I was stood by the door waiting for someone else to arrive when a refugee banged on it. I was annoyed. It wasn’t opening time yet and it’s always awkward explaining that across a language barrier. I took my time coming to the door and fiddled with the key, hoping my body language would set the tone for a short conversation.

“We’re not open yet”, I said as I cracked the door open and felt the chill of the early December cold snap.

The Iranian man looked me earnestly in the eyes, thrust a heavily laden shopping bag into my hands and said in a heavy accent:

“I’m sorry, I can’t come today”.

He flashed me a grin that showed his missing teeth, leaned over to hug me, turned his bike around and rode off up the hill.

I’d known Ebrahim (not his real name) for a few weeks – maybe a month – since another refugee had introduced me to him. I’d heard rumours of his generosity, but this was my first experience of it.

I shut the door to the church against the cold, and as I locked it my mind wandered back to an interaction with John Barclay – a professor at Durham University. I was a PhD student at the University of Nottingham at the time, and he was a world-leading theologian who had been invited to give the Firth Lectures. It was as close as you come in academia to meeting a rock star.

He came to mind as I closed the door because in those lectures, he argued that one of the key reasons the first Christian communities grew was because they practiced risky generosity.

The first followers of Jesus were likely poor enough that they relied on each other to get by: you can borrow my coat today because I’m going to need your saucepan tomorrow. That was not unusual in the ancient world and lots of communities were generous in that way.

What made Christians unique was that they were much more willing to risk including outsiders – they were willing to give to people who they didn’t know well enough to be able to rely on them giving back.

I retreated from the door wondering what had just happened and whether Ebrahim would get a decent meal today if he couldn’t come to our drop in. But mostly, I wondered why he was being so generous and I was so stingy. I mean, one of us is rich by almost any metric – and it’s not Ebrahim.

As I turned round, I saw Sami (not his real name) across the room. He’s been around longer than Ebrahim and has actually been helping us by translating sermons into Farsi for other Iranian refugees. He was already inside because he was helping us today.

They show up with gratitude, and give generously of the very little they have. They practice this risky generosity with no guarantee of return.

I know a bit of Sami’s story – how he has arrived in the UK seeking asylum because his family found out about his faith and suddenly he was no longer safe in his own home. I’ve seen the scars he got from living through that story. And yet, when Sami manages to find a way to work under the radar to supplement the pittance he’s living on and make his days more meaningful, he is as generous with what he earns as he is with his time.

There’s something striking about the risky generosity I see in Ebrahim and Sami. I can’t imagine living through what they’ve endured, but they show up with gratitude, and give generously of the very little they have. They practice this risky generosity with no guarantee of return – not least because the church is so mindful of being taken in by a sob story that we make big demands before we’ll baptise or send letters of support for anyone. It challenges me. Despite the fact that I’m the rich one, my asylum seeker friends seem closer to the attitude of the first Christians than I am.

It particularly challenges me when I then read stories about small boats, Home Secretaries and Rwanda. Because somehow people like Ebrahim and Sami seem to go missing in all the debate.

I’m not in a position to solve immigration, and I’m not for a second pretending it’s not complicated. But I thought about Ebrahim, Sami and John Barclay again when my children’s CofE primary school told me what they were teaching my boys about British values and Christian values. It’s probably no surprise that there was no mention of this kind of risky generosity that was in fact a hallmark of the first Christian communities and that I think I’ve seen in these brothers from another nation. I think that’s a shame.

There’s no doubt that the Bible talks clearly about God providing for his people –wealth is not bad, and Jesus’ call to give it all away came to one particular person rather than to every follower. But God’s own generosity runs like a thread throughout the story told in Scripture.

Maybe that’s why Paul writes that ‘God loves a cheerful giver' . The original Greek word translated ‘cheerful’ there is hilaron and we get the word ‘hilarious’ from that root. It might not be funny, but within the conversation we tend to have about wealth it is surely laughable for Ebrahim to give away a bag full of goodies when he has nothing? It’s risky, certainly: better to hold onto the money as you might need it next month if the Home Office moves you without warning again. And yet, he gives.

And because he gives, he challenges me. If John Barclay is right – and I think he is – Christians have always been the kind of people who take risks to welcome others into their community. That makes no sense if you’re trying to keep your own food and energy bills down in the face of inflation. It’s laughable, in fact. But apparently, that’s the kind of giver God likes – a hilarious one!

