Brothers and Sisters
In today’s Gospel, the Lord turns to the large crowds that accompany Him and speaks words that sound, at first, harsh and unsettling: “If anyone comes to me without hating father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple.” He follows with two parables—of a man who builds a tower and of a king who considers going into battle—teaching us that discipleship is not an impulse or a half-hearted attempt, but a deliberate, costly, and persevering choice.
For us who have entered the cloister, these words resound with a special clarity. We have, in a sense, left family, possessions, and the ordinary securities of the world. We have come here not because we despised them in the crude sense of hatred, but because we have preferred Christ above all things. Saint Benedict and our Cistercian Fathers understood this well: that monastic life is a school of the Lord’s service, where one learns to count the cost and to persevere daily in carrying the cross.
Christ does not call us to recklessness. He does not invite us to fling ourselves into His service without thought. He asks us, as in the parable, to sit down and calculate. The monk must calculate the cost of obedience, of humility, of chastity, of conversion of life. The builder of the tower and the king at war are images of our vocation: we are building a dwelling for God in our hearts, and we are waging battle against the old man, the disordered self that resists grace. Both require endurance. Both require total commitment.
Yet notice this: the Lord does not only ask us to renounce, but to trust. The tower cannot be built unless the foundation is laid in Christ. The battle cannot be won unless the King Himself goes before us. Our renunciations are not ends in themselves. We give up family, possessions, and even self-will not out of disdain, but because we desire the pearl of great price, the treasure hidden in the field—Christ Himself.
Saint Bernard of Clairvaux spoke often of this paradox: that in losing all for Christ, the monk gains all. To hate one’s own life is not to despise it, but to refuse to cling to it in selfishness, so that it may be returned to us, purified and transfigured, in the love of God. To renounce possessions is to make space for true wealth: the peace of Christ which surpasses understanding.
Each day we are called anew to count the cost. At Vigils, when the bell wakes us, we count the cost of rising in darkness to praise God. At the work of our hands, we count the cost of labour done in silence and humility. In the refectory, in the chapter room, in the cloister, we count the cost of obedience and charity. And in these very renunciations, grace makes us free.
So let us hear today’s Gospel not as a threat, but as a clear reminder of what we have chosen: the narrow path of discipleship, the school of love. May we never grow weary of paying the price, for the One we follow is worth infinitely more than all we leave behind. With Him, our tower shall be completed; with Him, our battle already leans toward victory.
Amen.