[Pentecost+16] the cost of discipleship

Now large crowds were traveling with Jesus; and Jesus turned and said to them, "Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother and parent, wife and husband and spouse and children, brothers and sisters and siblings, yes, and even life itself, is not able to be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me is not able to be my disciple.

For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether you have enough to complete it? Otherwise, when you have laid a foundation and are not able to finish, all who see it will begin to ridicule you, saying, 'This person began to build and was not able to finish.'

Or what sovereign, going out to wage war against another sovereign, will not sit down first and consider whether they are able with ten thousand to oppose the one who comes against them with twenty thousand? If they cannot, then, while the other is still far away, they send a delegation and ask for the terms of peace.

So therefore, none of you is able to become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions."

Luke 14:25-33 (NRSV, alt.)

Beloved, what spoke to you in this passage?

As I read commentaries in prep for Tuesday night's Bible study, the overwhelming impression I got was that Jeff let us off too easy on Sunday with his framing that Jesus is only calling us to be willing to risk everything.

This does not mean that I necessarily think this passage is intended as harshly as it might be read. The commentaries I've read assert that "hate" in this context doesn't have the emotional ladenness that we read into it today, rather it means more of a turning away from. Some translations say, "If you do not love me more than these..." (see also, Matthew 10:37-38) which is more accurate in some ways, though it arguably also feels less challenging that way. In Jesus' time, the family was a foundational location of a person's identity -- even more so than it often is today, to reject one's family would be a really serious thing. Many of us know how tense it can be when we tell family members, "I think I'd rather just celebrate Thanksgiving here with my friends, instead of traveling out-of-state for the big family get-together," or, "We're not going to do that Christmas tradition you love so much with our children," or, "I don't want to go to Grandma and Grandpa's 50th anniversary party." How much more serious would it be to say, "I'm leaving the family business and the homestead to go follow an itinerant preacher"?

Jesus asks us to go all in. We are commanded to love our family, because we are commanded to love everyone, but our families need to not hold the position of privilege they might otherwise.

In a blog post called "Holy Hating," D. Mark Davis says, "this call to discipleship is radical, implying that those who follow Jesus are not going to be making decisions based on 'what's best for me,' or even 'what's best for our marriage/family/children.' "

One commentary I read asserted that "all your possessions" in the last line of this passage means more like "one's whole existence." Another commentary I read talked about living fully into God's Will in all aspects of our lives, rather than segregating it into the "religious" parts of our lives.

What would that feel like, to give God priority over everything else in our lives? Would that feel like "hating" everything else in a way? Thinking about the idea that "hate" here means a turning away from or a detachment from, it certainly seems accurate to me to think that it would mean a willingness to lose all other things -- to hold them loosely.

Many translations say "cannot be my disciple," but various commentaries suggest that "is not able to" would be a more accurate translation -- that it is not that Jesus is imposing a barrier but that it is simply impossible.

This story takes place while Jesus is on the way to Jerusalem, knowing that the cross is waiting. Jesus has already left home and family and career -- and is going to leave life (whatever we believe about what happens after Jesus' death, Jesus never returns to this exact same kind of life).

Some commentaries raise the point that Jesus' "sensible" advice in the middle of this passage advises us to count the cost before embarking on an endeavor, so that we do not undertake something we are unable to complete, but of course it's impossible for us to bring this work of discipleship to completion, at least on our own.

At Bible Study on Tuesday, we recalled a liturgist from a couple weeks ago commenting about all the "good work" she does -- and all the good work she doesn't do. The good work she does is attached to a paycheck, and that makes it easier. If it were always easy to do this work, there would be no poverty -- we would have gotten rid of it, fed and clothed and housed all the people, reformed all the systems. But of course we haven't.

So this all sounds hard and difficult and not very much like Good News, right?

David Lose on Working Preacher points out that "more and more psychological research indicates that we actually value more highly those things for which we sacrifice," but that's not a sufficient argument for me. I don't disbelieve the research findings, but I don't want to value something just because I sacrificed for it -- that's a cognitive bias; I want to value it because it has value. I want to value it because it's Good News. Last week, the lectionary was about a dinner party, and a dinner party sounds like a possible site for Good News, right?

The lectionary skips the seguing passage (Luke 14:15-24) between last week and this week, a passage in which Jesus tells another dinner party story -- in which the invited guests all send their regrets because of other commitments and so the host invites "the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame" and then when there is still room, insists on compelling those from the highways and byways outside of the city limits, "For I tell you, none of those who were invited will taste my dinner." Which certainly sounds like Good News to those who are usually ignored but who were invited to this feast.

In "How Not to Respond to an Evite," Alyce M. McKenzie asks:

So if Jesus is warning us against accepting invitations we don't have the goods to see through to the end, is he giving those who didn't come to the banquet a pass? Is he giving them a back-handed compliment for their honesty? Are we to get from this that it is a viable option for us to say, "I don't want to come to the banquet because I have other priorities"? Is it okay to admit, "I don't want any part of carrying the cross? I don't have what it takes to answer the invitation to follow Jesus? I don't have a strong enough spirit of service, and I lack the depths of compassion for others to be a disciple?"

Which makes a lot of sense, but it ignores the part where Jesus said, "For I tell you, none of those who were invited will taste my dinner."

McKenzie goes on to suggest how the next part of our story goes if we say No:

The part where we end up in a dark and isolated place, where, like lost sheep, we risk spiritual death unless we are found and rescued.

Does that sound too grim? Too melodramatic? I don't think so. I think it's a realistic counting of the cost. The cost of not following Jesus, not coming to the banquet, not carrying the cross. What a pity it would be for us to respond to God's evite in this way: "Great idea to have party. I won't be there." The only way to find joy, peace, and a repaired relationship with God and others is by living for others out of our love for God. That is a bedrock conviction of the entire gospel of Luke. Discipleship comes at a cost. But staying home and not answering the invitation comes at an even higher cost.

We do not have what it takes, out of our own human resources, to see this sacrificial way of living through to the end. The good news is that God, working through Jesus, the Good Shepherd, helps us to persevere in the life of discipleship when our energy flags and our patience reaches its expiration date.

When the host sends servants around to let us know the banquet is ready, the best response might be: "Great idea to have a party. I'm on my way!"

What do you think, Beloved?

Where is the pull of God on your heart in this challenging passage -- or is this a passage where you don't feel God speaking to you at all, which you'd rather write off as hyperbole?

Does the promise of a heavenly banquet, of a party where all are celebrating and feasting together, feel like a compelling motivation to tikkun olam -- the repair of the world? Do you believe the assertion that it is only through committing to the radical discipleship that Jesus calls us to that we can experience this fullness of life?

(As always, you're invited to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)