The Circulation of Goodness

Karma, commerce, and the quiet architecture of strong towns.

I’ve been traveling around North America for the past five years after giving up all my properties, belongings, connections, and income—looking for a new community to call home. Looking for a next place and partners to do something cool with.

It’s been beautiful and it’s been ugly. It’s been invigorating and terrifying, altogether.

Everyone I knew in the past had other plans, and my ideas have never fully aligned with theirs.

Maybe for a few full-hearted moments, but not when it came to momentum.

Everywhere I go, it’s like—“Hello? Can we be friends? Can we do business?”

“Oh, you need help? Sure! I’d be happy to!”

“Oh, just not me? Ok. What about something else?”

“No? Ok. I’ll keep moving on.”

What do you know about karma and credit?

What do you know about patronage and debt?

How about place-making and “strong towns”?

One of the many things I loved about living in Germany was how easily accessible everything was.

Refrigerators are small there. Grocery shopping could be done in any town or city the same way—by walking.

One place has your salad mix and eggs. Another butchers your meat. Across the corner, your bread gets made. Down the block they’ve got your apples and cheese.

When I was growing up in America, we had farmers markets—outdoor affairs filled with vendor tables and tents, selling the fruits and vegetables they’d grown. Sometimes meats. Sometimes plants. Occasionally baked goods and cheese. Always smiles, laughter, and hospitable pleasantries.

In either case, proprietors would hand you a little extra with love—thank you for your business, and bid you adieu—never having to ask for a tip or online review.

The proof back then was in the pudding.

Now… well, I don’t have to tell you. But I’ve been generally appalled by what I experience today. And I’m one of those who wrote the original reviews. It’s called Quality Assurance, and it’s a gift—not some paltry message.

I’m exploring a town I quite fancy right now. It’s taken a long time for me to get here.

The other day I visited a local “farm market” in a building—not some overpriced, over-marketed installation filled with junk made from Amazon materials and repackaged grocery store items. This was real.

It was beautifully stocked with local produce and products made by hardworking humans within 65 miles. The place was bright and clean. Priced fairly. Providing balanced value for vendor, distributor, and customer alike.

Anyone still complaining about supply chain issues might want to reevaluate their business objectives and model.

Because this can be done. And it can be done well.

Not to knock the corporations. We’ve reached the point of needing to rely on them. But hopefully it won’t be long before every town and city in America can be a welcoming place again.

One key aspect of functional communities—something most policy makers don’t seem to recognize—is that it’s the small local businesses and neighborhood police departments that actually keep life safe, affordable, and in motion.

It’s the people who live and work and buy close to home.

The more people obsess over what might happen just over the horizon, the more we collectively suffer.

The more people serve, invent, and build from where they already are—turning off the noise for at least eight hours a day and being present in their arts and labor—the faster the land and its inhabitants will naturally heal. And the faster the right kind of new neighbors will arrive.

But if all you do is create tension, create turmoil, and create traffic, the more trouble you’re going to find yourself in. Jane Jacobs and Robert Moses already did battle over this. He won. Did we?

People talk about infrastructure like it’s all about pipes and power lines. But I’ve come to learn that what actually makes a place strong is how people move, how they circulate—not just their bodies, but their values.

A strong town doesn’t mean a booming one. It doesn’t have to mean a wealthy one, either. It means a place where exchange is right.

Where the people and the land are in mutual relationship. Where the neighborhood isn’t just standing or surviving, but rather its residents carry each other.

It’s about how well a community can sustain itself without depending on outside manipulation, government grants, corporate crutches, or predatory loans.

It’s about what a town would look like if every dollar spent actually stayed there for more than five minutes.

Scripture puts it like this:

“You shall have a full and honest weight; you shall have a full and honest measure, so that your days may be prolonged in the land.” (Deuteronomy 25:15)

That’s the blessing of strong towns: honest measure creates longevity.

When a community values right exchange—whether that’s food, services, shelter, or labor—it gets to stay. It becomes inhabitable across generations.

But when there are false weights, bad deals, and corrupt circulation, even the land starts spitting people out. From above and from below.

I’ve watched a lot of towns falter—not because they were poor, but because they were dishonest.

Or too distracted to protect their roots.

Or too entranced by the promise of future wealth to realize their real value was already underfoot.

The people always commuting and complaining.

And that leads us right into the next layer: patronage and debt.

Now, when I say patronage, I don’t mean charity. I’m not talking about noblesse oblige or transactional tithing.

I’m talking about sacred commerce. About seeing something of value, investing in it in good faith, and receiving something promised in return.

When I give my money, advice, or attention to someone, I do it as a sacred act. I don’t hand over my currency lightly.

