Give the Man a Shilling

Some years ago I read—or perhaps only heard—a story about G.K. Chesterton. It has the vague, vaporous quality of the apocryphal, like all the best things: St. George’s dragon, the childhood of saints, or tax advice from the man at the pub. In this case, the story goes like this:

Chesterton is walking with a friend through the streets of London, as so many stories of that age begin. They pass a beggar, hand outstretched, and Chesterton, without ceremony, gives him a coin. His companion is aghast.
"But G.K.," he protests, "he'll only spend it on drink!"

To which Chesterton, with a glint in his eye and gravity in his gut, replies:
"But what do you think I was going to spend it on?"

Now, whether or not Chesterton actually said this is beside the point. He ought to have said it. It is too right not to be true in some eternal sense.

Because here’s the deeper issue: we want giving to be efficient. Strategic. Verified. We want receipts. But some things—some of the best things—are not efficient. They are deeply human. Like compassion. Like grace.

To give without interrogation is to admit—tacitly, perhaps, but no less profoundly—that one does not own the universe. That your coins are not wholly yours, nor your time, nor your talent, nor your comfort. It reminds you that we live in a world of gifts, not just purchases. And that the grace we bestow, even in absurdly small quantities, shapes us more than it fixes the world.

This brings us, oddly enough, to Catholic social teaching, and in particular to a concept Chesterton himself cherished deeply: universality.

The Church teaches that we are not islands. We are not independent economic units, or sealed-off moral calculators. We are—whether we like it or not—interconnected. That’s not a sentiment; it’s a metaphysical claim. When you knock on a wooden table, the whole universe vibrates. Not metaphorically—physically. Imperceptibly, but truly. And when you give a beggar a coin, the same thing happens in the moral realm.

Your action echoes.

It may seem laughably small—a single coin, an act that solves nothing. But in the logic of the Incarnation, small things matter. Loaves and fishes. Mustard seeds. Widow’s mites. A child born in a barn.

To give is to participate in a deeper economy—not the economy of GDP, but the economy of grace. And in that economy, every gift is multiplied. Not always in visible ways. Sometimes the beggar buys wine. Sometimes he laughs at you. Sometimes he says nothing at all. But the point is not the result.

The point is that the act took place.
A hand was opened.
Another hand gave.
And the universe shifted—just a little.

That is not sentimentalism. That is metaphysics. That is the logic of the Cross.

And maybe it becomes even clearer when we remember our own shadows.

We have all had dark days.
Perhaps not days spent begging on the street—but days of confusion, of shame, of quiet despair. And many of us have loved ones, family members, friends, children—who have become lost. Who have slipped through the cracks of society or faith or fortune. When we see a beggar, can we not see them?

And if that were your son, or my sister, or your father—how would you want the world to respond?

With suspicion?
With a spreadsheet?
Or with a hand stretched out—no questions asked?

That is grace. And grace is not efficient.
Grace is dark matter—it holds the moral universe together, even if it is invisible to the eye.

And it’s why we give—not only to meet needs, but to form souls. To form our souls.

Because giving is a habit. A rhythm. A way of being in the world that begins in the pocket, but reaches eventually into the heart. And it is a habit worth cultivating—not just in ourselves, but in our children.

I don’t mean sentimental theatrics—dragging your kid across the street to deliver a granola bar like a miniature missionary. But they should not flinch from the needy. They should not look away. Not because they can fix anything, but because they can be the kind of person who sees.

To see.
To pause.
To give.
To walk on, perhaps changed.

And that, finally, is the real question: Who is changed?

We worry so much about what the beggar will do with the coin. We ask if he deserves it. If he’ll waste it. If he’ll laugh at us. But we rarely ask what the coin does to us.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that’s the real miracle of giving:
Not that the beggar receives,
But that we become givers.

And in so doing, the universe moves.