Beyond the Click: Generosity in a Tech-Shaped World

An acute crisis often produces “Clicktivists”—people whose sense of impact is tied to visible online actions: changing a profile picture, retweeting a hashtag, or participating in a viral challenge. This is not to say clicktivism is inherently wrong. The ALS Foundation’s Ice Bucket Challenge, for example, raised awareness, mobilized donations, and demonstrated the power of social media for good. With Millennials increasingly generous, online campaigns can even generate substantial financial support. Yet digital gestures are inherently incomplete. As our politics polarize and our social fabric weakens, it’s worth asking whether clicks and hashtags can replace real-world generosity. Technology doesn’t merely provide tools—it shapes habits, attention, and moral imagination. Social media rewards speed, visibility, and performance, training us to equate “public recognition” with impact. A post, filter, or badge can signal care, but they rarely require risk, effort, or sacrifice. Over time, we risk forming a habit of performance over practice, mistaking visibility for virtue.

Consider Facebook filters. In 2015, millions overlaid rainbow colors on their profile pictures to celebrate the legalization of same-sex marriage in the U.S. For many progressive Christians, this was a moment of joy, justice, and public witness—but it also raised questions: Did digital signaling translate into ongoing advocacy and tangible support for LGBTQ+ neighbors? Similarly, the “I Got My Covid-19 Vaccine” badge in 2021 showed solidarity with public health initiatives, yet it also highlighted how online gestures can substitute for harder, relational conversations. Digital generosity can amplify good, but without intentional follow-through, it can be more mirage than movement.

Here’s where theology and formation intersect. Generosity is most powerful when it becomes embodied—when it interrupts our routines and shapes how we live out our Baptismal calling. As Miroslav Volf writes in Exclusion and Embrace, true love requires us to “risk ourselves for the sake of others,” stepping beyond convenience or performance. Andrew Root reminds us that formation is not just about information or behavior—it’s about the habits, practices, and rhythms that shape who we become. Digital gestures rarely form that depth; embodied generosity does.

Think of the teenager who closes TikTok to sit beside a lonely student on the bus. Consider the family that not only donates money but shows up to prepare the summer camp grounds. Picture a congregation hosting a chili cook-off, where shared labor and laughter translate into tangible resources for ministry. These acts may not trend online, but they endure in memory and relationship. They cultivate empathy, rewire attention outward, and disrupt the rhythms of consumerism. Through visceral, physical action, we share smiles and service, levity and labor—strengthening the fabric of connection within our communities.

Some lectionary texts echo this tension. In the parable of the dishonest manager (Luke 16:1–13), Jesus reminds us that resources are temporary tools meant to foster relationships and generosity, not self-interest. In the story of Lazarus and the rich man (Luke 16:19–31), noticing need without acting is no generosity at all. These passages call us to tangible response, inviting us to live the Gospel not just in thought or online expression but in daily, concrete acts.

The challenge for the church in the digital age is not to reject technology, but to use it wisely. Social media can amplify generosity, prompt awareness, and rally support—but it cannot replace presence. Online campaigns should point toward embodied acts: a Venmo transfer accompanied by volunteering at a local shelter; a hashtag paired with a physical visit to a neighbor in need. Technology can be a conduit, not a substitute, for discipleship and formation.

During your next stewardship season, consider reframing digital engagement as a catalyst rather than a finish line. Let social feeds remind you to show up, not just signal. Before posting about solidarity or advocacy, take one small step toward someone physically present in your neighborhood, school, or congregation. Let your acts of generosity embody your convictions, shaping both others and yourself.

True generosity is slower, riskier, and often invisible to the broader world. It doesn’t trend online. It requires attention, labor, and presence. It transforms habits and hearts, rewiring us toward outward love and sustained community. In a world of endless clicks and scrolling, the Gospel calls us to step off the feed and into real life—to knock on doors, share time and labor, and cultivate joy, service, and connection in tangible ways. Technology can amplify that generosity, but it can never replace it.

Maundy Thursday as Masterclass: Leadership Lessons from the 1st of the 3 Days

Maundy Thursday does not look like a leadership seminar. There are no slides, no slogans, and no applause lines. There is a basin, a towel, and a teacher who kneels at the feet of his friends.

And somehow, it becomes a masterclass.

At a time when leadership is so often measured by volume, visibility, and the ability to command attention, Maundy Thursday offers a different vision. Leadership begins not by asserting status, but by setting it aside. Jesus says, “The master is not greater than the servant,” and then he lives those words in a way that is unmistakably concrete, with water, dust, and human touch.

Foot washing is not efficient and it is certainly not scalable. It does not attract a crowd or build a following overnight. But it does something more important. It forms a different kind of relationship, one rooted in dignity rather than hierarchy, in presence rather than performance.

Then comes the command that holds it all together. Love one another.

Not admire one another. Not compete with one another. Not position yourself above one another.

Love.

The kind of love that builds others up over time. The kind of love that notices who has been overlooked and quietly brings them back into the center. The kind of leadership that does not need to announce itself in order to be real.

Maundy Thursday invites us to examine the kind of leaders we are becoming. Are we forming people for love and service, or simply capturing attention? Are we creating space for others to grow, or are we reinforcing our own importance?

The leadership of the Last Supper, seen within the upper room, may be quiet, but it is not weak. It is intentional, grounded, and deeply generative. Long after louder forms of leadership fade (you can likely name some examples), this one lesson endures, passed from person to person, act to act, like a shared cup of wine, a shared loaf of bread.

Hamilton for Lent: Why Lin-Manuel Miranda's Soundtrack Resonates on Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday has a way of clearing the room.

The sanctuary is dimmer. The music is quieter. The words are heavier: “Remember that you are dust.” We come forward not for inspiration, but for honesty. Not for triumph, but for truth.

That’s one reason I find myself returning to Hamilton at the beginning of Lent.

If you’ve never listened to the musical, here’s the short version: it’s the story of a brilliant, ambitious man who refuses to “throw away his shot.” He is driven, talented, relentless. And for much of the show, that drive feels heroic. We admire it. We recognize it. In a city like Madison, the city I call home—full of energy, ideas, advocacy, and achievement—that kind of ambition feels familiar.

But as the story unfolds, the repetition of that phrase—“not throwing away my shot”—begins to change. What once sounded like courage slowly reveals itself as compulsion. What once felt like purpose begins to cost him relationships, presence, even peace.

That’s a very Ash Wednesday turn.

Lent is not a season for building on our strengths. It is a season for letting the story go far enough to tell the truth about us. The truth that our gifts are real, but so are our limits. The truth that our striving can serve good purposes, and also conceal vanity, ego, or excess. The truth that we are dust, and yet deeply loved.

Late in the musical, after devastating loss, the soundtrack quiets. The bravado fades. The characters walk through grief. And in one understated line, we hear something new: “I take the children to church on Sunday… and I pray. That never used to happen before.”

It’s not flashy. It’s not triumphant. It’s simply a turning.

Ash Wednesday is not about dramatic spiritual breakthroughs. It’s about that quieter turning. It’s about sitting in the stillness long enough to notice what has been driving us—and to let God name us something deeper than our achievements.

For ELCA Lutherans especially, Lent is not a self-improvement project. It is a journey with Christ toward the cross, trusting that the truth told there is not the end of the story.

Listening to Hamilton during these forty days can be a reminder of how ambition, failure, grief, and grace intertwine—and how even in the quiet uptown moments of our lives, God is still at work.

Dust, yes. But dust held in mercy. Ashes, yes. But ashes mixed with stardust. Thanks be to God.