When climbers set out to conquer a great mountain, say, Everest or Kilimanjaro, they begin with backpacks overflowing. Food for every possibility, extra clothes, comforts from home, maybe even a favorite book. But the higher they climb, the heavier every ounce feels. Oxygen thins. Steps slow. At the base, you own your things; halfway up, they own you. So at every camp, they leave something behind: a pan, a sweater, a photo. The mountain strips them down to the essentials. Because the only way to reach the summit is to travel light.
That's the image that comes to mind when I read todays gospel, where Jesus turns to the crowds following him and says something that sounds almost cruel: "Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple." Wait. Hate our families? This is Jesus talking, the one who told us to love our enemies, who honored his mother from the cross. What's he actually saying to us, especially to those of us trying to raise families, maintain marriages, and care for aging parents?
Here is what strikes me: Jesus isn't trying to grow his movement. He is trying to be honest about it. Crowds are following him, probably excited, probably imagining easy answers and comfortable faith. And Jesus says, Hold on. Let me tell you what this actually costs. Because I don't want you to start something you can't finish. He gives two examples. A builder calculating whether he has enough resources to complete a tower. A king assessing whether his army can win a battle. Both scenarios require honest evaluation before commitment. This is Jesus doing the math for families. And the math is challenging.
Think about a couple I know who discovered their teenage son was dealing drugs. Every instinct as parents told them to protect him, cover for him, minimize the consequences. But they did the math differently. They knew that real love sometimes means letting someone face consequences. They called the police themselves. They testified honestly. Their extended family was horrified. "How could you turn in your own son?" But these parents understood that protecting him from consequences wasn't the same as loving him toward wholeness. It nearly destroyed their marriage. It fractured their extended family relationships. But their son got help. He's sober now. He thanks them.
Or consider the family that realized their elderly father needed full-time care they couldn't provide at home. In the culture I come from, Indian culture, there's an almost sacred expectation that children care for their aging parents at home. It's not just preference; it's duty, honor, respect. Sending a parent to a home for the aged is seen as abandonment, a moral failure, a betrayal of everything our traditions teach us about filial piety. The cultural expectation, the family pressure, said keep him home no matter what. But honest assessment revealed they were drowning. The father wasn't getting proper care. The primary caregiver was having panic attacks. The marriage was crumbling. Moving him to assisted living felt like betrayal. It looked like failure to outsiders. But it was the honest math: we cannot do this well, and pretending we can is hurting everyone, including him.
Jesus is being honest. He's saying to families: following me means putting truth ahead of appearance. It means choosing what's right over what's comfortable. It means prioritizing someone's actual good over their temporary happiness, or your own.
For families, this arithmetic is constant. It's choosing honesty with your teenager even when it creates conflict. It's setting boundaries with an addicted family member even when they accuse you of not loving them. It's admitting your marriage needs help even when your family says it is shameful. It's letting your adult child face the consequences of their choices even when every parental instinct screams to rescue them.
Yes, The mountain strips us down, not to punish us, but because the climb requires it. Jesus isn't asking families to hate each other. He's asking us to love each other truthfully, which sometimes means making choices that look unloving to people who don't understand the mountain we're climbing. Count the cost. Do the math. Do the climb.