Tithing When You're Broke

Let’s talk about it: the offering plate comes around (or the giving link pops up during service), and your first thought isn’t “cheerful giver.” It’s more like, “God, you see my bank account, right?”

Because let’s be real... it’s hard to think about giving when your reality looks like this:

• Rent just auto-drafted and left you with $63 until Friday.

• You’re calculating gas money down to the dollar just to get to work.

• Inflation has you side-eyeing eggs at the grocery store like they’re luxury items.

  
  

And then the preacher says, “Trust God with your finances.” Whew. Easier said than done.

Here’s the raw truth: tithing hits different when you’re broke.

When you’ve got extra, dropping 10% feels generous but manageable. When you don’t have extra, it feels like ripping survival money straight out of your hands.

And that’s exactly where the faith tension shows up... between what you see in your account and what you say you believe about God being Provider.

Let’s clear something up, though: God isn’t trying to play you. He doesn’t need your money. He’s after your trust. Tithing isn’t a transaction to “pay God off.” It’s an act of surrender. It’s saying, “Even when the math doesn’t add up, I’m trusting that You’ve got me.”

And sometimes, giving doesn’t look like the perfect 10% every paycheck. For some, it’s a consistent $20, even when you wish it could be more. For others, it’s serving with your time and skills until you’re financially stable. What matters most is the posture of your heart, not performing for appearances.

Because here’s the paradox: tithing when you’re broke feels impossible, but it often becomes the space where God proves himself faithful in surprising ways. Not always with a random $1,000 check in the mail (though sometimes that happens), but in subtle provision; groceries stretching longer than usual, bills somehow covered, a side hustle opening up, a friend blessing you without knowing what you needed.

Generosity in lack carries a different kind of weight in heaven than generosity in abundance. One costs comfort. The other costs trust.

And maybe the point isn’t “How can I afford to give?” but “How can I afford not to practice trusting God with what little I have?” Because if I can’t trust him with $63, how will I trust him when I’ve got $63,000?

It’s not about the amount. It’s about the anchor. And trust me, in a world where money comes and goes faster than TikTok trends, having your hope anchored in God’s provision is the only kind of wealth that actually lasts.