Zero is enough

The story of the starfish thrower

The Black Church, Brașov, Romania. Work began between 1383 and 1385 and was completed sometime after 1476. It was built as a Roman Catholic church but was converted to Lutheran during the Reformation.

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Luke 17.10

When you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, ‘We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!’ ”

The story of the starfish thrower goes like this:

While walking along a beach, an elderly man saw someone in the distance leaning down, picking something up and throwing it into the ocean. As he got closer he noticed that the figure was that of a boy. He called out, “Good morning! May I ask what it is that you are doing?”

Without looking up the boy replied “Throwing starfish into the ocean.”

Amused, the old man said, “I must ask, then, why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?”

The boy said, “The sun is up and the tide is going out. If I don’t throw them in, they’ll die.”

The elderly observer commented, “But, young man, do you not realize that there are miles of beach and there are starfish along every mile? You can’t possibly make a difference!”

The boy picked up another starfish, threw it into the ocean and said, “It made a difference for that one.”

The story is used to remind us that we can make a difference. People often look at an insurmountable problem and do nothing because they say, “What can one person do?”

The story is good, to a point.

We moved to Romania to work in the county orphanage. The orphanage was quite large (375 children), but in comparison to the total problem it was pitifully small. Outside its fence were thousands more in other Romanian orphanages, and beyond that, millions of children were starving and dying around the world. The problem was huge. There was not enough money and not enough people to fix it.

So why try?

In considering whether it was worthwhile to devote my life to these children in the orphanage, knowing they were in for life and the only thing I was doing was making their days less lonely (but not giving them a life) the decision was not so much based upon whether they were worth it but whether I could live mine knowing they were in there. There was no one else working at the orphanage at that time (I didn’t consider the staff members to be people who worked with the children). We had visited three times and had come to know the children. So that is the first part of the answer: they were hurting, I knew them, by leaving time after time I was hurting them even more, and so—since I cared about them—we had to do something. Visiting was doing more harm than good, so we had to either stop visiting or move so I wouldn’t have to leave them again. We moved.

But still, it was obvious that just one person working with 375 children wasn’t going to accomplish anything terribly important. It seemed right to move to Romania because we knew them and leaving them alone was something I couldn’t live with.

The point is not whether just one child out of all those millions makes it worthwhile, but whether I am so important and what I am doing is so worthwhile that I can’t give it up for someone else. What is so important about me, just one person, that a hundred people have to suffer or die before it is sufficient enough or a tragedy to wench me from my comfort?

If just one person needs my help, does that justify me sacrificing my life? If millions need help, does that make it impossible and so I might as well stay home? We have a Goldilocks view on this. If there’s not enough it’s not worth doing, but if there’s too many it’s impossible, so why make the effort? It has to be just right: a big enough problem to justify the effort, but not so big that it can’t be done.

In our deliberations we balance the disruption of our lives against the good that can be accomplished. If we quit our job, leave our home and family, go through the disruption of moving to another country, etc, etc, then there has to be a very good reason because we can’t be expected to disrupt our lives so massively unless there is something that makes it worthwhile.

That’s backwards, and it stops us from doing what you should because there is almost no situation that is “just right”. Balancing our discomfort against theirs almost always means they are left alone.

The solution is to get a more accurate evaluation of what you’re worth. The apostle Paul gives us the right formula: “In humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.” He puts the issue in stark focus: the issue is not them, it’s you. The problem is that we think too highly of ourselves.

And then he pushes if further, saying that he had lost everything and regarded it as rubbish. That’s a difficult point to get to. Losing everything is painful: we need things to be happy. But when we look at it clearly, what we are really saying is that we need things so much that we are not willing to give them up, even if people are suffering and dying. We will hold onto our things and refuse to give them up, never considering that is these things that are stopping us from doing what we should. And that’s why Paul says he regards it all as rubbish: because he would never allow things to become so important they prevent him from doing what he should.

It is not a trite issue. People usually don’t do what they should because they refuse to give up their things. They have spent their entire lives collecting it and now the pile is too large to live without.

Jesus put it bluntly: It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God. Jesus could not have done what he needed to do if he was concerned about things. Nor Paul. And the single greatest reason people don’t do what they should is because they have a higher regard for their things than other people.

We read the words of Christ and we say we believe them, but they don’t persuade us to live any differently. Christ said “those who want to save their life will lose it”, but we are not convinced. Christ said “if any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me,” but we don’t do it. Christ said “do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will wear,” but we do worry. Constantly. Christ said “you cannot serve God and mammon,” but we’re pretty sure we can. Christ said “the gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it,” but we take the easy path and are convinced by everyone on the path with us that we're heading the right direction.

Why would Christ say all these things if it didn’t matter?

The truth is, it has everything to do with us and nothing to do with them. We won’t change our lives no matter how many or how few there are. Counting them just doesn’t make any difference.

And it shouldn’t, because the only thing that matters is whether we are going to obey Christ or not. How many there are isn’t the point. Zero is enough.

Counting them will not convince us to go, and it shouldn't, really, because going for them would guarantee to fail. It's not about them. It's about you. Counting the cost is about you. How much will you lose by doing the right thing? Is there anything that would move you from where you are to where Christ wants you?