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.