Pride, Fodder, & Fear

Most of us don’t think we have a discipleship problem. We show up. We know the language. We’ve got the window sticker, the church attendance, maybe even a Bible on the nightstand.

But Jesus isn’t impressed with proximity. He wants followers — not just people who follow him.

There’s a difference. And in Matthew 8, he shows us exactly what that difference looks like through three back-to-back encounters. Three people who thought they were in. Three people who weren’t.

If we’re honest, we may recognize ourselves in at least one of them.

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1. Pride: “I’ll follow you wherever you go.”

A scribe walks up to Jesus and makes a bold declaration. Scribes were the intellectuals of the first century — think neurosurgeon-level respect. This isn’t some random guy. He has credentials, status, and influence.

And he calls Jesus “teacher.”

That one word tells us everything. In the Gospel of Matthew, every single time someone calls Jesus “teacher,” it’s a non-believer. Five times. Check it yourself: 8:19, 12:38, 19:16, 22:16, 22:36. Those who understand who Jesus is call him “Lord.” Those who don’t call him “teacher.”

So, here’s what I think is really happening. This man has watched Jesus heal a leper, a soldier’s servant, and Peter’s mother-in-law. He’s done the math. And his offer carries an unspoken message: “I see you’ve got some fishermen and a middle-aged woman in your corner. I can give you credibility. You and I together — we can really build something.”

I’ve been in ministry long enough to have heard those words. Maybe you have too.

Jesus doesn’t take the deal. He invokes Daniel 7 — the Son of Man vision that every scribe would have memorized — and essentially says: “You have no idea who you’re talking to or what this is going to cost you.”

Pride is a misplacement of trust. When you’re proud, you trust yourself. And you cannot follow Jesus without trusting him.

Jesus doesn’t want people tagging along or helping out. He wants followers who trust him. Those aren’t the same thing.

— — —

2. Fodder: “Let me first go bury my father.”

This sounds completely reasonable — until you understand the culture.

In first-century Judaism, burial happened the same day a person died. If this man’s father had just died, he would not be standing in a crowd listening to an itinerant preacher. He’d be home.

“Let me go bury my father” was a well-known idiom in Jewish writing. Outside the Bible, it appears repeatedly — and every time, the context makes the meaning clear. It means: I need to settle my estate. I’m waiting on the inheritance. Once my financial life or worldly affairs are in order, then I’ll come.

In other words: Not yet. Maybe. Not even soon, but eventually…

He believes. But he’s not ready for his belief to change his life.

I know men in their fifties still saying “not yet.” When the kids are grown. When business slows down. When life settles. When I retire. Jesus hears that too.

His response cuts clean: “Follow me. Leave the dead to bury their own dead.”

That’s not cruelty — it’s clarity. Apart from Jesus, we are all dead men walking. You can dress it up. You can make it look productive and responsible and respectable. But putting off discipleship is still putting it off.

Discipleship is a present choice. Not a someday plan. Jesus isn’t asking you to get your life sorted first. He’s asking you to follow him into the sorting.

— — —

3. Fear: “Save us, Lord! We’re perishing!”

Jesus gets in a boat. A great storm rises. Waves are swamping the hull. And Jesus is asleep.

These are commercial fishermen. They know the difference between a rough day on the water and something genuinely dangerous. This is dangerous. And when they wake Jesus, his response stops them cold:

Then he rebukes the storm. Great storm. Great calm. Not a gradual settling. Immediate stillness.

Why the rebuke? Because they had Jesus — physically in the boat — and forgot who he was.

Here’s what I want you to hear: faith is a form of courage. Courage isn’t the absence of fear. Courage is the willingness to go forward in the presence of fear. The storm was their test. Their chance to trust.

They failed the test. But they didn’t fail the course.

God isn’t asking for perfection. He’s asking us to evaluate. Did I trust him or not? What does that tell me about where I am?

Here’s the thing about true fear: logic doesn’t fix it. Theology doesn’t fix it. You can flip the lights on and show someone there’s nothing in the closet, and it won’t solve their fear of the dark. What fixes fear is presence.

Emmanuel. God with us. Not a doctrine — a person. God. In the boat.

When the diagnosis comes, when the marriage shakes, when the money runs out — your systematic theology won’t hold you. But a living awareness of who is with you? That can change everything.

— — —

The Mirror

Three encounters. Three failures. One pattern.

The scribe was too proud to truly trust. The next guy was too distracted to truly commit. The disciples in the boat were too afraid to truly remember.

Pride. Fodder. Fear. All three are the same root problem: misplaced trust.

Jesus isn’t looking for people who wear the label. He’s looking for people who know who’s in the boat — and live like it.

So, let me ask you directly: Where’s your focus? Is it on yourself? Is it on your financial or worldly affairs? Is it on the storm?

Thanks for Reading,

John

Sit with these this week:

• Where am I following Jesus in name but not in trust?

• What am I waiting on before I get serious?

• In what storm have I forgotten he’s there?

Homework: Read Hebrews 11. It’s a list of people who went forward in the presence of fear. That’s what faith looks like in practice.

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