It was a chilly spring day when my wife Carina and I sat waiting on a back street opposite the rubbish dump of the New Zealand hamlet of Ekãtahuna. The farmer pulled up in her rusty Toyota, opened the boot of the car and we saw him: a tiny, four-week-old miniature schnauzer puppy. Offering my fingers for a sniff, he immediately chomped down on them. We adopted Banjo immediately.
I still remember those first few weeks: his toileting in inappropriate places, as well as torn up shoes, books and clothing. My backpack still has broken clips with his teeth marks in them. On Christmas Day, he decided to chew up my glasses, which I didn’t appreciate at all.
When Carina and I adopted him, we knew he would change our lives—but Banjo opened up to us a whole new world of responsibility we were unprepared for. If I’m honest, I was sometimes resentful of this small, needy dog. If you’ve never owned a schnauzer, they’re often described as “velcro dogs”. Schnauzer owners will often joke that once you get one, you’ll never be alone again—ever.
Where Carina and I were previously free to do what we wanted, when we wanted, now we had to plan our lives around another living thing that needed us to survive. It was an obvious prelude to having children, as many people gleefully pointed out in the first few months of Banjo’s life. But, what at first felt like inconvenience, eventually revealed itself as an invitation—to grow up a little, to put someone else first—even if it was at my expense. God entrusted Banjo to us and as I’ve grown in my walk with Jesus, I’ve come to realise He has entrusted far more to us than a miniature schnauzer.
God has entrusted to us many things: time, resources, our bodies and our environment. But there’s more. Wherever you are in the South Pacific, God has also entrusted you with the most precious resource on Earth: people. He has entrusted to you your partner, your children, your friends and your community. That responsibility can be overwhelming. To be fair, Jesus never claimed it would be easy. He was abundantly clear that following Him would require self-denial (Luke 14:25–27), as well as devotion eclipsing even family bonds (Matthew 10:37)—and that it’s likely you’ll be hated for doing so (John 15:18). Dietrich Bonhoeffer summed up the cost of discipleship in his famous line, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.”
Making disciples is disruptive. It demands much, and is frequently inconvenient. To some, it may (and has) cost them everything. And yet, Jesus promises to guide, comfort and empower us through it.
I’ll be the first to admit that living the life of discipleship has destroyed the neat little plan I had for my life. And yet, despite it all, disciple-making has given me a far greater reward. More than accolades or accomplishments—one so obvious that many miss it. The reward for living the life of discipleship—of becoming more like Jesus and helping others do the same—is that we get to experience Jesus more. In ourselves, as well as in others. When I think of my most cherished memories in pastoral ministry, none of them centre around programs or initiatives. They all centre around people—those who I was able to help become more like Jesus, as well as those who helped me become more like Jesus, too.
John Mark Comer puts it best: “The reward for following Jesus is Jesus.” As I consider my little All Black sitting on my lap, I know now I wouldn’t have it any other way.
