|
How could Jesus require his followers to hate father, mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, and even life itself? (To make this more complicated, husbands are spared in his hate requirement, which simply indicates that this whole teaching account is written from a strictly male perspective.) Hate is such a strong term, and this saying of Jesus is not only confusing but also baffling. Is he really telling his potential followers to hate? Isn’t Jesus all about love?
If we take Jesus’ words at face value in a very literalistic sense, the statement is profoundly troubling and self-destructive. Not that it doesn’t make sense, but more so that it is harmful and dangerous to ourselves. Hate doesn’t transform—it consumes; it destroys not only relationships but also ourselves. So, what does Jesus really mean by these words? Here’s how I make sense of it, and my interpretation of it is that his teaching is about the radical change of the way we see people and things we care most about in life by unveiling unexamined assumptions of our desire. Simply put, unless we become aware of our projected and biased perspective, we cannot follow the way of Jesus. Now, there’s a pattern of his teaching in terms of how to follow him. The first one is hate, then the cross, and lastly all your possessions. These three things appear disconnected, but together they form a sequence of letting go. Hate as letting go of unhealthy attachments; the cross as taking on a new orientation; possessions as things relinquished in that process. I think the key is the cross. People we deeply care about and possessions belong to the category of letting go of, while the cross is something we are to carry with ourselves. The cross can be the lens through which we look at and perceive our loved ones and all our possessions. Confusing? Yes, it is. Let me unpack more. Imagine you have a pair of sunglasses. This is not just a typical one but shows you things and people as they are, not as you are. It undoes your filter of seeing things and people. For example, when you look at your sibling without these sunglasses, they’re nothing but your sibling. They exist as your sibling. You slot them into a role, based on shared history and feeling—ordinary, predictable, shaped by memory and expectation. But once you wear this special sunglasses through the special lens developed by the most innovative lenscrafters named “cross” you’re to see them as they are. This lens helps you set aside whatever memories, feelings, and thoughts you have about that person. Basically, you get to have a view that you have NO attachment to that person or any object you decide to look at. This detachment isn’t about coldness, but about seeing beyond projection and attachment. It is about looking, for the first time, without clinging or agenda. It’s about meeting the other with honesty and humility, freeing both ourselves and them. Does this make sense? The cross symbolizes suffering or stress that every human being faces. This stress is only possible in the state where we’re personally invested in and therefore are attached emotionally. What if we don’t have any clinging to these and become somewhat dispassionate? Less stress, less suffering. But something else emerges, too: by letting go of grasping, we create space for genuine compassion. Through this lens of the cross, fathers, for example, are no longer fathers only as we define them. They are human beings filled with their own suffering and stress, broken, fragmented, damaged, trying to do their best despite they fail again and again. What’s left with after all through looking at everything and everyone through this lens of the cross, is compassion. Suddenly, we see not a role or a history, but a fellow traveler in need of compassion. Grace is most needed. Through this lens of the cross, whatever we possess are mere objects. We put values and meanings onto these things as if they’re true and real. Even our desire to have these objects and things is not our own but mirrors the desire of others. We simply desire the desire of others and trick ourselves as if that’s what we really desire. This, in many ways, is the secret engine of consumer culture—the heart of marketing. Sunlight that keeps our eyes closed is still scorching hot. So, would you risk the challenge of wearing these special sunglasses with the lens of the cross, to see reality as it is—without illusion, projection, or fear—but with compassion, truth, and a strange, fierce grace? Would you—would I—dare to see others, and even ourselves, as they are, unguarded and unpossessed? My understanding of professionalism is straightforward: anyone who is compensated for their work is, in essence, a professional. This broad definition expands who counts as a professional and, in turn, raises expectations for work ethic and responsibility. By this standard, I, too, am a professional at St. Agnes’. One of the key benefits of this transactional relationship is that it establishes a framework for quality assurance between both parties, fostering trust through clear expectations and accountability—there are real consequences if that trust is broken.
Yet, Jesus calls us to something beyond even the highest standards of professionalism. His invitation is not limited to fulfilling a contract or meeting ethical obligations. Instead, he asks us to do for others what can never be repaid—to act with a generosity that transcends any transactional exchange. This is a call to offer kindness, forgiveness, or love where no compensation is possible, to serve in ways that go beyond material reward or recognition. What might this look like in practice? It could mean giving time and attention to someone in need, being graceful and gracious without expectation, serving with compassion simply because it is right—not because it will ever be acknowledged or returned. In this way, Jesus challenges us to move from the realm of the professional to the realm of the truly human, where grace, mercy, and love are given freely and without measure. From the opening words of our Sunday Eucharist to the final dismissal, we rehearse this practice of generosity. We receive a divine generosity we can never repay, and our communal worship reminds us of this unearned gift. We are invited, like the guest in Herbert’s “Love (III),” to receive and to give without reservation or calculation, trusting that the table of God’s kingdom is set not by merit or repayment, but by the boundless generosity of Love itself. To serve in this spirit is to participate in a feast where all are welcome, and where the greatest honor is found in humble, self-giving love. Love (III) by George Herbert Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lacked any thing. A guest, I answered, worthy to be here: Love said, You shall be he. I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear, I cannot look on thee. Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, Who made the eyes but I? Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve. And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame? My dear, then I will serve. You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat: So I did sit and eat. My friends, be the presence of this Love—taking the hand, smiling in welcome. Be the voice of this Love, inviting those in need, those overlooked or burdened, to sit and eat at God’s table. Be the breath of God for those who have lost their breath. It seems as though Maya Angelou knew what it’s like to be held up by Jesus’ hand to rise from below:
Still I Rise by Maya Angelou You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard ’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin’ in my own backyard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise. We Christians are those lifted by the hand of the risen Christ, raised to rise again—not for our own sake alone, but so that we, too, might become that hand for others. Yet, to truly be a healing hand, we must first recognize the places in our own lives where we are crippled, bent over, and unable to stand upright. Without this honest self-awareness, our helping hand risks serving our own need to feel important or indispensable, rather than genuinely empowering those we seek to lift. The hand of the risen Christ initiates the act of raising up, but it is the woman’s responsibility to remain standing. In her ongoing effort to live upright, it is the breath of God that sustains her, reminding us that true healing is both a gift received and a calling to perseverance. As we embrace this dual reality—being both recipients and instruments of God’s grace—we are invited into a deeper humility and compassion. Our calling is not simply to reach out, but to do so with a heart that understands brokenness because it has been broken and healed itself. In this way, the community of believers becomes a living embodiment of resurrection: hands lifted to raise others, hearts open to receive God’s sustaining breath, and lives transformed by the power of love that restores and sets free. One thing I appreciate about Jesus is his teaching method. He rarely commands outright; instead, he invites understanding through parables and analogies. In today’s gospel, he reveals yet another layer of his approach.
