Following Jesus: Wrestling with Bonhoeffer – Part Two

To read Part One in this three-part blog series, click here: Following Jesus: Wrestling with Bonhoeffer – Part One.

There’s a shift that happens somewhere between chapter 10 and chapter 11 of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s The Cost of Discipleship. I can’t tell you the exact sentence it hits, but I felt it. It’s like going from being pinned in the ring to getting up, wiping the blood from your nose, and hearing the coach say, “Now go. You’re ready.”

The first ten chapters of Bonhoeffer wrecked me. I’m not being dramatic when I say I was up in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I had misunderstood grace, discipleship, or both. He held a mirror up to the comfortable version of Christianity I had internalized, the kind that wants Jesus without the cross, blessing without obedience, faith without cost. And it stung, deeply.

But in chapters 11 through 20… something shifts. They still carry weight, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a different kind of weight. It’s not the weight of guilt or self-doubt anymore. It’s the weight of the cross. The weight of the calling. It’s the realization that Christ doesn’t just call you to die, He also calls you to live, now, as one who has been crucified with Him. And that’s where everything started to change for me.

I had entered seminary thinking it would give me clarity, especially for the deep theological questions I encountered, not only in ministry but in my work as a nurse—patients dying, families grieving, people asking, “Where is God in this?” I thought Bonhoeffer might help me give better answers. Instead, he forced me to ask better questions. Questions like: Am I really willing to follow Christ if it means rejection? If it means misunderstanding? If it costs me status, comfort, or control?

There’s a moment when Bonhoeffer lays it out starkly: we either love God and hate the world, or love the world and hate God. That one made my ears perk up. We throw around the word “love” pretty casually. I love this restaurant. I love this car. I love her hair. But Bonhoeffer isn’t talking about preferences. He’s talking about loyalty. He’s exposing the parts of us that want to fit Jesus into the backseat while the world drives the car. And let’s be real, there are days I’d rather have my stuff than my Savior. But the call is clear: Jesus doesn't compete for our hearts. He claims them.

Somewhere in this second third of the book, the tone starts to sound like marching orders. Not orders from a harsh general, but from a Savior who has walked the path first. He never asks us to do what He hasn’t already done. Rejection? He was rejected first. Suffering? He bore it all. Carrying the weight of others’ sins? Only He could.

I used to think that discipleship was about slowly improving myself. Like a spiritual renovation project: fix this room, repaint that wall, get a little holier over time. But Bonhoeffer crushes that idea. This isn’t about self-improvement, it’s about death and resurrection. Not remodeling, but rebirth. I don’t get to bring my old self with me on this journey. I don’t get to carry my ego, my need for approval, my desire to be liked by everyone. I’ve got to lay it all down, and every day pick up the cross and follow. And strangely enough, that realization brought freedom. Because if I’m not performing for anyone, if I’m not chasing titles, recognition, or approval, I’m finally free to be who Christ says I am: chosen, sent, and secure in Him.

I don’t say that like someone who’s arrived. I still wrestle with doubt, with pride, with wanting things to be fair and clear and, quite honestly, easier. I’m currently walking through a season where institutional politics have made it clear I don’t “fit the mold.” I’ve had labels stripped away, doors closed, and yeah, it hurts. But that’s where Bonhoeffer speaks right into the ache: “When Christ calls a man, He bids him come and die.” And that death? That’s where life begins. Because if I die to myself, I no longer have to worry about defending myself. I no longer have to make sure I’m understood by everyone or celebrated for the right things. I just follow, not perfectly, but faithfully.

Here’s the thing. Bonhoeffer doesn’t leave us in the grave, he calls us into the Church—not the institution, but the Body. He reminds us we are part of something bigger than ourselves. We’re not rogue disciples wandering the earth. We’re members of a Body, shaped into the image of Christ, called to live lives that reflect Him. Not perfectly, but truly.

This second third of the book didn’t let me off the hook, but it gave me a path forward. It took me from the floor of my internal wrestling mat to the road where disciples walk. And I’m still on that road—limping some days, sprinting on others, but walking nonetheless. If the first third of The Cost of Discipleship broke me down, the second third began to build me back up. Not in my own strength, but in Christ’s. Not for my own glory, but for His.

So if you’re picking up this book, be ready for both. Be ready to put in a wheelchair and then later be ready to walk! Be ready to be exposed and then to be sent. And if you ever find yourself thinking, “This is too much. I’m not strong enough to live like this,” good. That’s the moment grace breaks in. That’s the moment Christ steps forward and says, “I know. That’s why I did it for you. Now follow Me.”

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