The Church With a Rainy Day Fund (and Endless Sunshine)

Based on Luke 12:13-21 – “Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.”

The church council prided itself on being careful. Not miserly, just wise, as they liked to say. Every cent was accounted for. Ron, the treasurer, knew the accounts so well that he could tell you, without looking, how much was in the “roof fund” or the “future stipend reserve.” He said it with the satisfaction of a man who had wrestled with decades of electricity bills and insurance premiums and still kept the lights on. During meetings, there was always a conversation about being “responsible stewards of God’s money,” and everyone would nod in agreement, feeling that invisible weight of duty to make sure the church would still be standing in ten, twenty, or thirty years.

They weren’t exactly rolling in cash, but the savings account gave them comfort. A little buffer for the lean years. They did fund community projects now and then, raising funds, topping up a local appeal, or inviting people to give towards special causes. Whenever someone suggested doing more, though, the room would grow cautious. “We need to be sustainable,” someone would say. “We can’t help others if we can’t pay our own bills.” Everyone agreed. There were no villains in this conversation, just people trying to do the right thing.

One winter evening, when the council gathered around the table in the hall, the heater buzzing gently in the background, Ron tapped his pen against the balance sheet with a grin. “If we keep going like this,” he said, “we’ll have enough to cover the next big roof repair without needing to touch the reserves.” There were murmurs of approval, and someone joked that the roof might outlast all of them if Ron had anything to do with it. It felt good to be prudent. It felt like faithfulness.

Meanwhile, two streets away, Emma wrestled with a supermarket receipt and the week’s dwindling budget. She had mastered the art of swapping out ingredients, stretching meals with lentils and rice, and finding two-for-one specials. Her daughter, Lucy, asked for oranges that week, but Emma’s grocery list already felt heavy with compromises. It wasn’t that she didn’t work—she did, juggling shifts at a café, but the bills kept eating away at whatever small victories she managed. She walked past the church often, noticing its tidy lawn and fresh coat of paint. “Nice place,” she muttered once, almost to herself, as she pushed Lucy’s pram down the footpath. She didn’t imagine that the church would have anything to do with her. It wasn’t a place you went to if you were in need. Churches were for Sunday people with better clothes and steadier lives.

She didn’t know there was a small “emergency care” envelope in the treasurer’s drawer, a quiet resource set aside for those who asked. It wasn’t much, and hardly anyone knew it existed. No one had ever told Emma it was there. The thought of walking in and saying, “I need help,” would have felt like stepping into someone else’s world, awkward, even shameful. So she didn’t. She just walked past, wishing she could buy oranges.

The following week, Ron was especially pleased as he handed out the new balance sheet. The council was proud of its careful planning. They talked about repainting the hall in a few years, about possibly upgrading the sound system if they found the right price. Someone asked if they should run a community meal again, like they had a few years back, but the conversation quickly turned to whether they could really afford it. It wasn’t a flat “no”, just a cautious pause, a waiting game. “Maybe later,” someone said, “when we’ve built a stronger base.”

That same night, Emma sat on the floor with Lucy, playing with a puzzle they’d found at the op-shop. The heater clicked as it switched off, the last of the warmth disappearing. Emma sighed and pulled a blanket tighter around her shoulders. She thought again of that church with its glowing windows and the laughter she sometimes heard on Sunday mornings. She imagined people inside who didn’t have to think about power bills the way she did. Maybe they’d think less of her if they knew. So she didn’t go in. She just got up, made Lucy a hot drink, and tried not to think about the oranges.

The following Sunday, the church council stood chatting after the service. Ron, in his usual cheerful way, pointed out that the savings had grown again this month. “We’re really in good shape,” he said. Everyone smiled and felt quietly reassured. Across the street, Emma waited at the pedestrian crossing, holding Lucy’s hand. They passed by the church just as someone locked the side door. She gave it a quick glance, noticing the neatly stacked chairs inside and the lingering smell of coffee drifting through the open window.

The church had the means to help, but the doors might as well have been invisible to her. She had no reason to know that the careful savings and cautious planning were meant, one day, to serve the community as well as themselves. All she saw was a building that didn’t seem meant for her.

The council discussed how to keep the church thriving for the future, while just beyond their tidy lawn, Emma wondered how to keep the power on for another week. No one was wrong, but something was missing. The savings grew quietly, like a seed waiting to sprout, but for now, the ground between Emma and the church remained hard and unturned.

The Church With a Rainy Day Fund (and Endless Sunshine)

Based on Luke 12:13-21 – “Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.”

The church council prided itself on being careful. Not miserly, just wise, as they liked to say. Every cent was accounted for. Ron, the treasurer, knew the accounts so well that he could tell you, without looking, how much was in the “roof fund” or the “future stipend reserve.” He said it with the satisfaction of a man who had wrestled with decades of electricity bills and insurance premiums and still kept the lights on. During meetings, there was always a conversation about being “responsible stewards of God’s money,” and everyone would nod in agreement, feeling that invisible weight of duty to make sure the church would still be standing in ten, twenty, or thirty years.

They weren’t exactly rolling in cash, but the savings account gave them comfort. A little buffer for the lean years. They did fund community projects now and then, raising funds, topping up a local appeal, or inviting people to give towards special causes. Whenever someone suggested doing more, though, the room would grow cautious. “We need to be sustainable,” someone would say. “We can’t help others if we can’t pay our own bills.” Everyone agreed. There were no villains in this conversation, just people trying to do the right thing.

One winter evening, when the council gathered around the table in the hall, the heater buzzing gently in the background, Ron tapped his pen against the balance sheet with a grin. “If we keep going like this,” he said, “we’ll have enough to cover the next big roof repair without needing to touch the reserves.” There were murmurs of approval, and someone joked that the roof might outlast all of them if Ron had anything to do with it. It felt good to be prudent. It felt like faithfulness.

Meanwhile, two streets away, Emma …

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