A Reflection on Taxes, Tithes, and the Discipline of Living Within Limits
Each community carries its own shared wisdom. Some of it comes from scripture. Some of it comes from civic experience. Some of it comes from common sense. One old idea bridges all three: the tithe.
For thousands of years, the tithe has meant giving one-tenth of one’s income for the benefit of the community. The idea is simple. A fixed number. A stable expectation. The word itself literally means “a tenth.” The rate has never changed. Not once. In a world of shifting tax brackets, inflation schedules, and inventive fees, that kind of permanence feels almost supernatural.
That endurance invites reflection. If the oldest institution in human history could hold the line at ten percent, why do modern governments so often feel pressed to raise theirs? The comparison is not perfect. Government responsibilities extend far beyond those of any congregation. But the contrast teaches something about discipline and about the choices leaders make when they set financial priorities.
This brings me to the line I like to use, partly because it is humorous and partly because it is true:
Ten percent was good enough for Jesus. It ought to be good enough for Jericho.
I use “Jericho” as a friendly stand-in for government—large, complex, fortified with bureaucracy, and often convinced that its needs are self-evident. The image is playful, but the point is serious. If Heaven held steady on its expectations for millennia, perhaps the earthly city can try it for a little while too.
Knox County provides a helpful context for this conversation. Our county budget stands at roughly $1.1 billion. Nearly two-thirds of that total supports Knox County Schools. The system operates 94 schools, moves thousands of students each day, maintains facilities old and new, and employs an enormous public teaching force. This system is real work with real costs, and no one disputes its importance.
Alongside this civic structure stands a very different one. Depending on how one counts denominational groups, campuses, and small local fellowships, Knox County has somewhere between 600 and 800 congregations. Each one operates within its means. Some function with modest budgets and volunteer staff. Others support multiple campuses and extensive ministries. But all of them depend on voluntary giving, and on average, those gifts fall well below the traditional ten percent—for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. National studies show that most churchgoers give between 2% and 5% of household income. Only a minority give a full tithe, 10%.
Yet churches operate. They make choices. They set limits. They live within constraints. Programs adjust to match revenue, not the other way around. Each congregation, from the smallest storefront fellowship to the largest multi-site ministry, practices a kind of financial triage the public sector rarely experiences.
To be clear, churches and schools are not interchangeable. Churches benefit from volunteers. Schools depend on professionals. Churches can survive with aging buildings. Schools cannot. Churches can cut ministries. Schools cannot cut essential services. I acknowledge those differences because they matter.
Still, the comparison reveals something important about human institutions. It shows that discipline is a choice, not an accident. Churches demonstrate that communities survive and even flourish when leaders set a fixed boundary and honor it. They build within those limits rather than lifting the ceiling every time they feel pressure.
Government tends to operate in reverse. Needs rise, so revenue must rise. Programs expand, so budgets must expand. The instinct becomes habitual. Rate increases become routine. Over time, taxpayers feel more like a revenue stream than a partner in community stewardship.
The tithe offers a counterexample. Its power lies in its stability. It communicates that obligations should not expand faster than the people’s capacity to meet them. It reminds leaders that restraint is a virtue and that priorities must sometimes be reordered, not merely funded.
This challenge does not mean the government must adopt a literal ten percent cap. Society is too complex for that. It does mean that citizens can reasonably expect their leaders to practice the kind of discipline that religious communities have demonstrated for generations. If churches can prioritize, adjust, and remain faithful to their mission within fixed limits, the civic “Jericho” can learn to do the same.
So the old line continues to earn its place:
Ten percent was good enough for Jesus. It ought to be good enough for Jericho.
It is humorous. It is lighthearted. Yet it points toward a deeper truth about stewardship, leadership, and trust. A community grows stronger when its leaders resist the easy solution of raising rates and instead commit themselves to setting priorities. That choice builds confidence. Over time, it builds unity.
And in an age when trust in institutions is stretched thin, choosing discipline may be the most important kind of leadership we have left.
Author’s Note: Parts of this post were drafted with the help of my long-suffering digital co-author, ChatGPT, who continues to insist that commas have feelings and that my metaphors require adult supervision. Any remaining mistakes are mine. The good lines were probably its fault.
