Jesus’ shocking command to “hate father and mother, spouse and children, siblings, yes, and even life itself,” stops us in our tracks. Christ’s words lead us to step back and reconsider our allegiances.

Vicar Erik Nelson
The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 23 C
Texts: Deuteronomy 30:15-20; Psalm 1; Philemon; Luke 14:25-33

Grace and peace to you in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

What in the world is Jesus doing here? “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, spouse and children, siblings, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.” What?

What is Jesus doing here? This is a question that surely every generation of Christians have asked when they got to this part of the Bible.

This seems to fly directly in the face of the Fourth Commandment. Remember from Confirmation, “Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” How do you square that with “hate your family”?

Remember, Jesus is the same God who taught us that commandment originally. I think he’s making this bombastic statement to stop us in our tracks and make us say, “What in the world is Jesus doing here?”

I think with this statement, by saying that we need to hate our parents and families and our very lives, He’s not really talking about our families. He’s not really talking about our lives. He’s speaking against idolatry. He’s speaking against all of the ways, big and small, that we hold onto our identities and relationships not as gifts from God but instead as dividing lines and the basis for structures that separate us.

In our time, and in his, I think these words especially speak against the sin of nationalism, which is a form of idolatry, which Pastor Crippen has spoken against in the last few weeks. 

When Jesus says, “hate your family,” he is saying something radical about society that we might not really pick up on. American society values the family but overall we are quite an individualist culture. Family is important to us, yes, but it doesn’t really define every aspect of our lives, as it would for the biblical audience.

When Jesus’ listeners heard him say this, they would have thought about much more than just their nuclear family. In that society, which was much more communal, more collective, your family was the key to your whole identity. Your family was all wrapped up in your nationality, your religion, your eternal legacy … your relationship to your family, and therefore to your nation, your religion, your everything, was an existential thing. And so for Jesus to say this was even more radical in his context than it is in ours.

Earlier in this Gospel of Luke, the Evangelist includes an extensive genealogy of Jesus, showing how even he was tied up in his culture’s idea that family = nation = identity = purpose. It was so important to the authors of the Gospels to show Jesus’ connection to legendary King David that two different gospels offer two different genealogies that converge on David. We have numerous Scriptures that describe a king who will restore the throne of David.

Our reading this week starts out by telling us that large crowds were following Jesus. Maybe some were following because they knew he offered free food and healing. Maybe some were following out of genuine love for this humble rabbi.

But I’d bet that there was a substantial portion of the crowd who were following him because they hoped he would be the one who would restore the throne of David, cast out the Romans, and usher in a new kingdom. There are some today who follow Jesus because they hope he will build a kingdom that casts out their enemies.

But that is not the Christ who we know in the gospels. The Christ of the Scriptures is the one who tells us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. The Christ of the Scriptures is gentle and kind but ferocious in standing up for people who are being cast away. The Christ of the Scriptures is one who could use Godly power at any time, and yet took up his cross for our sake. 

The Christ we know in Scripture is a king, the Son of David, but he’s not a king who ruled like David, taking what he wanted, conquering neighbors, or casting out undesirables. He’s a king whose reign sees tyrants pulled down and the lowly lifted up.

When Jesus tells us here to take up our cross and follow him, he’s reminding us of where our allegiance really should lie. We should love our given families, of course, but our first allegiance is to God and to the chosen family that God has given us, the kingdom that Christ has brought us into. The reign of Christ is a family of outsiders who have been brought inside.

In our other reading, the letter to Philemon, we see an example of what that looks like lived out. Paul, the author of the letter, is a Roman citizen. In his day, that was the ultimate insider designation. With that title came special privileges and rights and gave him a high position in the Roman hierarchy. And he’s writing to Philemon about Onesimus, a person who the text describes as a slave. In Paul’s context, slaves were considered to be property, not even people. And yet, because of the way that the reign of Christ reshapes our relationships, Paul describes Onesimus as a “beloved brother.” (v. 16) He even refers to Onesimus as his “own heart.” (v. 12)

The relationship between Paul, Onesimus, and Philemon is totally changed by the reign of Christ. Paul tells Philemon and Onesimus that they are no longer slaver and enslaved. They’re brothers. Paul’s place in the Roman hierarchy fades away in his encounter with Christ. His high achievements are worthless compared to his place in the family of God. His allegiance is not to any political or religious structure, but to Christ, first and foremost.

When our primary allegiance is to Christ and his kingdom, our family includes all of Christ’s family. Christ’s allegiances become our allegiances.

And so, our allegiance is to our unhoused neighbors, who we ignore on the street corners. To children who die to gun violence, because of the inaction of our communities and legislators. To families ripped apart by government raids, which our country voted for in massive, historic numbers. To people dying in Gaza, who live at the other end of American weapons.

Our love for Christ should look like our love for these people who Christ loves, which is all people, but particularly the people on the margins and the outside.

And while we might start feeling self-righteous or holier-than-thou because of our advocacy or our good works or who we voted for or not, we need to be reminded that our place in the family is not because of any of our own deserving. In fact, I’d bet most of us can think of times when our own self-interest or our own allegiances separated us from others or put other people down or left other people out. I know I can think of plenty of times that my own need to be right has triumphed over the need for me to be kind.

And yet, God doesn’t leave us in our separation. God has chosen each and every one of us, before and beyond anything we do or don’t do. God’s infinite grace has been poured out on each of us, and has brought us together into one family.

And like any family, there are going to be ones we disagree with. I’m sure we all have people we feel like we just can’t understand why they believe what they believe or do what they do.

