Luke 14:25-27

estimated reading time: 8 minutes · written by Judy Moore

When I first became a Christian, someone gave me a little “Good News” Bible, one of those with the cheerful line drawings and easy-to-read stories. I loved it. I remember feeling that I had stumbled upon the greatest treasure in the world. God knew me, He’d made me, and He would never leave me. But as I started to read more deeply, I found verses that unsettled me. Some I didn’t agree with at all. I remember reading one of the Psalms and being so shocked by its talk of hatred and destruction that I literally took a pen and crossed it out. My older sister, far wiser than I, gently told me I couldn’t do that. She was right, of course. But there’s a part of me that still understands the impulse—to keep the comforting parts and quietly ignore the bits that challenge or disturb.

When Faith Doesn’t Fit on a Fridge Magnet

Many of us are a little like that when it comes to faith. We love the “fridge magnet” verses—the reassuring ones that tell us we are loved, chosen, and protected. But what about the ones that make us uncomfortable? The verses that don’t fit neatly on a magnet or a mug? One of those passages appears in Luke 14, where Jesus says that unless we “hate” our father, mother, wife, children, brothers, sisters—even our own life—we cannot be His disciples. Not exactly the kind of verse you’d want to display on your fridge, is it?

When I just read those words aloud, I could almost feel the collective intake of breath. It’s such a jarring statement. Hate my family? Hate my own life? Surely not, Jesus! And yet, as I’ve wrestled with this passage, I’ve come to see that Jesus was not calling us to despise the people we love. He was asking us to reorder our loves—to ensure that our primary allegiance is to Him.

The Words That Shocked the Crowd

At that point in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus is travelling toward Jerusalem. He knows what lies ahead: betrayal, suffering, and the cross. A huge crowd is following Him—curious, excited, inspired. They’ve seen Him heal the sick, feed the hungry, and teach with authority. They want to be near this extraordinary man. But Jesus knows that many of them are fans, not followers. They’re attracted to the miracles, the hope, the possibility of something new. Yet they haven’t counted the cost of walking with Him all the way to Calvary.

I sometimes imagine Jesus turning to that crowd—eyes filled with compassion—and saying, “If you really want to follow Me, this will not be easy. There will be sacrifices. You will need to travel light.” He wasn’t trying to put people off. He was being honest. Following Him would demand everything.

When I think about that scene, I picture an expedition leader standing before a group of would-be adventurers. He’s about to lead them into the mountains to bring aid to those cut off on the other side. “If you want to come with me,” he says, “you’ll need to lay down some of what you’re carrying. We have a long and treacherous journey ahead.” That’s how I hear Jesus in this passage—not angry, not condemning, but calling us to prepare for the road ahead.

Comfort or Risk?

The truth is, most of us prefer comfort over risk. I certainly do. My prayers often reveal that. “Lord, keep me safe,” “Make this easier,” “Fix this situation.” I don’t think there’s anything wrong with praying those things—God cares deeply about our needs—but if I’m honest, much of my spiritual life can be shaped by a desire for ease rather than growth. And yet faith, by its very nature, involves risk. To follow Jesus is to step into the unknown, trusting that He knows the way even when we don’t.

I learned that lesson in an unexpected place: a canyon in New Zealand. I was there years ago with friends, and one of them suggested we try something called the “Shotover Jet”—a speedboat ride that hurtles through narrow river canyons, spinning at the last moment to avoid the rocks. Everything in me said no. But I didn’t want to be a coward, so I reluctantly agreed.

The bus driver who took us to the river was an absolute maniac—joking about black ice, pretending to lose control, and generally terrifying us. By the time we arrived, I was fuming. I told my friends I wasn’t getting on the boat. “If this is how they operate,” I said, “I’m not risking my life!” It wasn’t until one of the actual jet boat drivers spoke to me that I changed my mind. “I’ve grown up on this canyon,” he said. “I know every inch of the river. You’ll be safe with me.” Something in his calm assurance made me trust him. And he was right—it was exhilarating and safe all at once. I would have missed an unforgettable experience if I’d let fear win.

That story often comes back to me when I think about following Jesus. There are moments when the journey feels reckless, even dangerous. But Jesus is no reckless driver. He knows every turn, every hidden rock. When He asks us to leave something behind or to risk something precious, He does so because He knows the way ahead. He calls us not into chaos but into life.

Loving God Above All Else

So what does Jesus mean when He says we must “hate” our family or even our own life? In the culture of His day, “hate” was often used as a way of expressing preference or allegiance. When Genesis says that Jacob “loved Rachel but hated Leah,” it doesn’t mean he despised Leah—it means his love for Rachel was greater. Jesus isn’t calling us to despise our loved ones; He’s calling us to love Him more—to put Him first. It’s an invitation to live with an undivided heart.

