A few weeks ago, I went to Sewanee (my seminary in Tennessee) to attend a conference on starting new churches. I was there mostly because for the past year and a half, I’ve been a co-chair of the Commission on Congregational Growth and Development at the diocese. An important part of that commission’s responsibilities is to oversee starting new churches. I sort of fell into being the co-chair of the Commission, and I didn’t know beans about starting new churches. Finally I told the diocese, "Look, you’ve got to send me for some training because I’m tired of faking it." So they did.

I learned a lot of interesting things about starting new churches. One of the things I learned was that there are lots of different models for starting new churches, but the most daring one is what they call an "Apostolic Plant." In an Apostolic Plant, the diocese gives the planter a shoestring budget, tells him or her where to start a church, and sends them in to do it.

The instructors drew pictures of the different types of new starts. For an Apostolic Plant, the picture was of a person holding a cross, parachuting down from the sky. "What this is like," the instructor said, "is in World War II when they used to give a guy a radio, parachute him in behind enemy lines, and tell him to put together a resistance movement. When we do this," she continued, "about all the diocese can really do is say, ‘Good luck and we’ll pray for you.’ It takes a special kind of person to be able to pull this off."

I learned that it took a person with a particular psychological profile to be a good Apostolic planter. And some parts of that profile surprised me. At one point, we were discussing how the Apostolic planter deals with conflict in the young community they are forming. What if, for example, someone wanted to be a part of the new enterprise, but they had a different vision of how it should function, or how the worship should be conducted, or when they should focus on getting a building, things like that. We knew that the planter would be desperate for people who would stick with the new church (warm bodies would be at a premium). So the planter, we assumed, would strive not to alienate anyone who was willing to help. Furthermore, we knew that the planter would want to avoid the collateral damage of such alienation—other people (valuable warm bodies) getting upset that someone who was well intentioned was not included in the young flock.

So we all assumed that the planter would want to gather people’s input before making decisions, compromise where possible, give people a sense of their participation in the decision making process, and generally, as much as possible, bend over backwards to try to avoid alienating anyone.

Wrong! When you’re behind enemy lines with a radio, you don’t operate by consensus. "A very important aspect of the Apostolic planter’s psychological profile," our instructor told us, " is their ability to stay focused on their mission like a laser, and to deal with any dissent whatsoever by simply cutting the dissenter loose. You rectors of parishes would probably try to ‘schmooze’ these things over," she said, "but an Apostolic planter would just say, ‘you know, that’s probably a very good vision for a new church, and perhaps you can make it work somewhere, but we have a different vision and you can’t be part of our team."

"It sounds harsh," she said, "and it takes a certain kind of person to be able to do it. But what sounds harsh to you sounds like survival to this planter who has been parachuted in behind enemy lines. The young community he or she is putting together has to stay absolutely focused, and it is not strong enough to tolerate dissent or blurred vision. Compromise, schmoozing, consensus, participation in decision making, all essential for holding established parishes together, are luxuries these new starts simply cannot afford."

Jesus sounds like one of those church planters. We are told that the days are drawing near for "Jesus to be taken up," code language meaning that his enemies’ net is closing in around him, and he is soon to be captured and tortured to death. The journey of his ministry, both physically and emotionally, has made a pivot; he is now headed toward Jerusalem, toward the place of danger and death. And, you know, that just can’t have been easy. So we are told not that he "headed toward Jerusalem," or that he decided to go to Jerusalem," but that he "set his face to go to Jerusalem." Literally the Greek means, "he stiffened is face to go toward Jerusalem."

This is a man on a mission. This is a man with laser-like vision that he has to maintain to keep himself headed toward a destiny that part of him must have been against, screaming, "No! Compromise just a little. Try to build consensus. Bring these people on board. Live to fight another day." When you are silencing those voices and walking toward torture and death, I suppose you do have to stay focused like a laser and stiffen your face.

And it is that stiffened face that three would-be disciples encounter. The first says, "I’ll follow you wherever you go." Jesus has no time for pleasantries: "You’ll be homeless. Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head. Discipleship won’t be easy. If you share my vision, fine. If not, get out of the way." Harsh, huh?

Then Jesus invites a man to follow. But the man says, "Lord, first let me go bury my father." A very, very reasonable request, and one required by Jewish law. Can you imagine not going to your father’s funeral? "No," the stiff face says. "Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God." Harsh, huh?

The third person says, "I will follow you, Lord, but first let me say good-bye to my family." That seems like a reasonable request. It is reminiscent of Elisha’s request to say good-bye to his parents in the first reading today, a request that the prophet Elijah granted without question. "No!" Jesus says, "No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God." They all get the reference. Plowing in the rocky soil of Palestine was very difficult and required great concentration. If you looked back, even for a moment, your furrow would not be straight. It required laser like concentration. "Can’t I just say good-bye?" the man says. "No," Jesus says, "You can’t look back for an instant." Harsh, huh?

So what are we to think? Jesus is just a jerk? Having a bad day? Didn’t get enough fiber? Can we dismiss these hard, harsh sayings because Jesus is sounding like a church planter, like a guy operating behind enemy lines, and we’re certainly not in that mode? We, after all, are not a new start behind enemy lines. St. John’s has been here for ninety-five years. And even though I’m willing to upset some of you for some things (as you know), I really don’t want to just cut people loose when they disagree with me. I work hard to try to create an atmosphere in which we can disagree with one another about lots of things, as long as we agree on our mission. We certainly aren’t one of those lean, "get-out-of-my-way" new missions.

And that, I suppose, is why we shouldn’t just dismiss these hard sayings as Jesus having a bad day. Jesus’s harsh responses to these would-be disciples address the cost of discipleship and the focus needed to be a disciple. Ninety-five years after this parish was founded by a group of people who met on the second floor of the old post office, we still need that sense of urgency, that call to radical focus on our mission as Christians. In fact, we might even need it more. Here in this beautiful building, with our traditions and our budget and our ways of doing things that have "always been done that way," we might even need it more.

When we come up to Jesus and say "I will follow you wherever you go," or he says "Follow me" to us, what is our next line? Is there a "but?" "But the liturgy has to stay exactly the same?" "But the music can’t change because I have to know all the hymns?" "But I hate it when they talk about money in church, so I’m not going to discuss financial discipleship." "But we shouldn’t be reaching out to those people." "But, of course, the building has to take priority." "But, of course, I have to be comfortable with the people here." "But my life is already full with other things, so can’t really spend much time on this?"

When Jesus says, "Follow me," I think most folks here say, "I will." But I think all of us (myself included) include some qualification, some exception, some exclusion, some "but." What do you hold back?

Jesus says, "Share the vision and be prepared to sacrifice for it, or step aside; we’re moving on." His words, like the words of a church planter, are harsh. But maybe, ninety-five years after we were planted, it’s helpful to have some harsh words—to remind us of why we were planted, to help us stiffen our faces toward following this man on a mission who only asks of us—everything.