Mrs. Gardner called it a cool-down period.
Fifth grade. 1992. Our class held a debate on the
presidential race. I had barely slept the night before from
excitement. That morning when I saw classmates divided
evenly between tables clearly marked George H.W. Bush
and Bill Clinton, I made my choice. I marched to Ross
Perot’s table with all the confidence of a ten-year-old
political junkie. I looked around. I was all by myself.
To be honest, what happened next is a blur, but
apparently, I argued too passionately, too loudly, for Ross
Perot’s agenda. Perhaps I interrupted my classmates a
few too many times as well. My behavior earned me a
place in the hallway, where Mrs. Gardner patiently asked
me to take a deep breath. Cool down. In my defense, I
offer one minor point. By the time of my unfortunate exit,
three other students had joined Perot’s table. Of course,
despite my spirited support, Ross Perot lost the election.
It was my first of many political defeats. Still, my interest
in public discourse has persisted even as my vocational
path took a different turn. I do hope my temper has
cooled a bit.
Today, I find myself wishing Mrs. Gardner were in
charge, that someone would require a cool-down
period. Measured dialogue has all but disappeared
from the political landscape. Disembodied online
pronouncements—fed to us by algorithms carefully
calibrated to fuel our fury—leave no room for response,
relationship, or responsibility. This drives us to extremes.
We set up our camps. We draw our lines. We prepare
for battle.
You know this script. Strike first. When hit, hit back
harder. Feed the fire. Pull no punches. Cover your ears
and shout your truth. Breathe shallow; move fast.
It is a costly mistake. In the moments that matter most,
we do not need speed or self-certainty. What we need
is prudence.
This temptation to tribal allegiance—to choose your
place at the table—is not unique to the modern
political landscape. Which brings us to this morning’s
uncomfortable gospel passage. I want you to picture
the scene: the movement that Jesus began in the
backcountry of Galilee is gaining momentum quickly.
The crowds that follow him are swelling in size. The
people in those crowds are excited. They’re swept up in
the moment, in the movement. They’re ready to commit,
and breathless energy is creating a buzz that even local
leaders are starting to notice with skepticism, perhaps
bordering on fear.
And Jesus stops. He turns around. Take a breath. This
is important. Then he does the one thing no church
growth consultant would ever recommend: he raises
the bar on belonging.
Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and
mother… even life itself… cannot be my disciple. Whoever
does not carry the cross… will not be my disciple.
Strong words to say the least. This is not a verse for coffee
mugs. Let’s explore them. It’s important to say that Jesus
is not calling for literal hostility against one’s family. In
Greek, the word miseō (hate) echoes an ancient Semitic
idiom about comparative allegiance. Setting priorities.
And here, Jesus sets a high bar. To be his follower, we
must order our loyalties so that he comes first—over
people, over possessions, even over life itself. The point
is not contempt for family or for things. The point is
allegiance. Jesus is naming the cost of following him over
every other claim.
We know this because Jesus tells two sobering parables.
A builder who lays a foundation without counting the
cost—the unfinished shell will become a public eyesore,
a daily reminder of failed foresight. A king who rushes
to war without considering the long odds—soldiers die,
families grieve, a nation falters. Imprudence is never
private; communities bear its weight.
Jesus is not discouraging discipleship. He’s defining it.
Carry the cross is not a slogan—it’s a path, the path of
sacrificial faith, the ordinary, ongoing, self-giving, daily
living, cross bearing. Joining Jesus will cost everything.
The builder and the king act with reckless haste.
Discipleship means discovering we’re joining a
construction project, a campaign, that is already
underway. Our choices will either strengthen or weaken
the whole effort.
So we should consider the choice with clear-eyed
wisdom, with prudence. Jesus insists: Count the cost,
don’t calculate the benefits. Join my mission, don’t enlist
me for yours. Seek God’s kingdom, don’t secure support for
our own.
In a polarized world, it is tempting to treat Jesus like a
spiritual mascot for your cause, the patron saint of our
personal preference. But Jesus did not come to endorse
our agendas. He came to upend them. His mission is not
to comfort or to protect our comfort, to justify our tribe, or
co-sign our cause. His mission is to redeem. His mission
is to restore. His mission is to reorder the broken world.
