not demand uniformity; it invites sincerity. When giving arises from gratitude rather than fear, it becomes expansive rather than draining.

I have also come to believe that speaking openly about money within spiritual communities is not a departure from grace but a necessary expression of it. Our lives are deeply intertwined with resources, and ignoring that reality can leave people navigating financial decisions without spiritual insight. Conversations about stewardship can help people integrate their faith with their daily lives, recognizing that even economic choices participate in the unfolding of divine consciousness.

What fascinates me most is how this perspective bridges worlds that often feel divided. It honors the insights of evangelical stewardship teaching while also resonating with a more mystical understanding of reality. It allows capitalism to remain a tool without becoming an idol. It invites generosity without coercion. It acknowledges that success can coexist with humility when success is understood as entrusted rather than possessed.

Ultimately, the language of “stewards not owners” feels less like a doctrine and more like a shift in awareness. It is an invitation to hold everything lightly — not carelessly, but reverently. The resources that pass through our lives are not random accidents; they are opportunities to participate in the flow of love that sustains creation itself. When we see ourselves this way, generosity becomes the natural language of gratitude. We begin to recognize that what flows outward is not truly lost; it simply continues its journey through the larger body of life.

I find peace in this understanding because it removes the fear that often surrounds both wealth and giving. It allows me to appreciate enterprise and innovation without surrendering to the illusion of self-sufficiency. It affirms that consciousness — the divine Logos — is both the source and the destination of all things. And it reminds me that stewardship is not about diminishing success but about sanctifying it, transforming accumulation into participation and ownership into care.

In the end, love does not need to be forced into motion. Once we recognize that everything originates from the same divine consciousness, generosity becomes as natural as breathing. We begin to see that our lives are threads woven into a much larger tapestry — a tapestry where resources, relationships, and opportunities move together in a rhythm that reflects the heart of God. To live as a steward is simply to say yes to that rhythm, to allow grace to shape how we hold what has been entrusted to us, and to trust that the flow of love will continue long after our hands have released what they once held.