Sermon based on Luke 14:25-33
There’s a moment I remember from a few years ago when I was on a long road trip. I was driving from Phoenix to Fort Worth, and after passing a small gas station on the I-40, a road sign came into view: Next services, 52 miles. I see a sign like that and immediately check the gas gauge, the water bottles, the snacks. I think about whether I’m prepared for the stretch ahead.
I think that’s what Jesus is doing here in Luke 14. He’s essentially saying to the crowds, Check your tank. Look at your supplies. Count the cost before you follow me down this road.
The context matters. Just before this story, Jesus was inside a Pharisee’s home at a dinner party. He taught about humility, about taking the low seat, about inviting the poor and the forgotten to the feast. Then he steps outside, back on the road to Jerusalem, and suddenly there are large crowds following him. It’s easy to imagine the energy of it all—the buzz of people amazed by his healings, astonished at his words, curious about what he might do next. The crowd is big. They’re excited. They’re caught up in the movement.
And that’s when Jesus says something so startling, it must have brought the whole parade to a grinding halt: “Whoever comes to me and doesn’t hate father and mother, spouse and children, and brothers and sisters—yes, even one’s own life—cannot be my disciple. Whoever doesn’t carry their own cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”
Talk about a mood shift.
The word “hate” in our ears is jarring. It feels incompatible with Jesus, who elsewhere tells us to love our enemies, bless those who curse us, do good to those who hate us. Hate doesn’t sound like a fruit of the Spirit. So what’s going on?
This is hyperbole—an exaggeration meant to shake us awake. Luke often gives us the harder edge of Jesus’ sayings, while Matthew smooths them out. Where Matthew writes, “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me,” Luke gives us the stark “hate.” But the point is the same: allegiance to Jesus comes before all other allegiances.
In Hebrew thought, “hate” could mean something like “to love less” or “to prefer less.” In Genesis 29, Leah is said to be “hated” because Jacob loved Rachel more. In Deuteronomy, the wife who is “hated” is simply less favored. Jesus is saying that even the most sacred ties of family and self-preservation must not outrank our commitment to him.
And that makes sense in the larger story of Luke. Jesus has already said, “My mother and brothers are those who hear the word of God and do it” (Luke 8:21). He has already warned that his message will divide households (Luke 12:51–53). Following him creates a new household, a new family, where allegiance to God’s reign reorders every other loyalty.
But that doesn’t make the saying any easier to swallow.
To drive it home, Jesus tells two quick parables. One about a man building a tower. One about a king heading into battle. Both involve pausing to calculate before you act. Nobody wants to end up with a half-finished tower and everyone laughing at you. Nobody wants to lead soldiers into a slaughter because they didn’t do the math.
And then Jesus brings it back around to discipleship: “In the same way, none of you who are unwilling to give up all of your possessions can be my disciple.”
This is not a sales pitch. Jesus is not lowering the bar to get as many sign-ups as possible. He’s raising it, almost daring people to walk away. This is not a movement of easy, cheap, feel-good spirituality. It’s not an add-on hobby for your spare time. It’s costly. It’s ultimate.
Theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer famously called this the difference between “cheap grace” and “costly grace.” Cheap grace is forgiveness without discipleship, baptism without discipline, communion without confession. Costly grace calls you to leave nets on the shore, walk into an unknown future, and carry a cross.
And Jesus is clear: if you want to come along, you need to know what you’re signing up for.
We have to remember: Jesus is on the way to Jerusalem. Back in chapter 9, Luke told us he had “set his face” toward that city. And we know what waits there—betrayal, arrest, crucifixion. When he talks about carrying the cross, he’s not speaking metaphorically. For anyone listening in that crowd, the cross wasn’t a symbol for personal inconvenience. It was a Roman instrument of state-sponsored terror. It was execution on public display.
So when Jesus says, “Take up your cross and follow me,” he’s describing the literal path he is on. The road behind him leads not to power or safety, but to Golgotha.
No wonder he presses the crowd to count the cost. No wonder he wants them to think twice before they keep walking.
Let’s pause for a moment on the three big demands Jesus names:
- Family. In the first-century world, family wasn’t just about affection. It was survival. Your family was your social safety net, your labor force, your status. To say “hate father and mother, wife and children” meant loosening your grip on the very structures that kept you secure.
- Life itself. Jesus says we must hate even our own lives. Again, hyperbole, but the meaning is real: you have to be willing to lose your life for Jesus’ sake. If survival is your highest goal, you won’t follow Jesus very far.
