Who (or What) is on First?
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With graduation season here and wedding season underway, we hear a lot about firsts. First real paycheck. First time hosting a dinner party (maybe Shabbat through OneTable!) — or the first big decision without asking your parents for advice. It has me thinking about another kind of first that doesn’t get nearly as much airtime: the first time you made a philanthropic commitment that was truly, consciously yours.
LIke many American Jews, there were plenty of blue boxes in my youth. The familiar weight of them, the clink of coins dropping in before Shabbat or at Hebrew school each week. The bearded men coming by to say hello, empty the box, thank us, and hand it back to be filled again. Like many, giving tzedakah or charity was in the ethos of our home — from volunteering with my mom at the NCJW Thrift Stores to learning about people in need and how best to support them. Those early experiences shaped me in ways I’m still discovering. But I was along for the ride, definitely not the driver.
My own first intentional gift? I remember it clearly. It was the summer of 1998, and I had just started out in my career, staffing the Singles Mission to Israel for the Jewish Federation. One of our roles as staff was to encourage attendees to support the Federation with a minimum gift of $500. These were my peers. My friends. And as I watched them step up, I remember thinking: if that’s what they’re giving, that’s what I should be giving, too. Nobody asked me. But all that talk of giving — the conversations, the asks, the reasons why — created a sense of responsibility and connection I couldn’t ignore. So I gave. It was a stretch. And it mattered.
In previous posts, I’ve written about doing things before you feel fully ready — and that’s often true with philanthropy, too. The paralysis is real: How much? To whom? In what form? As the late Bill Davidson z’l was known to say: Just Start.
There’s also what I call aspirational giving — committing to more than feels entirely comfortable, or mapping out a path with an organization you love and deciding that one day, whether that’s a date on the calendar or simply “the future,” you’ll give at that level. My 1998 gift was both of those things at once. It was a stretch financially, and it was a statement to myself about the kind of giver I intended to become. It allowed me to ask for money not just as a professional, but as a donor (I talked about this in an earlier blog, too, where I referenced the Hair Club for Men 😂). Stretching your own finances in pursuit of a cause greater than yourself is an important recognition about community, self, and grace.
So here’s what I want to ask you: What was the first gift you made? Not one you participated in as part of your family, but one you chose — on your own, for your own reasons. Does that cause still resonate? Do you still support them?
I have a theory that we always find our way back to the place that first resonated with us, appreciated us, taught us what giving could feel like. The organizations that meet new donors with warmth and intention create something lasting — not just a transaction, but the beginning of a relationship. And the givers who were met that way? They remember. They return. They bring others.
Your first gift may have been small. It may have been impulsive. It may have been a $5 bill dropped in a bucket or a check written at a friend’s urging. But somewhere in that moment, something was set in motion. I’d love to know what it was.
Wishing you a peaceful Shabbat,
Kari