But also as family, I don’t think we can just shake the dust off our feet and walk away. I fear we have a call to listen to them, seek to understand them, maybe let ourselves be changed by them, and tell them our truths, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

It’s easy for us, who are in this room together, who are about to share the Lord’s Supper, to say that we are in relationship and in communion … it’s harder to acknowledge that we are in relationship and we have a responsibility to the people outside this room who make us ashamed to say that we’re Christians.

And even as I say all these things, we know that we won’t be able to do everything right … We’ll mess up and say the wrong things … We’ll hurt each other’s feelings and get into messes but at the end of the day … We come back to grace and faith.

In the readings this week, Christ tells us to count the cost and take up our cross. But in reality there’s no way we can count the cost. None of us knows what’s coming. We can’t know what will be asked of us.

All we know is that God is faithful. God has not left us alone. God has given us each other for companionship and solidarity. God has given us the Word to show us the Way.  And God has given us this meal we’re about to receive to build us into one body, broken for the world.

May it be so.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.  

Jesus’ admonition to humble ourselves is not only advice for gracious living. It encapsulates the entire gospel.

The Rev. Beth Gaede, guest preacher
The Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost, Lect. 22 C
Text: Luke 14:1, 7-14

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Pride has long been thought of as the worst of the seven deadly sins. It’s the root of all evil, the basis for Adam and Eve’s rebellion against God in the Garden of Eden. “Pride goeth before a fall,” we read in the book of Proverbs. C. S. Lewis calls pride “the complete anti-God state of mind.”

To overcome this deep sin, pastors and theologians have taught, we must become completely self-giving, taking no thought for our own interests but seeking only the good of the other. We must always strive to practice pride’s opposite, the virtue of humility.

Except. Except maybe that’s not the complete story. Back in 1960, a theologian named Valerie Saiving challenged this understanding of sin. Too much selflessness, too much self-giving, can be dangerous, she said. Far from producing an ideal, virtuous person, this view of sin is a temptation to be less than God created us to be—a temptation, she said, to which women are especially vulnerable.

I suspect that if Saiving were writing today, she would also explore the danger of selflessness for people of color, queers, people who are poor or disabled in some way, and other folks who have historically had less power in their societies.[1]

So which is it? Is pride a force for destruction? Or is selflessness, humility, an equal or even greater danger for some people?

The parable we hear in today’s gospel reading is different from most. Usually a parable begins, “The kingdom of God is like …” or “God is like.…” Today, Jesus tells a parable about how we ought to live.

The setting is ordinary: a meal, a common scene for Luke. The storyline is also ordinary: guests are deciding where to sit at the table. In Jesus’ culture, guests of honor were seated close to the host, and those who were not so important sat farther away. The arrangements were all about status. Of course, we practice versions of this today. Picture the carefully planned seating chart for a wedding or other big celebration.

In the parable, though, Jesus challenges the people of higher status. Sit at the foot of the table, he tells them. Don’t commit the sin of pride. Practice a little humility.

Now this is the point in a sermon when I often stop to ask, sometimes literally and sometimes only for my own reflection, So what does this passage, this story, this teaching mean for us—for you, my listeners? What is the good news?

On Monday, I thought I knew what I was going to say today. The point of the parable, I was going to tell you, depends on what message you need to hear. It speaks to each of us where we are, whether one of the proud who needs to be humbled or one of the hungry and selfless who needs to be raised up. By God’s grace, having nothing, whatever the reason, means having everything.

And then. And then Wednesday happened. Mount Olive is seven blocks from George Floyd Square, the scene of a public murder, walking distance from some of our homes and from places where many of us shop, eat, and travel. Mount Olive is less than a block from Lake Street, from the businesses and homes still recovering from riots and fires four years ago.

And now, four miles from our corner, another tragedy occurs. The Annunciation School community gathers for mass during the first week of classes, and two children are killed, twenty others are wounded, and the shooter dies by their own hand.

It seems everyone I’ve talked with about Annunciation these past few days has had a story to tell. Some of you heard the shots or wondered where the police cars and emergency vehicles were racing to. One of you texted me, “The eight-year-old that was killed lives a block from me. An eighth grader on the same block was shot in the arm. A daughter of a neighbor’s friend was shot in the head.”

What does a parable about the seating arrangements at a dinner have to say to us at a time like this? Jesus tells this parable as he travels toward Jerusalem, toward his death. As Luke’s gospel is structured, the parable falls about halfway between Jesus’ birth and his crucifixion.

Luke’s stories around Jesus’ birth ring with promise. When Mary learns that she will give birth to the Son of God, she proclaims that in the reign of God, the powerful, the proud, are brought low, and the hungry, the selfless, are filled with good things. Her son, the newborn savior, will bring God’s healing to all people, even the lowliest shepherd.

Luke’s account of Jesus’ crucifixion assures us that his suffering and death are for all people—Jew and Gentile, men and women, even his evil executioners.

Jesus’ birth; his preaching, teaching, and healing; his suffering and death are the fulfillment of God’s love for humanity.

The parable we hear today isn’t just a lesson about good etiquette or even a teaching about how to love our neighbor. It’s an illustration of the way God’s healing changes us, changes the whole world. And in a week like this one, that’s a truth we need to cling to and a promise we can claim.

God is at work now reconciling relationships among individuals and restoring all creation to God’s own self. Because of that healing, we can sing, even in times of deep grief, “I come with joy, a child of God, forgiven, loved, and free.”

Our daily lives won’t change in an instant. Living into God’s grace and learning to live as God’s beloved children takes time. Whether the word we need to hear is “Sit down lower” or “Come up higher,” we’re a journey. But it’s a journey we take together—as a community, with God—even in difficult, frightening times. In the end, God’s love makes us one.

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

[1] Valerie Saiving, “The Human Situation: A Feminine View,” in Womanspirit Rising [Harper & Row, 1979]