- Possessions. Finally, Jesus says you can’t be his disciple unless you give up all your possessions. Not just money, but all the things we cling to for stability and control.
Together, these three—family, life, possessions—represent the pillars of security in that world. And Jesus is saying, I want your trust more than those things. I want your allegiance before all of it.
There’s a temptation in preaching to soften this. To say, “Well, Jesus didn’t really mean hate. He just meant love less.” Or, “Giving up possessions doesn’t mean all possessions, just don’t be greedy.” But if we soften too much, we miss the offense of the gospel.
The crowd that day may have been swept up in excitement. They had seen healings, exorcisms, miracles. Maybe they thought following Jesus would bring blessing, healing, freedom. And it does—but not without the cross.
What offends us today might not be the same as what offended them then. For us, maybe it’s the challenge to our consumer culture, where faith is too often marketed as another product on the shelf—low risk, low cost, high reward. Jesus won’t let us treat discipleship like that. He insists it will cost us something.
So, what does it cost us?
For some, discipleship might mean literal estrangement from family. I’ve sat with people who were rejected by their families because they chose to follow Jesus in ways their parents couldn’t accept.
For others, it may mean giving up status, wealth, or comfort. It might mean refusing to participate in systems that exploit others, even if it costs us financially.
For still others, it may mean taking up a cross of vulnerability, walking into places where our safety and privilege no longer protect us.
And for all of us, it means reorienting our loves. It means saying Jesus is first, not just when it’s easy, but when it’s costly.
One detail unique to Luke is that when Jesus first talked about the cross back in chapter 9, he added one little phrase: “Take up your cross daily.” That word—daily—changes everything. It’s not about a single heroic sacrifice. It’s about daily faithfulness, daily surrender, daily courage.
It’s the parent who chooses patience and presence every day, even when exhausted.
It’s the worker who resists cutting corners or cheating others, even when no one would notice.
It’s the student who refuses to bully or exclude others, even if it costs popularity.
It’s the believer who keeps showing up to worship, to prayer, to service, even when enthusiasm has faded.
The cross is daily. The cost is daily.
History gives us inspiring examples. Simon of Cyrene, pressed into carrying Jesus’ cross, models what it looks like—literally—to take up the cross and follow. The martyrs of the early church, who faced lions and fire rather than renounce Christ. Saints like Francis of Assisi, who gave up wealth to live among the poor. Modern figures like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who opposed the Nazi regime and paid with his life. Or Martin Luther King Jr., who bore the cross of public scorn, jail, and ultimately assassination for the sake of justice.
But costly discipleship isn’t just for the famous. It’s lived quietly by countless believers who choose faithfulness over convenience, generosity over greed, forgiveness over revenge.
Here’s the paradox. Jesus doesn’t lower the bar to make discipleship easy. He raises it. He says, This will cost you everything. But he also promises that what we gain is infinitely more.
Because on the other side of Jerusalem is not only the cross. It’s resurrection. It’s new life. It’s the Spirit poured out. Discipleship is costly, yes. But it is also gift. It is life abundant.
Luke doesn’t let us forget that the kingdom is good news for the poor, release for the captives, sight for the blind, freedom for the oppressed. That’s the vision. That’s the gift. And that’s why people in the crowd kept following—even after Jesus warned them. Something about him was worth more than family, life, possessions. Something about him was worth it all.
So what does this mean for us, here, now?
It means discipleship is not an extracurricular activity. It’s not a side project. It’s not just another thing we add to our already full lives. It is life itself. It’s ultimate.
It means we need to ask: What are we clinging to? What allegiances compete with our allegiance to Jesus? Where do we need to loosen our grip?
It means we need to count the cost—but also trust the gift.
Because the one who calls us to carry the cross is also the one who carried it first. He doesn’t ask us to go anywhere he hasn’t already gone. He doesn’t ask us to give up anything he hasn’t already surrendered. And he promises that in losing our lives for his sake, we will find them.
When I think back to that highway road sign—Next services, 52 miles—I realize Jesus’ words function the same way. They are not meant to scare us off, but to prepare us. To remind us this journey is serious. To help us check our tank, fill our bottles, and commit to the road ahead.
Jesus doesn’t want half-finished towers or disciples who turn back at the first sign of trouble. He wants followers who know the cost and walk with him anyway.
So maybe the question for us today is simple:
What do we need to lay down, what do we need to surrender, what do we need to let go of, so that we can walk with him all the way to Jerusalem?
Amen.
By: Rev. Dave Wasson
Dove Sermons 
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