If I’m giving you energy, it’s because I believe in what you’re offering—and I expect the exchange to reflect that.

If you promise something and take my money, time, or talent then don’t deliver, you’re not just scamming me. You’re stealing from the force that animates our agreement and placing yourself under a curse.

The Word doesn’t dance around this.

“You shall not defraud your neighbor. You shall not steal. You shall not keep for yourself the wages of a laborer until morning.” (Leviticus 19:13)

“Woe to him who builds his house by unrighteousness… who makes his neighbor serve him for nothing and does not give him his wages.” (Jeremiah 22:13)

“A false balance is an abomination to the Lord.” (Proverbs 11:1)

These are not suggestions.

They are spiritual laws.

And every time someone thinks they can cut corners—offer less than they promised, give less than what was paid for—they step into a kind of debt that no credit score can track.

Because here’s the thing about debt in the divine economy: It doesn’t just accumulate interest. It also accumulates consequence.

You don’t get to mistreat people who deal with you in good faith and walk away clean.

You don’t get to overpromise and underdeliver and call it hustle.

If someone trusted you—if someone offered you patronage—and you used that to serve yourself instead of the shared good? You’re not clever. You’re cursed.

“I will draw near to you for judgment… against those who oppress the hired worker in his wages.” (Malachi 3:5)

And you can feel this tension everywhere now.

People are tired of being defrauded. Of paying for broken promises. Of being told to invest in something local, ethical, or community-minded—only to discover they were funding another ego, another scam, another disappointment. If they even figure it out at all.

That’s why it’s so hard to build strong towns. Because strong towns depend on grounded people and strong bonds—and strong bonds depend on trust. Now trust is in short supply.

But I believe it can all be rebuilt. I’ve seen glimpses.

A vendor who gives you more than you paid for.

A neighbor who shovels your driveway before you even ask.

A business owner who doesn’t need a contract to keep their word.

That’s what the Kingdom looks like in motion.

That’s what the land responds to.

That’s what makes a place worthy of staying in.

And if more people started thinking that way—stopped obsessing over scale and started tending to right relationship—we could have strong towns again.

We could have fair patronage again.

We could have a country that blesses us back again.

But if we keep building on fraud, keep calling debt “opportunity,” keep offering spiritual robbery and calling it a business model—we will keep watching our places decay. No matter how many grocery stores or art districts you build.

The older I get, the more obvious karma becomes.

Not the pop-culture version—where bad people get punished and good people get prizes. That’s cartoon logic. Karma is much quieter than that. And far more serious.

Karma, as I’ve come to understand it, is the return of what we circulate. It’s not always instant. It’s not always recognizable. But it’s always precise.

In a transactional culture like this one, people tend to think only in inputs and outcomes. I gave this, so I should get that. If I didn’t get what I expected, the deal must’ve been broken. But that’s not how true karma works.

Karma is less about the specifics of a transaction, and more about the spirit of it.

It’s not just what you give or get. It’s why, and how.

It’s whether you’re seeding life—or just managing appearances.

It’s whether you’re planting a tree for someone else’s shade—or setting up shop so you can sell them water later.

I’ve met people who seemed successful but whose lives felt hollow.

I’ve met people who seemed invisible, but who were rich in presence, in trust, in timing.

And I’ve learned that nothing we do is neutral.

Every interaction we have—every business deal, every hello, every favor or failure—is part of a pattern that lives longer than we do.

So I pay attention.

Not just to what I’m doing, but to how I’m being.

Not just to what I’m owed, but to what I’m emitting.

And that’s really the invitation here.

Because maybe we can’t change everything overnight.

Maybe you’re not in a strong town yet.

Maybe the systems still feel like a scam.

Maybe you’ve been taken advantage of, or ghosted, or pushed out of something you tried really hard to build.

But you’re still here. You’re still circulating.

And everywhere you go, people are crossing your path.

You don’t know who they are yet.

They don’t know you.

But what if the person you walk past today was your next collaborator?

Your next neighbor?

Your next lifeline?

Your next friend?

What if the barista you’re not even looking up to acknowledge is holding a piece of your future?

What if the guy in line at the supermarket is praying for someone exactly like you?

This is karma too.

Not just cause and effect, but cause and connection.

Not just what goes around, but who goes around.

So start with presence.

Start by eye contact, then by smiling.

Start by assuming that whoever is in front of you was placed there on purpose.

Extend your kindness like a currency that never devalues.

Because it doesn’t. It can't.

Because even in this culture of transactional noise and broken promises, the circulation of goodness is still holy. It’s still powerful. It’s still able to create worlds.

And it’s my summation that that’s how the new world begins.

Not with a policy. Not with a platform.

With a moment.

With a handshake.

With a word that lands just right, at just the right time, for just the right person.