Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to her, “Woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.

John 19:25-27

The following was not written by me but by the great Max Lucado in his book No Wonder They Call Him the Savior. Chapter 5 in that book is called “Leaving is Loving.” It was given to me half a lifetime ago when I was in college. I can’t remember who gave it to me, but I’ve kept a copy of it ever since. It’s one of the most powerful things I’ve ever read in regards to leaving.

As my family and I pack up our house and prepare leave a life we’ve loved for nearly two decades, setting out for a new adventure with God in Kansas City, these words resonate deeply with me. Many people have recently asked me how I’m doing or how I’m feeling. In this beautifully written chapter from Lucado are the word that most closely represent my best answer to those questions.

The gospel is full of rhetorical challenges that test our faith and buck against human nature.

“It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

“For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will save it.”

“Only in his home town and in his own house is a prophet without honor.”

But no statement is as confusing or frightening as the one in Matthew 19:29. “And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life.”

The part about leaving land and fields I can understand. It is the other part that causes me to cringe. It’s the part about leaving mom and dad, saying good-bye to brothers and sisters, placing a farewell kiss on a son or daughter. It is easy to parallel discipleship with poverty or public disgrace, but leaving my family? Why do I have to be willing to leave those I love? Can sacrifice get any more sacrificial than that?

“Woman, behold your son.”

Mary is older now. The hair at her temples is gray. Wrinkles have replaced her youthful skin. Her hands are callused. She has raised a houseful of children. And now she beholds the crucifixion of her firstborn.

One wonders what memories she conjures up as she witnesses his torture. The long ride to Bethlehem, perhaps. A baby’s bed made from cow’s hay. Fugitives in Egypt. At home in Nazareth. Panic in Jerusalem. “I thought he was with you!” Carpentry lessons. Dinner table laughter.

And then the morning Jesus came in from the shop early, his eyes firmer, his voice more direct. He had heard the news. “John is preaching in the desert.” Her son took off his nail apron, dusted off his hands, and with one last look said good-bye to his mother. They both knew it would never be the same again. In that last look they shared a secret, the full extent of which was too painful to say aloud.

Mary learned that day the heartache that comes from saying good-bye. From then on she was to love her son from a distance; on the edge of the crowd, outside of a packed house, on the shore of the sea. Maybe she was even there when the enigmatic promise was made, “Anyone who has left . . . mother . . . for my sake.”

Mary wasn’t the first one to be called to say good-bye to loved ones for sake of the kingdom. Joseph was called to be an orphan in Egypt. Jonah was called to be a foreigner in Nineveh. Hannah sent her firstborn son away to serve in the temple. Daniel was sent from Jerusalem to Babylon. Nehemiah was sent from Susa to Jerusalem. Abraham was sent to sacrifice his own son. Paul had to say good-bye to his heritage. The Bible is bound together with good-bye trails and stained with farewell tears.

In fact, it seems that good-bye is a word all too prevalent in the Christian’s vocabulary. Missionaries know it well. Those who send them know it too. The doctor who leaves the city to work in the jungle hospital has said it. So has the Bible translator who lives far from home. Those who feed the hungry, those who teach the lost, those who help the poor all know the word good-bye.

Airports. Luggage. Embraces. Taillights. “Wave to grandma.” Tears. Bus terminals. Ship docks. “Good-bye, Daddy.” Tight throats. Ticket counters. Misty eyes. “Write me!”

Question: What kind of God would put people through such agony? What kind of God would give you families and then ask you to leave them? What kind of God would give you friends and then ask you to say good-bye?

Answer: A God who knows that the deepest love is built not on passion and romance but on a common mission and sacrifice.

Answer: A God who knows that we are only pilgrims and that eternity is so close that any “Good-bye” is in reality a “See you tomorrow.”

Answer: A God who did it himself.

“Woman, behold your son.”

John fastened his arm around Mary a little tighter. Jesus was asking him to be the son that a mother needs and that in some ways he never was.

Jesus looked at Mary. His ache was from a pain far greater than that of the nails and thorns. In their silent glance they again shared a secret. And he said good-bye.

No Wonder They Call Him the Savior, Chapter 5, Max Lucado

I’m not under some illusion that I am making some great sacrifice for the Lord. I’m moving to the Overland Park area of Kansas which is consistently rated as one of the top 5 places in the country to raise a family. I’ve had good friends pick up everything, leave the comfort of the familiar, and go to Belize (The Zittles) and to Zambia (The Morreaus). I know there are Christians around the world who are persecuted and risking their very lives for the sake of the gospel.

Even with all that in mind, leaving is still hard. We’ve invested here for 19 years, so the roots run deep. Pulling up those roots in order to transplant them is very painful, even though the place we’re going is really good soil. We have so many blessings, promises, and prophetic words waiting to be fulfilled on the other side of this move. But right now we’re grieving the loss of so much. Yet, we’re choosing to see each loss not as something taken from us, but as something surrendered, something sacrificed to the only One who is worthy of such sacrifice.

Jesus, you left everything, the perfection of heaven, for our sake. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, you left your hometown, your good friends, your family, your mom, to do ministry and usher in the Kingdom of God among us. And, finally, you even said goodbye to life itself as you surrendered yourself fully to the Father on the cross. You’ve left more than I will ever comprehend, and you did it for my sake. You’ve said painful goodbyes at a level I will never fully understand. Thank you that you never ask us to do anything you haven’t already done in greater measure. Thank you that you understand painful goodbyes. Thank you for the gift of roots even though it hurts to transplant them. Amen.