A Time to Return – Why I Wrote It
A Time to Return was released this week! While I’m thrilled that the book is finally out, my true hope and prayer is that its message will be used by God to help others more fully follow Him through a deeper understanding of the tithe.
For me, since learning about the word tithe, it has never been limited to 10% of my income flowing to the local church. It represents far more than that. It’s the word I wear on my jersey day in and day out—whether I’m representing Tithe Lending or Tithe Foundation. It’s something that has completely captured my heart. It has given my work true purpose and meaning, becoming a lifeline that has led me into blessings I never could have manufactured on my own:
The peace that comes with trusting the Lord.
The comfort of knowing He is my provider.
The assurance of things unseen, rooted in faith.
The groundedness of obedience.
The joy that flows from gratitude.
Returning to the Lord through the tithe opens our eyes to His presence in every part of life. For those who practice faithful tithing, it becomes obvious that this is not really about money. From the outside, it looks like it’s about money—but if we listen to the words of Jesus, and we learn from the tests that are ever-present in this world, we begin to see why this simple and often misunderstood principle helps us live fully devoted lives to Christ.
In the book, I walk through several of the Biblical tests that tithing helps us pass. Let me share one entire chapter here as a teaser for what’s inside:
CHAPTER 3 | The Ten Plagues—A Test of Pride
In the book of Exodus, God sends ten devastating plagues upon Egypt—not because He needed ten tries to free the Israelites, but because He was testing Pharaoh’s heart. Each plague directly challenged the authority of Egypt’s false gods, exposing them as powerless in the face of the one true God. This wasn’t just about freeing slaves—it was about confronting pride, rebellion, and misplaced worship. And each time Pharaoh was given a chance to humble himself, he refused. He clung to control, hardened his heart, and ultimately paid the price.
The progression of the plagues tells a story of escalating confrontation between divine authority and human pride. The first plague turned the Nile—Egypt’s lifeline and a symbol of their god Hapi—into blood. The second brought frogs, mocking the goddess Heqet. The third brought gnats, challenging the priests’ ability to perform their rituals in a state of ceremonial cleanliness. With each plague, God was systematically dismantling the Egyptian pantheon, proving that their gods were nothing more than carved stone and human imagination.
But here’s what strikes me most about this account: after each plague, Pharaoh had moments of apparent repentance. He would call for Moses and Aaron, promise to let the people go, and even ask them to pray for him. But as soon as the pressure lifted, he would change his mind and harden his heart again. This wasn’t just stubbornness—it was a pattern of spiritual pride that couldn’t bear the thought of submitting to authority beyond itself.
Pharaoh’s pride manifested in a very specific way: he kept trying to negotiate with God. He offered compromises—let the men go, but keep the women and children. Let everyone go, but leave the livestock. Go, but don’t go too far. These weren’t genuine attempts at obedience; they were attempts to maintain control while appearing to comply. Pharaoh wanted to give God just enough to make the problems go away, but not enough to actually surrender his authority.
The lesson is clear: when God tests us, He isn’t trying to take something from us—He’s trying to free us. Pharaoh’s downfall was pride. He believed he could maintain power, resist God, and still hold on to everything he valued. But in the end, pride cost him everything.
I know that test all too well. While my modern life looked different from ancient Egypt, the spirit of Pharaoh still lurked in my heart. Pharaohs saw themselves as divine guardians of order, masters of their own fate. I wouldn’t have claimed to be a god, but I certainly took pride in my ability to control outcomes.
Throughout my career, I prided myself on navigating complexity, solving problems, making smart decisions, and leading others through chaos. That ability opened doors and earned respect, but it also became a spiritual trap.
The corporate world rewards this kind of thinking. We’re taught to trust our instincts, rely on our expertise, and take credit for our successes. Performance reviews don’t include categories for “dependence on God” or “recognition of divine provision.” Instead, they measure our ability to deliver results through our own capabilities. Over time, this environment shaped my identity. I began to see myself as the primary architect of my success, the one responsible for generating the outcomes that mattered.
This pride wasn’t overt or obviously sinful. It was subtle, professional, and socially acceptable. I wasn’t boasting or being arrogant in obvious ways. I was simply operating from the assumption that my intelligence, work ethic, and decision-making ability were the primary factors in my financial success. This assumption felt reasonable, even responsible. But it was actually a form of practical atheism—living as if God’s role in my life was minimal and my role was maximum.
When it came to my finances—especially giving—I wanted to stay in control. After all, it was my money. I had earned it, managed it, and multiplied it. Why should I hand over ten percent to God on principle? I figured I could give on my terms, in my time, to my causes. Surely my wisdom in giving would be just as effective as God’s command to tithe.
This reasoning felt sophisticated and strategic. I convinced myself that I could be more effective with my giving if I researched the causes, timed the donations for maximum tax benefit, and chose recipients based on my personal values and interests. The tithe seemed rigid and outdated compared to my thoughtful, customized approach to generosity.
But underneath this rational veneer was the same spirit that drove Pharaoh to negotiate with God. I was trying to maintain control over my resources while appearing to be generous. I wanted to give God enough to feel good about my spirituality, but not enough to actually surrender my financial autonomy. I was attempting to be both generous and sovereign—a contradiction that reveals the depth of pride in the human heart.
The irony is that my “strategic” approach to giving actually produced less generosity than simple obedience would have. When I controlled the timing, I delayed. When I controlled the amount, I gave less. When I controlled the recipients, I chose based on my comfort level rather than God’s direction. My pride, disguised as wisdom, was actually limiting my ability to be the generous person I claimed to want to be.
But I was wrong. That mindset, though logical on the surface, was rooted in the same pride that plagued Pharaoh. It took me years to realize that my desire to stay in control was actually keeping me in bondage. My refusal to submit to God’s instruction wasn’t just disobedience—it was self-deception. I thought I was preserving my power, but I was actually forfeiting peace.
The bondage of financial pride is particularly insidious because it masquerades as responsibility. We tell ourselves we’re being good stewards when we’re actually being controlling. We convince ourselves we’re being wise when we’re actually being fearful. We believe we’re being generous when we’re actually being selective. This self-deception can persist for years because it’s reinforced by a culture that celebrates financial independence and personal control.
But here’s what I discovered: the anxiety that comes with financial control is exhausting. When you believe you’re responsible for generating, protecting, and directing all your resources, the pressure is overwhelming. Every market fluctuation becomes a personal threat. Every unexpected expense becomes a crisis. Every financial decision carries the weight of your entire future. This isn’t freedom—it’s slavery disguised as autonomy.
I can now say from experience: there is freedom in surrender. Tithing isn’t about loss—it’s about trust. When I finally released my grip and honored God with the first ten percent of my income, I didn’t feel depleted. I felt liberated. The anxiety, the pressure, the illusion of self-sufficiency—all of it began to fade.
The freedom came not just from the act of giving, but from the acknowledgment that God was the true source of my provision. When I tithed, I was declaring that my income didn’t originate with my abilities but with His blessing. This shift in perspective transformed not just my giving, but my entire relationship with money. I began to see my resources as tools for worship rather than monuments to my success.
If you’re standing at that crossroads—where your pride meets God’s test—don’t wait. Don’t go the way of Pharaoh. Don’t cling to what you can’t keep and miss out on what only God can give. Pass the test. Choose freedom. Surrender to the One who’s not trying to take from you, but trying to lead you into something far better.”
That’s just one short chapter—but it illustrates why I believe the tithe is such a powerful spiritual test. It’s not about subtraction; it’s about surrender. And when we surrender, we discover freedom. To grab the book and read more about how the test of the tithe helps us in our daily walk with God click the button below.
-Mark
