I remember something my Bishop told me when I was younger. I have always admired him greatly for the way he gives to people. He always seems willing to help without making a spectacle of it, and naturally, I wanted to understand what made him so generous.
One day, in a conversation about giving, he said something profound: he loved giving to people who could not return the favour. Then he added, almost casually, that in doing so, he was raising prayer warriors for himself.
Those people might not have money, connections, or influence to offer him, but they could pray for him. I was young when I heard it, and I remember finding the thought both amusing and profound. He was recognizing that people who appear to have little may still possess something valuable.
More importantly, he seemed comfortable giving to people whose ability to repay him was virtually nonexistent. That distinction matters because it challenges one of the quiet assumptions behind much of our generosity: that giving should eventually produce some form of return.
But what happens when I help someone who cannot introduce me to anyone, cannot contribute financially, cannot advance my reputation, and may never have the means to repay me? That is where generosity becomes much more revealing.
The truth is that most of us like reciprocity, even when we do not call it that. We may not demand repayment, but we often appreciate being remembered. We enjoy gratitude. We like knowing that our sacrifices mattered. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. Humans are relational creatures, and healthy relationships naturally involve mutuality. But goodwill becomes something deeper when I can contribute without making another person’s inability to repay me a reason to withhold compassion.
I think about the person who needs school fees but has no influential relative. The unemployed graduate who needs someone to review a CV, make a phone call, or simply introduce them to an opportunity. The young person with an idea but no capital. These people may not be able to give us anything useful today. Yet their lack of resources does not make their lives less valuable.
My Bishop’s words therefore make me think beyond the act of giving to the heart behind it.
Sometimes the person who cannot repay me today may become the person who helps someone else tomorrow. Goodwill does not always travel back to its original giver. It moves forward. The return may never come to me, but it may continue through someone else. Perhaps that is one of the most powerful forms of social wealth: goodness that keeps circulating.
I do not want to become someone who only helps where there is a strategic return. I want to notice the people who cannot offer me a favour, a connection, a platform, or a repayment. I want to become more comfortable doing good simply because I can.
Because sometimes the purest test of my goodwill is not what I receive after giving. It is whether I would still choose to give if I knew nothing would ever come back to me.
Ready to turn goodwill into action?
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