The telephone rings, you answer, it's someone from the church. After a bit of polite chit-chat, the caller gets to the point: "The reason I'm calling," she confesses, "is that we would really like it if you would consider teaching Sunday School next year, or serving as a Presbyterian Women's Ministry leader, singing in the choir, chairing a particular committee, whatever." And you think: "Dear God, they must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel," or "I already have so much to do," and all of the good, logical reasons for not saying "yes" come immediately to mind.

Someone asks you to lunch. You know each other, but then again, you really don't. He says, "I'll be honest with you. I'm about as lonely as I have ever been in my life. I need a friend, someone to talk with, and I was hoping you would be that person for me." And you think, "Oh, Lord, I'm not up to this."

A friend gives every evidence of addiction; a neighbor's child bears the marks of abuse but you're not sure. . . It would be easier, and probably smarter for you personally, just to stay out of it all, to mind your own business.

You may feel sorry for the person trying to recruit volunteers in the life of the church; sorry for the person who needs a friend; sorry for the friend with the addiction, for the child with the bruises and burns, but when you add it all up all you have to offer are five little loaves of bread and two scrawny fish. There is nothing that you can do. The task is simply beyond the scope of your ability, the limits of your time and energy, and so what you do is nothing. Jesus, though, keeps asking "what are we do to about this?" Why can't he leave well enough alone?