Naftali Brawer is a rabbi and a professor; I believe currently at Tufts University in Massachusetts. His A Brief Guide to Judaism is wonderful book I recommend.
He tells a story in that book about a synagogue he visited one Friday evening in Jerusalem for the Kabbalat Shabbat service, that beautiful evening liturgy welcoming the Sabbath, figured as a queen. The synagogue Rabbi Brawer visited was a young community, full of life; it was known all around for its vitality and vibrancy and for the beauty of its worship. An intentional community, some would say intense, but attractive, Rabbi Brawer was interested to see what it was all about; and so he went.
His initial experience, however, was a bit awkward. Just before the liturgy began he turned to the person next to him and simply asked what time the service would be over, how long it was going to be. To which, the person answered, “If that’s the kind of question you ask, you really don’t belong here.”[1] Awkward, as I said, off-putting, maybe even a little rude, I certainly hope our ushers never say anything like that. I hope you don’t say anything like that to a visitor. “If that’s the kind of question you ask, you really don’t belong here.” That’s not really what a good welcome ministry looks like.
But then again, maybe it does—sometimes, maybe. Rabbi Brawer stayed on; he didn’t leave. The service lasted two hours, and he came back the next week. It still seems that was a bit of a rude way to put it, but the spiritual truth underneath those words, the spiritual reality, what’s spiritually at stake underneath those seemingly impolite words—“If that’s the kind of question you ask, you really don’t belong here”—the truth under it is quite profound, quite appropriate to the subject of God and the ultimate matters of life. That is, if the things of God do indeed really matter.
I am, of course, thinking of today’s gospel reading. Jesus is speaking almost in the same vein, speaking awkwardly, some would say impolitely. “If any one comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children…he cannot be my disciple.”[2] But Jesus is not talking merely about the sacrifice of time or even money—that’s edgy enough—but about the sacrifice of everything for the sake of following him, even the most sacred bonds of family.
Jesus has been talking about what a disciple is and what a disciple isn’t. A disciple is humble not proud. A disciple shares what he has with the poor, not keeping it for oneself. A disciple forgives instead of holding grudges. A disciple loves enemies even when it’s dangerous. A disciple fears no one, no power or office. It is a high moral calling, the call to follow Jesus—an uncompromising call, not something you can half-embrace. Which, of course, is why Jesus tells the crowd (and us) to “count the cost,” inviting those who might want to follow Jesus to think about it first.[3] “Are you sure?” Jesus asks.
Because it’s a life that will set you apart. People will wonder what’s got into you; your family and friends may even try to dissuade you, stop you from carrying out all that simple yet radical stuff Jesus teaches. Don’t take it too far, they’ll advise; they may even call you an extremist. They will want you to remain normal, employable, presentable, socio-economically and politically predictable. Yet, “whoever does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple,” Jesus says.[4] And so, there you have it. That’s the fork in the road, the decision to be made.
So, what does it mean? It means, I believe, that to be Christian, a Catholic—a genuine one, at least—one must take the faith seriously in every instance, in every area of life. It is to accept the proposition that the truth of Jesus Christ and the truth he teaches, even the truth he teaches authentically through his body the Church, does indeed demand our obedience. It’s to subordinate all other claims upon our obedience to obedience to Christ—so radically, in fact, that it will seem to many irresponsible or subversive, seemingly as objectionable as hating your own family. And Jesus, of course, says, “Yes, I know. That’s what I said.”
So again, thinking of those impolite words—“If that’s the kind of question you ask, you really don’t belong here”—I can’t help but think of some of those things people say to me, some of those things I say. “I know what the Church says about all that pro-life stuff, all that sexual morality stuff, but do I have to accept it, all of it?” If that’s the kind of question you ask. “I know what the Church says about the poor, but I’ve earned it, it’s mine. You’re telling me I must give it away?” If that’s the kind of question you ask. “I know what the Church says about undocumented migrants, but I’m an American. This is a crisis. How compassionate can I really be asked to be?” If that’s the kind of question you ask.
Now I know this is objectionable for some to hear; some may even want to lecture me after Mass, repeating to me some sound bite you may think I’ve not heard a thousand times before. But either Christianity is true and therefore radical and therefore more rightfully demanding of our obedience—more than family or nation, political party or the approval of your friends—or it is not, and we’d all better start reading Nietzsche.
Or, again: “whoever does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.” Again, there you have it. That is indeed the fork in the road, the decision to be made. No questions asked. Amen.
[1] Naftali Brawer, A Brief Guide to Judaism, 140
[2] Luke 14:26
[3] Luke 14:28
[4] Luke 14:33
© 2025 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