And he means to begin with you. If following Jesus never
disrupts your priorities, or disturbs your comfort, you
have only baptized your bias. Ask yourself: When was the
last time following him made you uncomfortable? When
was the last time it cost you something or changed your
mind? This shift from recruiting Jesus to following Jesus is
the essence of prudence.
Christian prudence is not fearful hesitation. It’s thoughtful
discernment for faithful action. Jesus is not scaring us;
he’s preparing us.
Prudence means making decisions with an eye on the
future and a heart for the community. It’s the virtue
that asks: How does this choice align with Christ’s
mission? Who will be affected? How can my faith serve
a greater purpose? Those questions should shape every
significant decision we make.
I don’t want to misrepresent. The cost of discipleship is
real. Dietrich Bonhoeffer understood this when he wrote
that Christ’s call is ultimately a call to come and die, to
die to our own agendas, our own kingdoms, our own
control. Bonhoeffer wrote, “The cross is laid on every
Christian.” Following Jesus means the death of the selfish
life. Later in Luke, Jesus puts it plainly: you cannot serve
two masters. When many twist the words of Jesus to their
purpose, letting our lives reflect his purpose is a powerful
act of faith.
This is exactly what Jesus asks of the crowds. Don’t just
follow the frenzy of the moment. Count the cost. Make
this choice with prudence, not just passion.
Karl Barth wrote that we must regard “every human
being, even the oddest, most villainous or miserable, as
one to whom Jesus is Brother and God is Father; and
we [must] deal with them on this assumption.” When
we choose prudence, we create the conditions for soul
encounters instead of vicious battles.
In Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where both of my
parents were raised, there is a story about an Amish man
who is at the store one day when an out-of-towner, a
nosey tourist, begins to quiz him about his lifestyle and
faith. Finally, the man from out of town asks, “Are you a
Christian?” The Amish man calmly answers, “You’ll have
to ask my neighbor.”
Gospel witness happens in grocery stores and on soccer
sidelines. It is possible that you have been in a heated
exchange recently. To practice prudence, you must pause.
If even for just a fleeting moment, picture the other person
as a bearer of God’s image, not an enemy to defeat. Then
proceed with reverence.
Yes, this discipleship comes with a price. Following
Jesus will reorder your priorities. It will challenge your
assumptions. It will ask you to love people you would
rather avoid altogether. It may cost your comfort, your
security, even your certainty. But not following costs far
more—purpose, hope, the joy only found in joining God’s
work in the world.
This is why Jesus raises the bar so high. He is not trying to
thin the crowd. He’s inviting them into deep, durable faith
that can go the distance. You see, Jesus wants followers,
not fans. He knew passion alone would not sustain his
disciples when following would demand everything they
had. And it did.
In days of dangerous division, routine violence, and
carved-up tribes, we need more than religious zeal. This
moment demands disciples who count the cost and
choose Christ above party, above faction, above self.
This week, when those decisive moments come—and
they will come—practice prudence. Before you react,
before you choose sides, before you speak or post—
pause. Pray. Ask: Am I serving Christ’s mission or my own
agenda? How will my choice shape the community that
I’m called to build? How you respond may be the gospel
message someone else needs.
A confession. Thirty-three years removed from that fifth-
grade classroom, I’m still at it. I still feel the same tension,
the temptation to win the argument by force of volume.
For those of us who are human, prudence is practice. It’s
a discipline. We choose it each day.
Still, I think Mrs. Gardner was right. Sometimes our wisest
move is to pause, not because we lack conviction, but
because we choose love over victory.
Jesus isn’t content with a crowd worked into a frenzy.
He’s looking for disciples who have counted the cost and
decided he’s worth it. He’s worth it. He’s worth everything.
Worth our lives.
There is a cross for each of us willing to bear it. Take a
deep breath. Consider the cost. Choose Christ above all
else. I promise you this: it’s a life worth living.
Pray with me:
Holy One, give us prudence to pause, courage to follow,
and grace to trust you. Amen.