For many years American children sat down after supper each evening to snap on their radio dials. Sometimes they heard a sepulchre, Peter Lorre voice from a man named Raymond tell them about the "Inner Sanctum." On those nights America's children were scared. On other nights they waited with untrammeled glee until a man named McGee opened a closet door and years of clutter crashed to the living room floor. On those nights America's children were filled with great mirth. On yet another night, as they snapped on their Crosleys, Stromberg-Carlsons, or Zeniths, they waited with anxious breath until a woman's voice cried out, "Henry, Henry Aldrich," and a young teenager's voice answered, "Coming, Mother." On those nights America's children felt right at home.
Henry Aldrich did not hate his mother. So far as we know, he didn't hate his father either. In fact, he didn't hate anybody.
What, then, does Jesus mean in today's gospel when he says, "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple"?
Coming back from Europe on a ship about 20 years ago, a young priest sat down one evening as a guest at the captain's table. The captain had been looking for someone to say mass on Sunday. Father Petrino volunteered, so he received this invitation in return. As he sat down, the first mate, an Italian, said, "Padre, before we sit down I want to tell you something. I hate all priests!" That was one of the rare times Father Petrino had heard anyone that clear and up front about the particular feeling called "Hate."
Is this what Jesus means? Are we to tell our mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and wives, as we sit down to eat with them, "Before we begin this dinner tonight, mom and dad, sis and brother, I need to tell you something. I am now a disciple of Jesus and I hate all of you!"
That's not what Jesus has in mind. In this section of Luke's gospel, Jesus has just finished a dinner with one of the chief Pharisees. Let there be no mistake about it, the scribes and the Pharisees -- at least some of them -- did hate Jesus. No word better describes how they felt. They hated him because he called into question their priorities -- their high value set on repression and control of the mercy, the kindness, and the tenderness of God. That's generally how hate grows anyway ... like a bacteria in a culture of repression and control.
No, Jesus has in mind something other than a dinner table scene where people tell each other how much they hold each other in contempt. After that dinner at the Pharisee's home, Jesus left, and great multitudes followed him. The gospel word for "multitudes" means a great crowd of harassed and troubled folk. What or who harassed and troubled these men and women? What Jesus said to them, as he turned, gives the clue: "If anyone comes after me and does not hate ..." "Hate" is not primarily a feeling word in the Aramaic language, the language Jesus spoke. It is primarily a priority word. It means to abandon or to leave aside; the way a sailor needs to abandon a sinking ship or the way a general needs to leave aside distracting things to win his battle.
This crowd following Jesus was harassed and troubled because they did not have their priorities straight. They needed to abandon the priorities of mother, father, brother, sister and wife to set up the priority of God. This crowd, still sailing on the sails of infancy and childhood, let the winds of family responsibility fill their sails instead of the Spirit of God. Familial expectations ran higher on the crest of their waves than hope from God. That's why they were harassed and troubled. Standing still, like Henry Aldrich at the foot of the hallway stairs, their lives were poised only to answer, "Coming, Mother!"
It is not easy for us to give up these natural priorities established when we were very young. Had not mother and father been priorities, then we would not have survived. There comes a day when priorities must alter, when the wind for our sails must come from another direction. The risky road of faith demands independence from family and the close companionship of God.
A few months before he posted his 95 theses on the chapel door, Martin Luther preached on this need we have to get out of our natural priorities and move on to God. "We work, we labor and we speculate," he said, "and we accomplish nothing else except to increase the restlessness of our souls. To all of us Christ says, 'You cannot refresh yourselves, but I can. Get out of yourselves and come to me. Despair of yourselves and hope in me, just as Abraham went out from his country, his kindred, and his father's house.' "1
No such confusion in Jesus. The priorities were straight. A little later on in this gospel account Jesus met the rich young ruler who did not kill, steal, or commit adultery. He honored his father and his mother. "One thing you still lack," said Jesus, "sell all that you have. Negotiate in the marketplace your non-murderous, non-thieving, non-adulterous life. Barter with other men and women the honor you hold for your mother and father. Give that honor to the others who need honor from you (the gospel calls these people 'poor') and you will begin to have treasure in heaven. Then, come, follow me."
The rich young man couldn't do it. He had all those things in such abundance he felt he could never give them up. So much was invested in his life of no murders, no thefts and no adultery he could not trade it away for a more positive life. Honor for mother and father held him like a bear trap. He could not abandon that ship to sail on freer seas. His face fell; he was very sad.
Clutching the gold of his personal priorities, he valued his commandments more than his independence. Honor of mother and father weighed more heavily on the scale than his own freedom. Jesus said to Peter and his disciples, after meeting this rich young ruler, "Truly, I say to you, there is no one who has left house or wife or brothers or parents or children for the sake of the kingdom of God who will not receive manifold more in this time and in the age to come, eternal life."
The freedom of the individual believer -- that's what Jesus meant when he said to the troubled crowd, "Hate your mother and father." He didn't say, "Kill them," "rob them," "make war on them," or "blast them off the map." He said simply, "Leave them aside. Abandon them when they become a sinking ship for you. Let them go when they are a distraction in your battles. Only God will ever be your steady ship. Only God will lead you, like a general, free."
It is so easy to be beguiled in all this. Family is so natural and the bonds are so strong. Family life, claiming energy, time, property and resources, sets the familiar and comfortable course. God's call reaches beyond the path of family ties. His demands are greater, but so are his rewards -- purpose, direction and the glorious liberty of the children of God.
Why, then, stand at the foot of the hallway stairs all our lives long? Jesus' good news says, "Move on. Abandon that ship. Its hull has rotted and its sails are torn. Stay on the ship of family and you will never leave port. Stay on the ship of God and you will sail forever."
1. Luther's Works, 51 (Muhlenberg, 1959), pp. 29-30.