Some years ago, the famous composer and conductor Pierre Boulez visited Manhattan School of Music to work with the orchestra. I was a student there at the time, and because Boulez was both famous and infamous, I took some time out of my own practice schedule to sit in on one of the rehearsals. As I watched and listened, I was mesmerized by Boulez’s style of conducting.
Most of us are probably used to animated conducting styles: large gestures, dramatic cues, even hopping up and down on the podium. But Boulez’s conducting gestures were quite minimal, almost eerily so. Some might characterize them as cool, even cold. His conducting box was very small, maybe two square feet. His motions were careful and controlled. So when he moved a hand up or even lifted a finger, it took my breath away.
Reading the Gospel of Luke is a bit like finding significant gestural movements within its literary conducting box. Admittedly, through sometimes unwieldy translations and often sparse details, it can be challenging to get a vivid picture of Jesus. When Jesus makes eye contact with someone or a particular adjective is used in otherwise terse prose, we should pay very close attention. The art of reading Scripture is indeed about finding those priceless and dramatic moments.
Did you catch one of those moments today? First, remember that in chapter fourteen, we are halfway through the Gospel. Back in chapter nine, Jesus suddenly announces that he will suffer, die, and be raised from the dead. And then, we are told, he sets his face to go to Jerusalem. From now on, Jesus is headed to the cross. And if we follow, we’re headed there, too.
When we enter the story today, notice what happens. Large crowds are following Jesus. Despite his difficult predictions about the future and demands for discipleship, people are still flocking to him. Are they simply impressed because he has worked miracles? Is it because his teaching is so compelling? Do these people hope to gain something from him, maybe healing for a relative or even for themselves? We don’t know, but Luke tells us that many, many people followed Jesus. And then. . . wait for it. . . something significant happens within the conducting box. Luke the Evangelist’s baton moves outside the circumscribed conducting box. Jesus turns and speaks to those who are following him.
What, you say? This is not so dramatic! But remember where Jesus has been heading—straight toward Jerusalem. And here, he stops his progress to the cross, turns, looks at those in the crowd, and then delivers some hard words. They can’t be his disciples without giving up all their possessions. They must be willing to hate relatives. The cost of discipleship is immense. No one gets off easy.
But now, picture this. You and I are among the large crowds on a dusty road following Jesus. Our reasons for following are various. Some of us do it because we were brought up to do it. Some of us are strangely drawn to the teachings of this mysterious man who is our Messiah and Lord. Some of us want Jesus to do something for us. Some of us may be sheepishly and privately hedging our bets with Pascal’s wager and feel that it does no harm to follow Jesus and if everything we’ve been told really is true, it will only help us. Whatever our reasons, we are all in that large crowd following Jesus. And then he turns and looks at us and demands more than perfunctory reasons for following him. Jesus looks at you. He looks at me. Luke the conductor’s gesture has brought us into this story. It is about us.
If we really listen to Jesus’s words and meet his gaze, we should be uncomfortable. Jesus lays it all out there. We must be willing to forsake family and friends for his sake. We must carry our own crosses. We must fully estimate the cost of this exercise in discipleship, otherwise, we might face ridicule or disaster if we don’t succeed. Jesus demands that we part with every material thing, ideology, and stubborn view that we hold in greater estimation than following him. And yet, if that’s all we can see in Jesus’s gaze as he turns and looks at us, we would see only bad news. We would search in vain for the joy in following him.
Indeed, if we do take an accurate assessment of the situation around us, we might wonder if we are among a crowd. Are the numbers of our companions on the Christian journey really increasing, or is the rather tired narrative of Church decline frustratingly true? How many excuses have you heard for leaving the road behind Jesus? Are the crowds getting smaller and smaller on this road? How many have been left behind?
It can feel like a lonely place on this road. We take to it with the natural burdens of life. We bring the weights of our family troubles, our illnesses, our financial debts, our professional aimlessness. And then Jesus stops, turns, looks at us, and gives us seemingly bad news. Is this why so many turn back or take another route? If we keep ourselves at arm’s length from this difficult text, it seems to bear no good news. But if we enter into the story, there is something more.
As I said before, we should be looking for that easily overlooked but significant gesture from the conducting hands of Luke the Evangelist. A hand is raised. A finger is lifted. Jesus turns and addresses us. He addresses you. He addresses me. He challenges our complacent reasons for following him. But could his difficult words be more than discouragement? Could they be more than mere warnings? Could they, in fact, be an invitation into something that we have not yet seen?
Perhaps we can be too quick to look for the shame in Jesus’s judgment. We see judgment only as condemnation. We see it as another mark against us and one more measure of how we can never be enough. But as Jesus turns to face us, he is soon to turn yet again. He is going to Jerusalem. And we are invited there as well. Jesus is not putting up a wall. He is opening a gate. Maybe his judgment is really about healing. The love of God that surpasses all we can imagine is there in that look from Jesus. More worldly leaders expect people to stare only at their backs. But Jesus turns and looks at us with love. And he invites us forward to the heavenly gates.
Make no bones about it: the journey ahead isn’t going to be easy. Jesus never said it would be. But when we feel alone, we are closest to him. For our own small congregation, Jesus’s words are encouragement, reminding us that as we face many challenges, it doesn’t mean we’ve lost the faith or have been forsaken. It could be that precisely in our smallness, we have found the narrow way into the kingdom. As Jesus gazes upon us, he says that when we feel like we’ve lost our way, taken the wrong path, or made the wrong choices, we always have one more chance to answer his question: will you follow me? Jesus says that even though he’s asking us to part with all our treasures, maybe it’s so he can help us find true treasure. When we are asked to trust one who demands so much of us, we can be certain that the gains far outweigh the cost. When things aren’t going so well for us, it doesn’t always mean that we aren’t faithful or have done poorly. It means the prosperity gospel is wrong and our poverty can be a sign that we are truly following Jesus. And the best news of all might be that when we give up something of ourselves, we are helping others to find the life they never had.
Although we may give up on him, Jesus never gives up on us. Jesus doesn’t turn merely once to greet us. He turns time and time again, inviting us over and over into the Father’s kingdom. Most people, if ever, tell us that we should give things up, unless it’s to gain a better body image or prestige. We are usually told to take more and more on. In the world’s estimation, we are never enough and have never been enough and will never be enough. To gain respect in the eyes of others, we must feed the world’s ravenous mouth with our money and our time and our investments.
But Jesus demands only one thing. It is no small thing, but it’s worth everything we have. Jesus demands that we bear our cross by giving up all else that prevents us from following him, because in doing so, we’ll find life, not just for ourselves but for the entire world.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost
September 4, 2022