I used to believe that spiritual maturity meant keeping everyone happy—that if I just worked hard enough, prayed sincerely enough, and organized efficiently enough, I could fulfill every expectation without disappointing anyone. I admired those rare individuals who seemed to glide through life meeting every obligation with grace, never having to utter those uncomfortable words: “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

This reminds me of an ancient story about a potter who created the most beautiful vessels in all the land.

The potter’s work was so extraordinary that people traveled from distant villages just to own one of his creations. His secret wasn’t just skill—it was complete devotion. While other potters worked only during market hours, he would often be found at his wheel by moonlight, lost in the dance between clay and creation.

One day, a wealthy merchant arrived with an irresistible offer: “Become my personal potter. I’ll pay you ten times what you make now. You’ll create exclusively for my household—the finest bowls for my table, decorative pieces for my halls. You’ll have security for life.”

The potter thought of his aging parents who needed care, his children who deserved education. The offer was generous, honorable, even wise by any measure.

That same afternoon, a temple priest approached: “We need someone to craft sacred vessels for our ceremonies. The pay is modest, but think of the honor—your hands serving the divine! Surely this is your true calling.”

Before sunset, the village elder also came: “Our community needs you. Create simple bowls for the poor, water vessels for the sick. We cannot pay much, but you’ll have the gratitude of everyone you serve.”

The potter spent sleepless nights trying to devise a way to please them all. Perhaps he could work for the merchant by day, the temple by evening, the village by weekend. He drew up schedules, made calculations, imagined himself meeting every worthy demand.

But one morning, exhausted from planning, he sat at his wheel and let his hands touch the clay. In that moment, he remembered why he became a potter—not for security, not for honor, not even for service, but for this: the sacred moment when formless earth becomes a vessel of possibility. This was his calling, and it demanded everything.

He disappointed the merchant, who called him foolish.

He disappointed the priest, who called him selfish.

He disappointed the elder, who called him heartless.

But his vessels—oh, his vessels began to carry something beyond function or beauty. They carried the integrity of undivided devotion. And paradoxically, though he served no one master, his work ended up blessing merchant, temple, and village alike, because he had the courage to let his calling claim the throne of his life.

This story captures a felt need that haunts so many of us—the exhausting impossibility of trying to be everything to everyone. We live in a world that treats our time, energy, and attention as public property, where saying no feels like moral failure, where boundaries are seen as selfishness. We’re drowning in competing claims on our lives, each one legitimate, each one urgent, each one accompanied by someone who will be disappointed if we don’t deliver.

But here’s the revolutionary truth: your calling—that deep, Providence-ordained purpose that makes you come alive—won’t negotiate for partial allegiance. It demands the throne, and everything else, no matter how good or noble, must bow before it. In today’s scripture lesson, Jesus doesn’t soften this reality. Instead, he confronts us with the shocking arithmetic of authentic discipleship, showing us that the path to true life requires the courage to disappoint even those we love most. Let’s find out how Jesus teaches us on this important topic.

The scripture lesson for today is from Luke 14:25-33.

[Listen to the word of the Lord!]

Now large crowds were traveling with him; and he turned and said to them, 26 “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple. 27 Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.

28 For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it? 29 Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it will begin to ridicule him, 30 saying, ‘This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.’

31 Or what king, going out to wage war against another king, will not sit down first and consider whether he is able with ten thousand to oppose the one who comes against him with twenty thousand? 32 If he cannot, then, while the other is still far away, he sends a delegation and asks for the terms of peace. 33 So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions. (Lk 14:25–33).

[Blessed are those who delight in God’s Word. Thanks be to God.]

This passage hits like cold water in the face. Large crowds are following Jesus—momentum is building, popularity is soaring—and this is the moment Jesus chooses to turn around and essentially say, “You have no idea what you’re signing up for.”

“Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.” (Lk 14:26).

Let’s be clear: Jesus isn’t promoting family dysfunction or calling us to cruelty. The word “hate” here is a Semitic expression for decisive prioritization. It’s comparative, not absolute. Jesus is saying that when your calling collides with other loyalties—and it will—your calling must win. Every time.

This would have been even more shocking in Jesus’ culture than in ours. Family loyalty wasn’t just important; it was the foundation of survival, identity, and honor. Jesus is overthrowing the entire social order by suggesting that something transcends even these sacred bonds.

Then he adds:

“Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.” (Lk 14:27).

The crowd would have gasped. Crosses weren’t metaphors for daily inconveniences. They were instruments of public execution for those who challenged the empire. Jesus is saying that following your true calling might make you an enemy of the systems that currently sustain you.

But here’s where Jesus’ teaching becomes remarkably practical. He doesn’t just issue these shocking demands and walk away. He provides two parables from everyday life—a construction project and a military campaign.

“For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it?” (Lk 14:28).

Notice Jesus isn’t saying, “Don’t count the cost.” He’s saying, “Count it accurately.” The builder who lays a foundation but can’t finish becomes a laughingstock. The king who goes to war without assessing his resources faces destruction. Jesus is warning us that half-hearted discipleship is worse than no discipleship at all.

The problem isn’t that we haven’t considered following our calling. It’s that we’ve tried to follow it without releasing our grip on everything else. We want transformation without displacement, resurrection without crucifixion, the crown without the cross.

“So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions.” (Lk 14:33).

Again, this isn’t about material poverty—it’s about spiritual sovereignty. Your possessions include not just your stuff, but your positions, your reputations, your carefully crafted identities, your need for approval. Whatever possesses you must be dispossessed.

The crowd that started this passage as enthusiastic followers likely thinned considerably by the end. Jesus wasn’t trying to attract disciples; he was trying to create them. And creation requires the courage to disappoint those who prefer the old version of you.

