Sam Bush, “There’s No Fine Print in the Gospel”"

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

There’s a reason why you don’t see today’s Gospel reading on the homepage of church websites. “Give away all your possessions” is not a very catchy slogan. The idea “Hate your whole family and your life” is not the best rallying cry.

At this particular moment, from a PR standpoint, Jesus’ ministry is going well. He has momentum. He has already delivered some of his greatest material: the Good Samaritan; and the Parable of the Sower; and of the Mustard Seed. The people have already tried to make him king after he fed 5,000 of them. He’s healed a man with a demon; he’s calmed a storm; he’s brought a little girl back to life. The first thing Luke says in this passage is that large crowds were traveling with Jesus. From all angles, Jesus is trending; business is booming. But as we know from the rise and fall of so many who have tasted success, today’s passage seems like the time when Jesus finally puts his foot in his mouth.

He says, “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple.” Talk about sucking the air out of the room. If Jesus had an agent they would immediately get him to backtrack with a statement to the effect of, “It was not my client’s intention to offend all of the fathers and mothers and the husbands and the wives and children and brothers and sisters of the world (i.e. everybody). What he meant to say was…”

To be fair, the word “hate” here is a Semitic expression for “loving less.” Jesus is not encouraging malice or enmity. He’s speaking hyperbolically, but his words are still pointed.

At that time, your family was your complete support system. Your livelihood would depend on it (you most likely would be a part of the family business). If you got sick or had a baby or were in your old age you would depend on your family to take care of you. It was a fallback, a source of security.

Maybe you can say that about your family, but no matter who you are, you have your own fallbacks and I’m not just talking about savings accounts. What’s the thing you rely on after a bad day? Your life may be falling apart but at least you have your stunning good looks or your job or your keen intellect or your resume or your Instagram followers. Jesus is saying, “I’m your fallback. I’m the only one you can really fall back on.”

He then gives two illustrations: one about a builder who tries to figure out how much the project will cost before he begins to lay the foundation so he can make sure he can finish the job (he’s obviously prophesying about the unfinished hotel on the Downtown Mall - how many years has it been there? However long it’s been, “all who see it ridicule it” as Jesus says). The other illustration is one of war where a king determines whether or not he has the military strength to go into battle long before the first shot is fired.

What’s he saying? Well, I’ll tell you, but first I’ll tell you what he’s not saying. He’s not laying out a contract with a lot of fine print. Which, sadly, is often how people experience Christianity. People hear the gospel that God loves them unconditionally - no matter how undeserving they are - and they say, “Yes! Sounds great! Sign me up!” But THEN the Gospel is often used as a door to get people in and once they get to the other side of that door, they’re placed at the bottom of a hill with a small boulder next to them and they’re told to start pushing. They’re told that if they’re a real Christian they should read the Bible instead of watching Stranger Things or they should be practicing more self-control, but they secretly are having a hard time in that department. So they first think, "Oh good, I'm in the door. I belong! But soon they think, “This is a really steep hill and this boulder’s not getting any lighter.” And when they inevitably trip and roll to the bottom, it feels less like being saved and more like being punished. This is what happens when Christianity is reduced to surface-level morality that is focused on one’s own behavior. It leads to a “fake-it-till-you-make it- approach to life where you can’t actually be honest with your struggles.

Jesus is remarkably up front with these two illustrations of the builder and the king, calculating the costs of their endeavors long before they break ground or fire the first shot.

He’s saying, “Look. I don’t want to waste your time here. What I have to give you is free for the taking. But it’s also going to cost you everything you’ve got, lock stock and barrel. What’s the price of admittance? It’s one life. And it’s yours.” Jesus is not interested in a better you, he’s interested in you. But the cost is high. He doesn’t say, “If you want to be my disciple, just do your best!” No, he says, “In order to be my disciple you must take up your cross.” He’s not speaking metaphorically. Today, we often talk about how we each have crosses to bear. In Jesus’ day, a cross was not a metaphor. The Romans didn’t see it as a symbol. It was a means of a gruesome and shameful execution. It had one purpose and it was to kill you.

