13th Sunday after Pentecost – Proper 18C – Mark Winward
“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.” – Luke 14:25
Jesus’ words here aren’t exactly what we might call consoling. At first hearing, they sound harsh. He demands total allegiance, even above family, possessions, and life itself. And He drives the point home with vivid images—like the builder who first counts the cost of completing a tower, and the king who weighs his chances before going to war. But his message couldn’t be more clear: discipleship isn’t an add-on to life. It’s not a hobby. It’s not a spiritual side project. It is a whole-life calling. No wonder the crowds who followed Him would have been rattled—and that was exactly His intent.
Large crowds always come with mixed motives. Some may have gathered because they had seen Jesus feed thousands and were waiting to be fed. Others probably came because they had heard of His power to heal and hoped for their own miracle. Still others undoubtedly followed out of curiosity or excitement. But only a few were truly committed to this unconventional but inspiring wandering preacher.
If we think about it, we see that Jesus no more taught hating our families than He taught us to hate anyone. Just four chapters earlier in Luke, Jesus gives us the greatest commandment: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” Preachers, of course, are often taught to begin with something striking or even shocking to capture attention. Like a skilled essay writer, Jesus knew how to draw His listeners in and earn the right to be heard.
Once His audience got past their shock, they might have realized He wasn’t saying anything entirely new. They would have remembered the story in Genesis 22—Abraham called to sacrifice his son, Isaac, on Mount Moriah. At the last moment, the angel of the Lord stopped him. Contrary to some modern interpreters, that story isn’t about child abuse. It is about faithfulness. Abraham demonstrated that he was willing to surrender even he valued most in his life. But God never intended Isaac’s death, just as Jesus never intended us literally to hate our families. Instead, both stories point to the same truth: God tests our priorities. And because of Abraham’s faith, God gave one of Scripture’s most famous promises:
Because you have done this, and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will indeed bless you, and I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars of heaven and as the sand that is on the seashore.
This story was treasured by Jesus’ Jewish audience. They would have understood that He was teaching the same principle—that God demands nothing less than to be the central priority in our lives. That same message comes through in our Old Testament reading from Deuteronomy: “If you obey the commandments of the LORD your God … by loving the LORD your God, walking in his ways, and observing his commandments … then you shall live and become numerous, and the LORD your God will bless you.” But the warning follows just as strongly: “If your heart turns away … I declare to you today that you shall perish.”
Many people today say it doesn’t matter what you believe as long as you’re sincere. But it’s quite possible to be very sincere and still be sincerely wrong. If faith is anything more than a comforting delusion, then it must be either true or false. Scripture insists that God revealed Himself first through Israel and then directly in Jesus Christ. At the end of the day, either this is the greatest truth one could ever know—or it is a mistake. If Christ is who He claims to be, the very incarnation of Truth, then that revelation demands nothing less our whole lives. But Jesus warns us to count the cost.
We see this same costly faith echoed in Paul’s letter to Philemon (the only time, by the way, this short letter appears in our three-year cycle of readings). It is one of the briefest writings in the New Testament, yet one of the most radical. Paul writes to Philemon concerning Onesimus, a runaway slave who had become a Christian under Paul’s care. Paul hints he could have commanded Philemon to free him, but instead he appeals to him in love: “I appeal to you for my child, Onesimus … no longer as a slave, but more than a slave, a beloved brother.”
Paul is asking Philemon to reorder his life. He pleads with him to stop seeing Onesimus as property, a loss, or a problem—and instead to see him as family in Christ. That was costly. In the Roman world it would have been scandalous. To welcome a runaway slave not with punishment but with brotherhood turned the whole social order upside down. (Church tradition holds that Philemon indeed freed Onesimus who later went on to become Bishop of Ephesus and was martyred under Emperor Trajan.)
So while Jesus tells us, “Count the cost of following me,” Paul provides living example in his letter to Philemon. What does costly discipleship look like in our lives? Sometimes it means forgiving when the world says we are entitled to anger. Sometimes it means giving generously when it would be easier to hold back. Sometimes it means putting our faith commitments ahead of social convenience, even when it makes us stick out or lose standing. And sometimes it means reordering our closest relationships, choosing Christ’s way of love even when it isn’t popular or easy at home, at work, or in our communities. Like Philemon, Jesus invites us to see people differently—not by the world’s categories of usefulness, status, or wealth, but as beloved children of God, equally in need of His grace. And such love is what Jesus calls us to if we are to follow him as his disciples. Amen.