Icon by Kelly Lattimore, “The Good Shepherd”
Watch the Video of This Sermon Given at All Saints Church of Christ:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EJdxa6Ne8aw
Luke 14:25-33
Now large crowds were traveling with Jesus; and he turned and said to them, "Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple. For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it will begin to ridicule him, saying, `This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.' Or what king, going out to wage war against another king, will not sit down first and consider whether he is able with ten thousand to oppose the one who comes against him with twenty thousand? If he cannot, then, while the other is still far away, he sends a delegation and asks for the terms of peace. So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions."
Well, that escalated.
I just love the voice of Jesus in Scripture. I am always comforted to know that he does not shy away from conflict and see him use words that aren’t always sweet, but often salty. Because God knows I tend to prefer salty over sweet, and it just feels good to see that same preference in Christ every once in a while.
I’m trying to imagine this interaction. Were the large crowds with Jesus just talking amongst themselves as he turned to them? Did this call to hate family and carry crosses come out of nowhere?
What, exactly, would make the God of Rhetoric stop what he was doing to call attention to this group? What conversations prompted this holy hyperbole to a group of already dedicated followers? They were traveling with him after all, they were presumably already convinced. And any other religious leader would have been happy with that. It’s weird that Jesus is trying to thin his crowd. No, don’t just follow me. HATE your family. Your children. Your life.
He goes on, questioning their commitment. “Are you even thinking about this? Are you even powerful enough to do this?” I don’t want to project anything on this text, but I almost hear his slightly sarcastic tone, and I’ve got to wonder, “Why?” Who are these crowds that Jesus is working to convince that this journey is too difficult for them, that the cross is too heavy. And since when did hate come into this equation?
I find it helpful to take this passage out for a while and let it breathe. It sits smack dab in the middle of Luke and if ingested verse by verse, way too quickly, I’m afraid we might get too inebriated to figure out what exactly Jesus is saying and to who. So, let’s give it a moment while we look at what’s happening in the larger context of the story Luke tells.
Each biblical author (or community of authors) weaves commentary throughout the narrative itself. Luke, in particular, focuses on telling of a King Jesus. From birth story to death story, Jesus is presented as an alternative to the current government and powers that be. It is a political story. A story about economics and loyalty where at each turn, Jesus calls people to follow him into His empire—the one that flips the script on power and authority, that privileges the least of these, and one that flies in the face of allegiance to Rome, to the Synagogue Leaders and Gatekeepers, and the wealthy and exploitative class.
And I think this is why we see Luke constantly present Jesus as a foil to the rich and powerful. Wealth and power are constantly challenged, in parables and in real life. The story of the Rich Ruler. Of the Prodigal Son. Of the Good Samaritan. All these address wealth, power, and even loyalty. Even the story of the crucifixion, as women are weeping and wailing for Jesus, Luke reports that Jesus quotes Hosea 10, and in doing so, condemns the earthly kingdom, the political authorities, and religiously powerful, all while inviting the sinner—the “least of these”—into his own kingdom. For someone who many Christians today deny ever “getting political”, Jesus sure uses a lot of political language. King of the Jews—and all of people.
So when we see Luke tell any story about Jesus, we have to keep this in mind. Who is Jesus talking to? And why?
Hate your family. Carry the cross. Lose your life. And then he says this, “Which of you, intending to build a tower, doesn’t sit down to estimate it? What king would not consider it first? Therefore, none of you can be my disciples unless you give up all of your possessions.”
Now, we know a few things: these people had the power to build towers. The analogy of being a king landed with them. They had possessions to give up. These large crowds had to have been privileged people. People with economic and familial security. And Jesus is telling them to give it all up and to pledge loyalty to him. Loyalty to the death.
I’m going to go out on a limb to say that this isn’t just about wealth. Jesus himself benefited from patronage—although even in that he turned on its head, using the money and support from women, who were some of the least privileged and powerful at the time.
If Luke is presenting an alternative empire through Jesus, then these words must be challenging something more than just economic standing. He must be challenging privilege. Because what is costlier than laying down one’s privilege, one’s security, and one’s power to take up a cross that leads to certain death?
A point of clarification is required. I have seen my share of sermons and platitudes misuse Jesus’s words to heap guilt upon the poor and those marginalized by society. “Don’t complain. The cost of following Jesus means you aren’t going to be rich. Just be ok with your suffering.”
But Jesus is not speaking to the poor or the powerless or the disadvantaged.
It’s generational wealth and privilege and security that are being challenged—not those in trauma or crisis or who are unsafe.
Here he’s renouncing family ties for the well-connected—not the disconnected.
To one group he describes a cross too heavy to bear, but to another, he says “I will give you rest.” What separates those two groups? Privilege.
And the only bootstraps that are in this conversation are those of the rich. The ones of the poor are being washed.
But today, while I think economic disparity can be a conversation that’s helpful and important in its own right, there’s another parallel to be made. Religious conversations today about security and safety and protection seem to revolve less and less around dying for Jesus and counting the cost, and more and more around protecting one’s family for Jesus. From guns to walls to bringing back prayer to schools and increasing policing and prisons and fighting wars on drugs and nations and news, safety, protection, fear become the driving factors of so many Christians’ behavior. And it’s not just these things, lest we “other” a particular group. Safety, protection, and fear seem to drive all of our behaviors—especially for those of us that hold multiple privileges and powers. From gentrification to private schooling to “peacemaking” that looks more like “status-quo keeping” and “just wait and be patient and calm down” that looks more like “be complicit in your own oppression.” And we don’t like these things pointed out either. It threatens our sense of security.
The cost we are counting is whether or not we will give up our privilege and safety in order to follow Jesus into his alternative empire. Where do our loyalties lie? Protecting our family and our security and ourselves—or dying to serve the sinners and oppressed and sick and poor and defeated.
What does it mean, then, to be a loyal follower of Jesus? To, for lack of a better analogy, pledge allegiance to a different flag? A flag of peace and sacrifice and death and treating people better than we treat ourselves?
We know from his life it’s not to be fearless. This is a holy man, son of Parent God, who trembles in a garden alone, begging for mercy, sweating from the fear of his body being broken, bruised, bloodied, and destroyed by the empire. This faith—this treasonous faith that put God above country, above law, above past allegiances, above family, above wealth, above status—resulted in death. He knew all of this, he was scared of this, and still had the audacity to ask others to join him.
And I think those who did. The ones who didn’t really have the capital to spare in the first place. The ones who didn’t have the power or money or status. Not really.
Only two swords between them.
Women funding them, but lacking social power. Women with sexual trauma, men with radical ideas of overthrowing government, children, the disabled, the poor, those in prison. They were the ones who followed Jesus to the ends of the cross.
And those who didn’t? The ones with the money and power and authority? The large crowds that Jesus turned to and said, “Count the cost. Die. Give up your possessions. Your safety. Your security.” Yes, they followed Jesus to the ends of the cross, too, and then they hung him on it. He said to give up everything and they said, sure, but not this.
And today we have to make the same choice. What will we give up? Who will we pledge loyalty to?
I call this a treasonous faith because it betrays the power of this world, of this country, of our leaders, of our privilege and comfort, and invites us into a holy mutiny, where we speak peace, free captives, feed the hungry, invite the immigrant, love the addicted, house the unhoused, accommodate the disabled, clothe the unclothed, connect the disconnected, and stand against the powers that falsely promise safety. It invites us into death, but promises us resurrection.
And it’s ok if you’re scared. I am too. But this is The Way—the only way—to follow Jesus.