I think he likes that kind of giver because when he looks at them he sees the image of his own generosity. After all, according to Genesis, that’s the image humans were made to carry. Seeing Ebrahim and Sami giving reminds me that for all the complexity of the immigration debate these are human beings. Their risky generosity challenges me to live up to the actual values of the first Christian community.

Article

Change

Community

Generosity

30 October 2025

4 min read

The day everything felt different

A tiny congregation in a forgotten town tried something fragile

Derek Hughes

Derek leads LifeChurch in Eccles.

A man presents a heart shaped paper token towards the camera

A donor presents their token at the fundraiser.

Derek Hughes.

In a time when trust in institutions is low and communities feel overlooked, something unusual happened in the forgotten town of Eccles.

One Saturday eight community groups set up stalls. No big strategy or powerful organisations. Just ordinary grassroots projects sharing their stories. One provides meals for families who would otherwise go without. Others put on skills workshops for those who doubt themselves or provide social connections for the lonely

Each table was led by someone who cared. The hall buzzed with interest. People from across the community turned up. By the end of the day, over £16,500 had been raised. Enough to keep doors open. Enough to keep the lights on. Enough to keep hope alive in places most people forget.

But here’s the twist. It wasn’t led by the council. It wasn’t a government initiative. It wasn’t corporate sponsorship. It was sparked by a tiny church, with no money to spare and no plan beyond helping others flourish.

What really brings hope?

Every community like Eccles carries the same ache. How do you bring lasting hope to a place that feels forgotten? What does transformation look like not just for a few, but for everyone? Systems try. Charities try. Councils try. But projects stall. Promises fade. Good intentions don’t always touch the people who need them most.

It’s easy for struggling communities to look to others for rescue. But maybe change grows from small acts that spark something bigger. From a tiny church with quiet faith that every person matters, and that love is worth the risk. When faith is generous rather than self-serving it can become a catalyst for a whole community.

That’s what me and my friends from LifeChurch Eccles hoped for when we organised the day..

This wasn’t about raffles or clever fundraising tricks. Those might raise money — but they rarely move the heart. They turn giving into a transaction: “What do I get in return?” We were aiming for something deeper. A movement of generosity that wasn’t transactional, but transformational.

When giving is free of strings, something surprising happens. People don’t pull back. They lean in. Maybe because that kind of giving speaks to something deeply designed into us all. God’s already placed in all of us.

How it happened

There was no blueprint. No professional fundraiser. No slick tech. Just a small group with a willingness to try.

We put out a simple call for ideas. No red tape, just a Google form. Any local group with a plan to make a difference could apply. Eleven grassroots projects came forward, from youth sports teams to befriending schemes for older adults. We set ourselves a bold goal: raise £1,000 for each one.

We invited businesses to sponsor a project. £250 each. Many said yes. Not because of a pitch, but because they saw something real.

We hosted a showcase. Invited local people to attend. One Saturday, eleven tables. People wandered, listened, gave, and stayed longer than expected.

We set one rule. Give to whatever moves you. No pressure. No gimmicks. Just connection and choice

The council doubled it. Salford Council were so struck they matched every pound raised. Overnight, the impact doubled.

What followed was bigger than money. New relationships. New volunteers. New collaborations. One group received its first-ever funding. No single moment changed everything. But together, they created a ripple. And that ripple hasn’t stopped.

What we learned

We didn’t set out to write a playbook, but a few lessons stayed with us:

Small groups can spark big impact. Our lack of resources made space for others to step in. Saying “we need help” drew people closer.

Weakness builds trust. By lifting others up instead of ourselves, credibility grew. Councillors and businesses said they’d never seen a project like this with no agenda.

Generosity spreads. Once giving started, it caught fire. People gave more than planned. People who’d never normally get involved wanted in. Because real generosity is contagious.

The overlooked need champions. Groups like Mature Movers — helping older people stay active — had never received funding. That day, they walked away resourced and celebrated. Every town has hidden heroes like that.

Impact multiplies when you give it away. None of the money came back to the church. But what we gained was trust, connection, and joy. You don’t lose by lifting others. You gain something money can’t buy.

The power to trigger change

This isn’t about Eccles being special. It’s about Eccles being ordinary.

Every town has hidden heroes. Every postcode has needs. Every community has people who want to make a difference but don’t always know how. You don’t need a big platform. You don’t need a perfect plan. Sometimes, it just takes a fragile step and the courage to trust that others will join you.

Because generosity really is infectious. You don’t need status or size to spark it. A handful of people, energised by faith can ignite something far bigger than themselves.

All you need is a little courage to go first.

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