Whose Are We
I swear I don’t really do sermon series. But I’m starting to feel like I’m repeating myself over and over again when I say that there is a lot of really uncomfortable stuff in the Bible. I’ve only spent about two months in this pulpit, and already we’ve looked at passages in which God massacres whole cities, Jesus comes across as a mansplainer, and which have been used to prop up oppressive ideologies. And now we come to today’s gospel, in which we are told that we must hate our parents, our spouse, our children, and our siblings if we want to be disciples of Jesus Christ. We’re told that we must hate our own lives, and that we must give away everything that we have. Oof. Luke’s gospel really packs a punch here. Maybe we’d prefer the version of this passage we can find in Matthew’s gospel, which doesn't say that we must hate our family, just that we ought to love Jesus more than them. That’s just a little bit easier to swallow, I think. Even so, it can be hard for us to take in these words from Jesus, when we generally think of hatred as antithetical to our Christian faith, and when our families—especially the nuclear families described in this passage—are generally the centers of our lives.
I spent the second half of this week travelling down to New Jersey and back for a continuing education opportunity at the theological school from which I just graduated this year. When I told the staff this, Kevin’s response was “but you just finished your education! What more is there?” I went down for the matriculation service, the initial rite of passage for students at Drew Theological School, during which each student signs their name in a great big book. The book was the original registrar’s ledger when the seminary opened back in 1867, and they’ve just kept up the tradition of having students add their names to the book each year—it’s a whole thing. Part of the service is a lecture. Not a sermon, a lecture. I then stayed the night at my uncles’ house and went to two worship services on Thursday, for a grand total of three worship services in two days—definitely my idea of a good time. Going back to my seminary was easy for me. I saw classmates and professors, people I had worked with and come to trust. I fell right back into the rhythm of things, taking notes during the lectures and picking right up where I left off with the people I left behind. You probably already know that I visited the United Methodist Archives while I was down there, too, since that’s another place that’s important to me. When I was leaving the archives Mark, the head archivist there, thanked me for visiting, gave me a hug, and said “this place is your home. Stop by any time.”
I ended up visiting several different homes of mine this past week—places where I’ve become part of an extended family that embraces without regard for markers of genetics, lineage, or origin. Places where I am known, where I am welcome, where my spirit is restored. Places where I most certainly belong.
The call to hate our nuclear families does not stand on its own. It is a part of this greater passage about weighing the cost of discipleship. At the core of this passage is a reimagining of our sense of belonging, our sense of obligation. I don’t believe that when we see “hate” in this passage, we are meant to stop loving. I see this as Jesus trying to add some shock value to what he’s saying so that these large crowds might listen more closely to what he has to say. I can’t believe that Christ would demand that we abuse, neglect, reject those whom we love, simply for the sake of claiming the title of “disciple.” I can believe that the cost of being a disciple is that we no longer belong simply to those biologically closest to us, but to something greater. Not that the connections we have to our parents, children, and siblings are going to be cancelled out, invalidated, or dissolved, but that our biological and legal understandings of who falls into those categories will be expanded. We no longer simply belong to a good old-fashioned family values Norman Rockwell unit. We no longer belong simply to ourselves, to our own needs, wants, and desires.
The cost of discipleship is not hatred, it’s not self harm, it’s not isolation—the cost of discipleship is claiming our place in something larger than ourselves. It means thinking about whose we are, and recognizing that when we choose to be part of the community of God, we are no longer our own. We are still unique, beautiful, individually-created children of the living God. But, in love, we are accountable to others in the community, we are accountable to those who have come before us, and we are most certainly accountable to those who will come after us. Are we living into this call, to see ourselves not as individuals, not as mere members of idyllic nuclear families, not as needing to live for our own self-interest, but as a part of the story of Creation? Are we willing to sacrifice our allegiance to the status quo, our commitment to preserving our present reality, our acceptance of the way that we think things have always been? Will we dare to build something that honors our call to see ourselves as part of a larger story, one that does not end with us—one that has no room for arrogance or self interest?
Perhaps the greatest cost of discipleship is embracing the hands of the potter. Allowing our lives to be transformed, reshaped, merged with others into something new is scary. Letting go of the mentalities we cling to that tell us our lives, our families, our church should be a certain way—that’s scary. But this cost, the price of which we are being warned, is not new to all of us. Some have embraced it willingly, becoming part of families and communities and finding belonging amongst something greater. Others—our queer and transgender siblings, our immigrant and refugee neighbors—have been forced to find new places to belong. This call to find new places of belonging, to find new family and new community, is not always a choice. But for those of us who do have the choice, who can decide to see ourselves and others as a part of the vision of God’s Kingdom, the cost of discipleship is making that choice. The cost is claiming our place in the story, and making the space for others to do the same. That means truly knowing others, and truly being known by others.
As we are called to see ourselves differently, to open ourselves to transformation in our own hearts and in the world around us, we live into this broader vision by gathering in community. We live into this vision by meeting at this table of grace. May we build a home where all might find a place to belong, where all might be welcomed in radical solidarity, and where all might take their seat at Christ’s table. There, we will find the Kingdom of God. Amen.