and the Duty to Spend Your Luck
October 9, 2025
Life is a lottery.
This is not a statement of cynicism, but a simple observation of fact. None of us chose our winning numbers. We did not select our genetics, our birthplace, the family that would raise us, or the historical moment we would inhabit.
Before we go further, we must be clear about the scale of this lottery. Many who live in relative stability do not consider themselves lucky. They see their own struggles, their debts, their anxieties. They compare themselves to those with more. But this is a failure of perspective. The true baseline of misfortune is not a struggle to pay the mortgage. The true baseline is war, famine, genocide. It is having to flee your home with nothing, watching a child suffer from a preventable disease, or living under the constant threat of violence. If the lottery has spared you from these fates, you are holding a winning ticket of historic proportions.
In this framework, “privilege” is not a personal failing or a badge of honor. It is simply the term for that winning ticket. By framing it this way, we can move past unproductive guilt and focus on the immense responsibility it creates. This post argues that the only moral response to this unearned fortune is to spend it—not comfortably, but sacrificially—to shield others from the depths of their unearned misfortune.
A Tale of Two Families: The Sawyers and the Masons
To understand this responsibility, consider a parable.
Imagine two homes in a valley. In the first, by the water's edge, lives the Sawyer family. In the second, on a gentle rise, lives the Mason family. Both have five children. Both have stored just enough food to survive the winter.
One night, the river floods, destroying the Sawyers' pantry. Their food is gone. They have five children and nothing.
The Masons, safe on higher ground, see the devastation. Their own pantry is secure, holding ten sacks of grain—just enough for their own family. That evening, they watch their own five children sleep. They look at the ten sacks of grain, a bulwark against the coming cold.
The next morning, Mr. Mason does not shout words of sympathy. He shoulders two of his ten sacks of grain.
The weight is immense. It is the weight of his own family's security. He carries it to his neighbor's home and sets it down.
No words are exchanged. There is only a shared, grim understanding.
Now, both homes are short. Both families will face the winter with a knot of fear. The specter of hunger, once confined to one home, now haunts them both.
The risk has not vanished from the valley. It has been shared. The burden, once crushing for one family, is now a manageable fear for two. This is solidarity. It is the recognition that your neighbor’s misfortune is your own, acted upon at great personal cost.
The Hollow Confession: “I Acknowledge My Privilege”
Now, let us bring the parable into our world.
There is a modern ritual that has become a substitute for this kind of meaningful action: the public acknowledgement of privilege. It is the act of the Masons standing in their untouched home, looking at the devastation, and saying, “I acknowledge my privilege that the storm did not hit me.”
And then doing nothing.
This act, however well-intentioned, is a hollow confession. It costs nothing and changes nothing. It is a performance designed to alleviate the speaker’s guilt, rather than a genuine step toward rectifying an injustice. It keeps the wall between the two families firmly in place, ensuring that the lucky remain safe and the unlucky continue to bear their burden alone.
The Radical Act: The Duty to Spend Your Luck
There is a more profound alternative: to spend your luck.
This is where we must be brutally honest. For those of us holding winning tickets, this cannot be a comfortable act. It is not about giving from our excess; it is about fundamentally redefining what constitutes excess.
The Masons did not give away sacks they didn’t need. They gave away their own security. They willingly reduced their family’s chances of survival from ‘certain’ to ‘strained’ so that the Sawyers’ chances could rise from ‘impossible’ to ‘possible.’
The goal is not the sacrifice itself; the goal is to solve the problem. But we must be honest about the scale of the problems. Some forms of misfortune are so absolute that the only meaningful help is inherently sacrificial. The question shifts from “How much can I spare?” to “What is truly required to save this person, and what must I give up to make that happen?” The focus moves from what you are willing to give to what they desperately need.
- Spending Financial Luck: This begins with recognizing a life-altering need you have the capacity to meet. It is about choosing to fund a refugee’s resettlement or pay for another’s life-saving medical care, and accepting that this will require you to forgo a significant financial goal or fundamentally alter your own standard of living. The need dictates the sacrifice; the sacrifice does not define the act.
- Spending Network Luck: This means taking a significant professional risk to create an opportunity for another. It is championing someone from a marginalized background so forcefully that your own reputation is on the line. It is using your political capital not for your own advancement, but to dismantle a system that benefits you.
- Spending Platform Luck: This means using your voice to advocate for the voiceless, even when it costs you followers, opportunities, or social standing. It is to speak on behalf of those facing injustice when it is unpopular and draws criticism.
- Spending Safety Luck: If your position in society protects you from the harshest consequences of protest or dissent, you have a duty to stand in front of those who are not safe. It means using your body and your freedom as a shield for others, accepting the risk of arrest or harm on their behalf.
Conclusion: A Daily Choice
Few of us are purely Masons or Sawyers; we live with our own mix of fortune and misfortune. But if you have been spared life’s most brutal outcomes, you are faced with the same choice as the Masons.
The question is not whether we will acknowledge our good fortune. The question is what we will do with it.
Do we hoard our luck, guarding our own security while confessing our privilege from a safe distance?
Or do we accept the terrible, profound duty that comes with it? Do we understand that solidarity likely demands sacrifice, and that the only meaningful response to unearned luck is to spend it—generously, courageously, and at a real cost to ourselves—to build a world where no one has to face catastrophe alone?