Before Jesus asks anything of his friends, he first calms their fears: “Do not be afraid.” Fear, while sometimes protective, can close us off from deeper learning. Jesus knows this, so he gently opens their minds, making space for his message. Only then does he share the good news: “It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” This is not a demand but an offering—a replacement, not a deprivation. Jesus’ teaching here resembles the principle of substitution in healing: when letting go of something, we need something better to fill the void. He doesn’t ask his followers to sell their possessions and give alms without first giving them the kingdom—the presence of God—as a new center. He likens this to an “unfailing purse,” a treasure that cannot be lost or destroyed. Even our most advanced technology cannot guarantee such security; only God’s presence endures. When we see through the lens of God’s breath, possessions lose their hold. They become conditions for cultivating the presence of God, not ends in themselves. This reframes Jesus’ words: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Our investments—of time, energy, and attention—reveal and shape our true values. The heart follows what we treasure, becoming ever more attached to what we prioritize. Taking this further, the heart itself becomes the treasure: your heart is where your treasure is. If our heart is where our treasure is, then nurturing it—through love, compassion, and openness—is the highest pursuit. This aligns with Jesus’ message that the kingdom of God is within us. The true treasure is not external achievement but the transformation and indwelling of God’s presence, making the heart a sacred space. As I return to the gospels, I see how Jesus’ teaching is unwaveringly centered on the kingdom of God—so near, so available, so present to all. For those who experience this presence, nothing else compares. Everything else becomes relative, revolving around the reality of God within. The heart, once again, is where the treasure is found. This brings us to Jesus’ call to be alert, like servants awaiting their master’s return. The heart is the lamp-lit room where we watch and wait. We train our attention, returning it to the breath, so we remain awake to God’s presence. Like Vladimir and Estragon, we wait—not just for an arrival, but to cultivate the eyes of the heart, ready to recognize the sacred when it comes. When you see someone, what do you actually see? Or, maybe more honestly—what are you hoping to get from them? Imagine that every time someone walks into the room, you put on a different pair of colored glasses. Blue for Theodore, yellow for Henry, green for Dorothy. Each color changes what you notice. Maybe blue means comfort, yellow means competition, green means support.
In today’s gospel, someone in the crowd looks at Jesus through the lens of possession. He’s not interested in Jesus’ teaching or wisdom—he just wants Jesus to help him get his share of the inheritance. He’s wearing what I’d call the “lens of wanting.” Now, there’s nothing wrong with seeing someone as a means to an end—sometimes that’s just practical. We all do it. The key is that the person’s role actually matches what we’re asking. If my staff come to me for vacation requests or reimbursements, that’s fine. I’m their manager; that’s part of my job. But the man in the gospel? He should’ve gone to Judge Judy, not Jesus. So Jesus replies, “Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?” When I read that, I think of the song by No Vacancy, “Fight for Love”—especially the line, “I’m not a fighter, I’m a lover.” That’s what Jesus is saying here: “I’m not here to take sides in your disputes. I’m here for something deeper.” Jesus then tells a parable to help the crowd—and us—refocus. Greed, that endless hunger for more, never satisfies. It just puffs us up. But why do we keep trying to fill ourselves up with more? It’s almost as if we believe life will just keep going, that we’ll always have time to get more. But Jesus’ story is a wake-up call: one day, life ends. All that striving and stockpiling—what’s it for? The truth is, this endless desire comes from what Kierkegaard called “existential angst”—that deep, unsettled feeling about our own existence and meaning. It’s not just fear; it’s that underlying anxiety that maybe we don’t matter, that life could slip away unnoticed. So we try to make ourselves bigger, more important, to defend against that angst. But in the end, greed can’t save us. When life is over, it’s over. The only thing left is the echo of that desire, passed on through our culture—just look at advertising. So what do we do? Jesus says, “Be rich toward God.” Store up treasures for God. In other words, fill your emptiness with God’s presence. Feed on the breath of God in your heart by faith with thanksgiving. Turn that craving for more to the desire for God’s breath in your being. How do we do that? The first step is to breathe. Simple, but hard when you do it with heedfulness—paying attention. Notice how your mind moves, what lenses you’re putting on, and gently bring yourself back to the present moment. That’s where God is breathing life into you, right now. That’s how we begin to be rich toward God. |
Paul"...life up your love to that cloud [of unknowing]...let God draw your love up to that cloud...through the help of his grace, to forget every other thing." Archives
October 2025
|