Why would he say that? Because he’s saying, “You cannot survive your own salvation.” This is what makes Christianity so absurd, that the way of life is through death. The Bible is full of language about dying and being raised, because Christianity is not about moral improvement but of death and resurrection. The Apostle Paul says, “I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live but Christ lives in me.” Jesus’ prerequisites for discipleship - give up your security, renounce your possessions, take up your Cross - these things aren’t supposed to inspire you to try harder; they’re supposed to get you to give up, to die to your striving. After all, God’s greatest trick is raising the dead. It's only the dead that God is really interested in raising.

What does that mean for you, right now, today? Well, it means you’ve been set free from the things you thought defined you. Your mother and father have influenced you but they don’t define you. Your children don’t define you. Your bank account doesn’t define you. Your waistline doesn’t define you. Your anger doesn’t define you. Your addictions don’t define you. Your acts of service don’t define you. Your life doesn’t even define you.

Because, here’s the thing: this passage isn’t about you at all. Who’s the builder that laid the foundation that Jesus is talking about? Who is the king who has counted the cost of battle? It’s him. And what’s the cost? His death. To be with our most loving and perfect God, the price of admission is one life, but instead of it being yours, he paid the price upfront. In his mercy he found you to be more than worth it. He who gave up all of his power, all of his possessions, he who gave up life itself in order to give you life to the full. He calls you his disciple - not because you qualify, but because he qualified you through his life, death and resurrection. There’s no fine print. The Gospel is that which begins, sustains and finishes the life of a Christian.

What does this look like in real terms?

There’s a novel from 1971 called My Son Is a Splendid Driver by William Inge, about a man named Joey. In college, Joey is head-over-heels for a girl named Betsy who was an aspiring actress. She is beautiful and talented, “Most Likely to Succeed” material, but she scorns the snobbery of her social circle and is eventually outcast and publicly disgraced by an ex-boyfriend. And afterwards, she defiantly and very bitterly leaves college to try to make it on Broadway and she and Joey lose touch.

Years later, Joey runs into her at a bookstore. Betsy is still beautiful, but, where there was bitterness, he notices a new sense of joy. They catch up over lunch and she tells him very openly that her life spiraled out of control in New York, struggling with relationships and addiction until she joined Alcoholics Anonymous and became a Christian.

This is from the novel, what Betsy tells Joey:

“Once in a while I have a few regrets, particularly when I go to the theater and see some trollop on stage with half my talent. But I have something else I wouldn’t trade her, not for anything in the world.”

“What’s that?” Joey asks.

“Serenity,” says Betsy in a small, sure voice that was full of humility. I found out something, Joey. I believe in God. I guess I’ve always believed in Him, even during the wildest, craziest times in my life. But I never knew that He was waiting for me to come to Him, like a patient father, and say ‘I’m sorry. I’ve made a mess of things. I’ve never understood You all these years and never realized what life really was….

You know something, Joey? We never learn what life is all about until we fail.’ It’s as though I had wanted all the time to become an actress just to have my own way about something, and I really don’t know what the something was… It was I who messed up my chances. I alone. I had to give up my conception of what my life was going to be, do you see? My will had to be overcome. I had to learn that there’s a stronger will that works behind the entire universe that sometimes stops us in our headstrong way and says No. And then you have to surrender to a real life, Joey. The life that’s really yours…. Understand what I mean? Or am I being too metaphysical, or something?’

Joey says, ‘I think I understand something of what you mean, Betsy. I think I do.’ “After lunch, we parted,” he says. All the rest of the day, I thought of Betsy, feeling somehow I had witnessed one of Christ’s miracles.”

Betsy’s story - which, if you take the details out might be your story - is a miracle. It’s the story of someone who crashed and burned only to be raised up by a loving God. Make no mistake, dying to herself, dying to her own plan for her life was a miracle, as was her recovery. Left to our own devices, we simply cannot die to ourselves. We can pray that God will help us. In the meantime, our hope, our only hope, is in the One who died for us. Amen.