That sounds simple enough until it costs us something. There have been times in my own life when God has asked me to surrender relationships, ambitions, or comforts that I held dear. None of it was easy. But I can honestly say that there has never been a thing I’ve given up for Jesus that wasn’t worth it. Every loss has made room for something deeper: a greater awareness of His love, a clearer sense of purpose, a quieter peace.

Travelling Light

A dear friend once told me that following Jesus means learning to travel light. At the time, I smiled politely, not really understanding what she meant. But now, years later, I do. To travel light is to hold everything loosely—our possessions, our status, even our relationships—knowing that all we truly need is Him. It doesn’t mean we stop loving others or caring about our work or our home. It simply means that nothing else takes His place in our hearts.

I once met a 94-year-old woman who embodied that truth. She was radiant, her face glowing with joy. When I asked her for her secret, expecting a tip about diet or skincare, she laughed. “It’s Jesus,” she said. “I’ve spent my whole life following Him, and I’m going to see Him soon. I can’t wait.” I’ll never forget her words. She wasn’t clinging to this life; she was looking forward to the next. That’s what it looks like to be a follower, not just a fan.

Because there’s a difference, isn’t there? Fans admire from a distance. Followers draw near, even when the path is difficult. Fans cheer when things are going well. Followers stay when the crowds disappear and the cost becomes real. Jesus had plenty of fans—people who loved His teaching, who wanted the miracles and the hope of a new order. But when He spoke of the cross, many walked away. True followers remained, even when it led to suffering.

The Cost and the Reward

That’s why Jesus tells us to count the cost. To carry our own cross is not simply a metaphor; it’s a call to daily surrender. It’s a slow death to self—the steady relinquishing of our own agendas, our own comfort, our own pride. I don’t pretend to have mastered that. There are days when I resist, when I cling tightly to my preferences and plans. But every time I let go, I find that what He gives in return is infinitely better.

C.S. Lewis wrote beautifully about the different kinds of love—affection, friendship, romance, and charity. Each, he said, has the potential to draw us nearer to God, but also the danger of pulling us away. Even the best human loves can become idols if they take the place of the divine. Jesus’ words in Luke 14 are not an attack on family or self; they are an invitation to rightly order our loves—to let His love be the centre from which all others flow.

No Longer Guests

I’ve seen what happens when that love becomes the anchor of a person’s life. It produces courage, compassion, and a kind of inner freedom that the world can’t replicate. I’ve also seen what happens when we try to live with one foot in both camps—when we “continue as guests,” as my friend Anne, a vicar in Birmingham, puts it. She told me that one of the problems in the Church today is the “Continue as Guest” mentality. You know the one—when you’re shopping online and you’re asked to create an account, but instead you click “Continue as Guest.” No commitment, no password, no sign-up. We want the benefits without the responsibility. Spiritually, it’s much the same. We’re happy to listen, to dip our toe in, to enjoy the worship and community—but signing up for full discipleship? That feels risky.

And yet, that’s what Jesus invites us into: full membership, not guest access. Not a temporary trial, but a lifelong adventure. He’s not asking for perfection; He’s asking for allegiance. “Follow Me,” He says, “and trust that I know the canyon.” It’s both terrifying and thrilling. Because to follow Jesus is to lose one life and find another—to surrender our small dreams and discover something far greater.

There’s a quote I love from John Mark Comer: “Following Jesus will cost you a lot, but not following Jesus will cost you even more.” I believe that with all my heart. To reject His call is to miss out on the very life we were created for—the peace that surpasses understanding, the joy that defies explanation, the purpose that gives meaning to every breath.

The Greatest Adventure

Sometimes I wonder what those first disciples thought as they followed Him up the dusty roads of Galilee. They had no idea what lay ahead. They would fail Him, deny Him, run away in fear. And yet, after seeing Him risen, they gave their lives for Him. Every one of them must have believed it was worth it. They’d seen the truth. They’d seen life itself.

For me, following Jesus hasn’t always been comfortable, but it has always been worth it. He has led me through seasons of pain, uncertainty, and surrender—and through it all, I’ve found that He is good. Not safe, perhaps, as C.S. Lewis would say, but good.

As I reflect on Luke 14, I hear Jesus’ voice not as a harsh demand, but as a loving invitation. “Come with Me,” He says. “Travel light. Let go of what weighs you down. I know the way.” The crowd still gathers today—some curious, some convinced, some cautious. But the invitation remains the same. Not to be a fan. To be a follower.

And so, my prayer is simple: that I might be a grace-giver, a light-traveller, a follower who loves deeply but holds loosely. That my allegiance might be undivided, my heart steadfast, and my steps sure as I walk behind the One who knows the canyon. Because in the end, the call of Jesus is not to comfort, but to life—and that, I have learned, is the greatest adventure of all.