The Furrow Forward

When the days drew near for him to be received up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem [Luke 9:51, RSV].

In the Gospel lesson appointed for this upcoming Sunday, Luke 9:51-62 [the Third Sunday after Pentecost, RCL, Year C], the Gospel writer doesn’t indicate that Jesus turned his path toward Jerusalem or that, after careful consideration, he decided to go there. Luke says that Jesus “set his face.” A Semitic idiom, it’s also a vivid image. Not a glance. Not a nod. Instead, a gaze that hardens into direction, like steel cooling into a blade. In Luke’s Gospel, it’s the moment when everything shifts. From this point on, Jesus does more than teach and heal. He moves steadily toward suffering. And, of course, He knows it.

It’s a strange beginning for a passage about discipleship. You might expect Luke to start with welcome, with joy, with the warmth of a community that has seen the light. Instead, Luke opens this section with rejection—a Samaritan village refuses to receive Jesus because of where he’s going. Jerusalem was a dividing line, not just geographically but theologically. And when the Samaritans see that Jesus is oriented toward the city they do not trust, where they refuse to worship, they want no part of him.

James and John, whom Jesus called “sons of thunder” [see Mark 3:17], offer a predictable solution: “Shall we call down fire from heaven, Lord?” [Luke 9:54]. Echoes of Elijah, perhaps—judgment for the faithless. But Jesus rebukes the brothers. There will be no fire from above. Just a slow walk to a city that kills its prophets.

The pattern offered by “the sons” is familiar. We reject what we don’t understand. And we often mask our rejection in religious zeal. What better way to cover our anger than by baptizing it in Scripture? Jesus will have none of it.

Then come three men—each of them eager, each of them willing, or at least willing enough to speak. What follows are some of the most unsettling responses in the Gospels.

“I will follow you wherever you go,” says the first [Luke 9:57].

Jesus replies: “Foxes have holes, birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” In other words: “You have no idea what you’re offering. This road leads through rejection and ends in crucifixion. You want a mission. What I’m offering is homelessness.”

To the second man, Jesus says “Follow me” [Luke 9:59].

The man replies: “Let me first bury my father.”

A holy obligation, surely. Even today, burying the dead is one of the few sacred responsibilities that cuts across cultures and traditions. But Jesus says: “Let the dead bury their own dead. As for you, go and proclaim the kingdom” [Luke 9:60].

And then the third: “I will follow you, Lord, but first let me say goodbye to those at home” [Luke 9:61].

To which Jesus answers: “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

No fire from heaven. No tenderness, either. Just a set of hard sayings.

I’ve read this passage many times. I’ve studied it, taught it, sidestepped it. Like many, I’ve tried to soften it—reduce it to something manageable. I’ve sometimes suggested that perhaps this is just hyperbole. Maybe Jesus is making a point about priorities. Maybe “don’t look back” just means don’t get too nostalgic.

But none of that quite works. Jesus isn’t giving advice here. He’s describing down the cost of discipleship.

Many of us like to think of discipleship as something we can add to life—like a new habit, a spiritual practice, an enriching relationship. But Jesus isn’t offering an upgrade. He’s offering a complete reorientation, one that may leave us looking irresponsible, even irreligious, by every reasonable standard.

The man who wanted to bury his father wasn’t shirking. He was asking to fulfill a sacred duty. Jesus isn’t saying that burying the dead is wrong. He’s saying that the kingdom doesn’t wait for our lives to be properly arranged. The timing is God’s. The urgency is real.

And then there’s that final line: “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

I’ve never plowed a field, but I’ve talked to people who have. You don’t look back when you’re plowing. The furrow goes crooked. The work becomes warped. If you’re going to guide the blade of the plow, you keep your eyes on what’s ahead.

But that’s not easy. Looking back is one of the most human things we ever do.

The disciples themselves did it. After the crucifixion, they returned to fishing. They went back to what they knew. They looked back. It wasn’t until Pentecost—until the Spirit blew through them—that they finally began to live the life that Jesus had pointed them toward.

Jesus doesn’t demand instant heroics. He’s offering us a mirror. He’s showing us what we’re not yet ready to do. I think He does this in order to get us to ask for what we do not yet have.

When I was in Turkey a few weeks ago, I walked through ancient ruins of churches that once flourished. I stood in a cave where Christians gathered in secret. I touched the stone of a church built over the tomb of the disciple who leaned on Jesus’ breast. There was a sense in many of those places that the work was ahead—always ahead—that the plow was still in hand, and the field still waiting.

And yet, even there, I found myself looking back. Back to Jane and the family I missed. Back to the life I knew. Back to the familiar comforts of home.

But something stirred in me, too—a quiet realization that the Spirit comes not to confirm our plans but to give us the strength to keep walking when the road is hard and the world doesn’t understand where we’re going.

That’s the hard part. That’s the good part.

The furrow forward is not straight because we are strong.

It is straight because He has set His face—and we, stumbling and forgetful, walk behind Him.