The Right Thing for the Right Reason

The pure sparkle and enthusiasm hanging in the air almost seemed to soften and dissipate into a murkier cloud of confusion. It was nearly imperceptible. If you were not paying attention, you probably would not have noticed it at all. I do not believe it came from bad intentions. Most people had arrived for a beautifully simple reason: to quietly roll up their sleeves and serve. But for a moment it felt as though another motivation had gently entered the space, the understandable desire to ensure that the good being done was also being seen.

Neither is necessarily wrong, but it caused me to pause.

Lately I have become increasingly sensitive to intent, and I think our younger generations are especially attuned to it as well. They seem to carry a finely calibrated sense for the “why” beneath what we are doing, often long before anything is ever spoken aloud. They feel motivation in the air the way certain people can sense a weather change before the clouds have even formed.

Now I want to be very clear. The event itself was beautiful. Good people were doing good work. Service was happening. Lives were being blessed. I am not criticizing the event or questioning the goodness of the people involved. What it did do, however, was cause me to pause and reflect on something that has increasingly occupied my thoughts over the last several years.

Intent matters.

Most of my life I have attempted to do the right thing, with a few very human and notable exceptions along the way. But over the last several years I have found myself paying closer attention to something beyond simply doing the right thing. I have started asking a different question.

Am I doing the right thing for the right reason?

There is a meaningful difference.

I have become increasingly convinced that private victories often carry greater power than public victories. Public victories can feel wonderful in the moment. They can provide applause, attention, likes, recognition, and little flashes of affirmation. But private victories settle differently because they move beyond a moment and become internalized. They energize us in a quieter way and slowly become part of who we are.

Across faith traditions, remarkably similar truths emerge. Christ taught, “Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them… otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven.”

In the Bhagavad Gita we find a similar invitation: “You have a right to perform your actions, but not to the fruits of your actions.”

Then Christ follows with an even deeper challenge: “But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.”

The message across traditions seems beautifully consistent. Serve because service itself is worthy. Love because love itself is worthy. Do good because goodness itself is worthy.

As Christ later reminds us, “Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.”

I have also noticed something else, and this observation starts with me before it starts with anyone else. Whenever I begin subtly shifting from simply doing good toward wanting to be seen doing good, something changes. It becomes a little heavier, a little less pure, and a little less connected. Not because recognition itself is wrong, but because the soul seems to know the difference.

There is a particular kind of drift that can happen almost invisibly. We begin quietly pre-arriving at outcomes and mentally scripting how our goodness will be received before we have even acted.

People feel authenticity.

People feel intent.

And our souls certainly do.

I certainly do not write this from some mountaintop of perfection. I continually have to pause and ask myself difficult questions.

Why am I doing this?

What is my intent?

Am I doing the right thing?

Am I doing it for the right reason?

As I have tried to live this principle, I have noticed something remarkable beginning to happen. Trust starts to emerge. We gain the trust of others, but perhaps even more importantly, we begin gaining the trust of ourselves. From that trust comes something no amount of applause can manufacture: a calmness, a quiet confidence, and an internal steadiness that remains long after the moment has passed.

That steadiness is the reward that cannot be photographed.

I will not always get it right, but I am committed to asking the question.

I invite you to join me in paying a little closer attention to intent.

Let’s do the right thing, and also do it for the right reason.

Rich Christiansen