This passage calls us to respond with what I call the COST framework—four decisions that enable us to enthrone our true calling:

C – Count the Real Price

Jesus’ construction parable isn’t about calculating whether you can afford to follow your calling. It’s about recognizing what it will cost you not to follow it.

Yes, there’s a price for putting your calling first. Relationships might strain. Opportunities might pass. People might not understand. But have you counted the cost of not following your calling? The slow death of living someone else’s life? The regret that compounds daily? The example you set for others who are also afraid to disappoint?

Paul understood this calculation. He says:

“Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that, I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.” (Philippians 3:7-8).

Count the cost of disappointment, yes. But also count the cost of self-betrayal. Which bill would you rather pay?

O – Own Your Sacred Assignment

The king in Jesus’ parable doesn’t go to war on a whim. He has a kingdom to protect, a purpose to fulfill. Similarly, your calling isn’t a luxury—it’s a sacred assignment. Paul reminds us,

“For we are what he has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.” (Ephesians 2:10).

Your calling isn’t something you invented. It was prepared beforehand. You’re not being selfish when you protect it; you’re being a steward of Providence’s investment in you.

Stop apologizing for having a calling that demands your full attention. The potter in our opening story wasn’t selfish—he was faithful. When you own your sacred assignment, you give others permission to own theirs.

S – Set Boundaries Without Guilt

Here’s what Jesus understood that we struggle to grasp: every yes to your calling requires a no to something else. And that’s not just okay—it’s essential.

In Mark 1:35-38, we see Jesus himself modeling this. After a successful night of healing in Capernaum, everyone is looking for him to continue. Instead, Jesus says,

“Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.” (Mk 1:38).

Imagine the disappointment of those still seeking healing in Capernaum. But Jesus knew his calling wouldn’t share the throne with the endless demands of human need. Neither will yours.

Setting boundaries isn’t cruel. It’s clarity. It’s saying, “I cannot be everything to everyone, but I can be exactly what Providence created me to be.” Your boundaries aren’t walls to keep people out; they’re foundations that keep your calling standing.

T – Trust the Divine Economy

Perhaps the hardest part of disappointing others is the fear that we’re somehow diminishing the world’s supply of good. If I don’t meet this need, who will? If I don’t say yes, what happens?

But Jesus operates from an abundance mindset. In John 14:12, he makes this astounding claim:

“Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these.” (Jn 14:12).

When you step fully into your calling, you’re not leaving a void—you’re creating space for others to step into theirs. The merchant who wanted the potter’s exclusive service might discover another craftsman who actually wants that role. The temple might find someone whose calling truly is liturgical art. The village might develop its own solutions rather than depending on one person’s charity.

Trust the divine economy. When you have the courage to disappoint by following your calling, you’re not breaking the system—you’re activating it. Providence doesn’t have a staffing shortage. What’s lacking is people with the courage to enthrone their calling and protect its sovereignty.

When we embrace this COST framework, several shifts occur:

First, our relationships paradoxically improve.

When people know where they stand with us, when our yes means yes and our no means no, trust increases. They might be disappointed, but they’re not confused. They might wish for more, but they know what they’re actually getting is real.

Second, our effectiveness multiplies.

The potter who disappointed three powerful people ended up creating vessels that blessed everyone. When you stop diluting your calling to please everyone, you start creating something worth having. Excellence demands exclusivity.

Third, our exhaustion transforms into energy.

The tiredness that comes from doing what you’re called to do is different from the depletion that comes from trying to be everything to everyone. One is satisfied tiredness, like after a good workout. The other is soul drainage, like after a day of pretending.

Fourth, we become examples of possibility.

Every time you have the courage to disappoint others by following your calling, you give someone else permission to do the same. Your courage becomes contagious. Your clarity becomes a gift to others still struggling to find theirs.

So what do we carry forward from this challenging passage?

Remember this: your calling won’t share the throne, and that’s not a bug in the system—it’s a feature.

The potter in our story disappointed three powerful people, but his undivided devotion created something none of them could have imagined—vessels that carried more than water or wine. They carried the integrity of a life lived in alignment with its purpose.

Jesus’ shocking words about hating family and possessions aren’t about becoming heartless. They’re about becoming whole. When your calling sits securely on the throne of your life, everything else finds its proper place. Your family receives not your exhausted leftovers but your energized presence. Your community receives not your guilty obligation but your genuine gift.

Perhaps today you’re feeling the weight of trying to keep every commitment equally honored, every relationship equally pleased, every expectation equally met. Perhaps you’re exhausted from negotiating with your calling, trying to squeeze it into the margins of a life governed by other people’s priorities.

Here’s your invitation: Count the cost—not just that of following your calling, but of continuing to betray it. Own your sacred assignment without apology. Set boundaries without guilt. Trust that the divine economy works better when everyone follows their calling rather than trying to cover for those who won’t.

Your calling is waiting for you to stop negotiating and start enthroning. Yes, some people will be disappointed. They’ll call you selfish, unrealistic, and impractical. But others—the ones who have been waiting for someone to go first—will see your courage and find their own.

The throne of your life can only hold one sovereign. Your calling knows this. The question is: do you have the courage to disappoint everyone else who thinks they belong there?

The gate to your true life isn’t locked—it never was. But entering it means walking past the disappointed faces of those who preferred you scattered, diluted, and available for their purposes rather than Providence’s.

Your calling won’t share the throne. Thank God it won’t.

There we have it. Let’s put what we hear into action and be the doers of the Word. Until we meet again, keep your light shining brighter and broader, harvesting the fruits of profound freedom, felicity, and fulfillment.

Amen!

Bye now!