We spend a lot of time measuring.
What we give.
What we get.
What we think we’re owed.
One of the most common refrains in our culture today sounds almost virtuous: “You don’t owe anyone anything.” It’s offered as wisdom, self-care, or a boundary against being taken advantage of. And sometimes, in limited ways, it may even be necessary.
But taken as a way of life, it quietly reshapes how we see one another.
Instead of generosity, we measure deficits. Instead of gratitude, comparison. Instead of receiving as a gift, we take with a sense of entitlement—or withhold in the name of self-protection. What others give is tallied. What we don’t have is magnified. And what we do have—especially spiritually and relationally—slowly fades from view.
St. Francis offers a very different measure: “It is in giving that we receive.”
That contrast sets the stage for today’s Gospel when Jesus says:
“Take care what you hear.
The measure with which you measure will be measured out to you,
and still more will be given to you.
To the one who has, more will be given;
from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away.” (Mark 4:21‑25).
At first glance, it almost sounds unjust. Until you slow down and sit with the hinge of the passage: the measure with which you measure.
Jesus isn’t talking about possessions or privilege. He’s talking about the posture of the heart.
I saw this lived out just the other night.
A dear friend—twice widowed, someone who has carried more loss than most—gathered a group of fifty or sixty friends for an intimate wine dinner at a small, family-owned Italian restaurant. The evening was warm, joyful, unpretentious. When the staff began struggling to keep up, she quietly joined the waitstaff and served us all night.
Watching her move from table to table, I felt almost uncomfortable. It seemed like too much to ask of someone who had already invested hours of time planning the meal and bringing all of us together! At the end of the night, we thanked her for her hospitality and generosity. I thanked her especially for her charity and service to others—a tenet of faith we share—and admitted that I fall short in this area. Her heart, I told her, knows no bounds.
She smiled and said something simple: “It fills me up to do these things for others.”
And there it was.
The measure with which she measures—love, generosity, self-gift—is precisely what is returned to her. Not because God is keeping score, but because love expands the heart, creates space, and multiplies.
That’s the part our culture often misses. A clenched fist can’t receive. When our giving is cautious, transactional, or resentful, we shouldn’t be surprised when we feel empty. But when our giving flows from love, the return is abundance—sometimes quietly, sometimes invisibly, but always truly.
In the end, Jesus isn’t warning us about loss. He’s inviting us into fullness.
Because the measure we choose—fear or love, entitlement or gratitude—becomes the measure that shapes our lives.
And still more will be given.
