Not False Peace, but Shalom

True peace is not just the absence of violence.

Isaiah 5:1-7
Psalm 80:1-2, 8-18
Hebrews 11:29-12:2
Luke 12:49-56

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen. 

 

We prefer a Jesus who soothes. A Jesus who blesses the children, stills the storm, multiplies bread, all while telling us not to worry. We like “Jesus meek and mild,” the little one lying in the manger from Luke’s opening chapters. But the Jesus we meet today here in Luke Chapter Twelve is anything but mild. He comes speaking of fire, division, and a baptism of suffering. This is not the sort of passage you embroider on a throw pillow.

 

When talking about this lesson with a parishioner earlier in the week the following question was asked, “How am I supposed to get up out of bed and do this, day-in and day-out?” That’s an honest inquiry. And it’s exactly the point: what Jesus is saying here is exceedingly challenging.

Today’s Gospel finds us far from the babe in Bethlehem. Jesus and his ministry are fully grown. And, the one we call the King of kings is heading toward Jerusalem, not to mount a typical throne, but to ascend the cross. His mission is urgent, costly, and deeply disruptive to the way things are.

 

Still, when he says, “Do you think I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division”, he’s not describing a new divine preference for quarrels. This is not a license to go picking fights in Jesus’ name. Instead, he’s warning that the arrival of God’s Kingdom — the real one, not any counterfeit version — will expose the fault lines in our loyalties. The peace Jesus refuses to offer here is the world’s peace: false tranquility, appeasement, the kind that maintains quiet on the surface while resentment, injustice, and wounds fester underneath.

The peace Jesus offers instead is shalom — the deep wholeness that comes only through truth, justice, and reconciliation. And that kind of peace is almost always preceded by discomfort, disorientation, and sometimes even death. Perhaps not literal, but nonetheless painful.

Of course, we all know the temptation especially in the South to “keep things nice.” Don’t rock the boat. Avoid hard conversations. Pretend it’s fine. But false peace is a thin crust over a fractured foundation. Eventually, it breaks, and you can’t call Alabama Foundation Specialists to fix this one.

 

Jesus refuses to plaster over the cracks of this faulty footing. He knows that if the truth is told in love — the truth about God, about ourselves, about the dignity of every human being — it will upset someone. It will divide households. It will cost relationships. But it will also open the door to healing that lasts. It will bring us into that New Jerusalem about which Isaiah speaks when he writes, “The lion and lamb shall lie down together.” 

 

But before you go off thinking your rector has gone off the deep end, or that in these divided times, I am going on a Don Quixote like mission, tilting at windmills, here’s another way to hear this passage: maybe Jesus isn’t only talking about external households divided against themselves. Perhaps Jesus isn’t speaking exclusively about the fractured systems that are everywhere in our world today. Maybe he’s also naming the divided household within us.

 

There is a part of me that knows who I am in Christ — beloved, called to love my neighbor, called to live truthfully. But there’s also a part of me that resists, that would rather take the easy way, that throws a tantrum until my superficial needs are met. Those parts of me, and even several others, are often at odds. And until they are all reconciled — until I let Christ be Lord over every room in my inner house — my peace will be partial, fragile, false.

 

Shalom requires that I invite God’s light into those locked rooms, even the ones I’d rather keep shut. It requires that I face my own divided heart before I go around fixing someone else’s. It necessitates that I tell the truth in love to myself first before I go off commending everyone else change their ways.

If we follow Jesus, we can’t sidestep the hard work:

• Naming where our lives are out of step with the Gospel.
• Speaking truth in love, even when it’s unpopular.
• Choosing to seek reconciliation rather than quiet avoidance.

And yes, it might mean division — not because we’re trying to create enemies, but because not everyone will welcome the truth of God’s inclusive, restorative love. Some will push back. Some will walk away. Some will follow for a time, then turn away. Jesus knew this. He warns us so we won’t be surprised when it happens.

So, what do we do? How do we live in this Shalom instead of false peace?
It requires doing the inner work — tending to our own divided hearts — so that we can engage the outer world with love, courage, and integrity.
It looks like refusing to accept “nice” when God calls us to “whole.”
It means being willing to let the Spirit set a holy fire in us — a refining fire that burns away pretense and makes space for truth.

Beloved in Christ, here is an invitation for you this week: As we encounter these hard words from Jesus, may we lean into Shalom instead of appeasement.
May we speak the truth in love.
May we not intentionally seek division, but may we not avoid it unnecessarily either.

May we reconcile all the parts within us around the throne of Christ in our hearts — so that we may join God in transforming this world into a place where all are loved, accepted, and welcomed as children of the Divine. For that is who we truly are and how we find true peace—Shalom.

 

Amen.

Why Do We Keep It?

Where are you keeping your treasure?

Isaiah 1:1, 10-20
Psalm 50:1-8, 23-24
Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16
Luke 12:32-40

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen. 

 

“Why do we keep it?”

 

That question—posed by David McElroy—has lingered in my spirit this week. It floated into our weekly Bible Study like a wisp of incense and stayed there, hanging in the air and in my heart.

 

Why do we keep it?

 

The box of mismatched A/V cords in the drawer. The dusty kitchen gadget we swore we’d use. The clothes that no longer fit. The stacks of papers, just in case. The inherited china we don’t like, but feel guilty giving away.

 

Why do we keep it?

 

Perhaps that’s the very question Jesus wants us to ask ourselves today—not just about our closets, our garages, or our family estates, but about our hearts. “For where your treasure is,” he says, “there your heart will be also.”

 

But Jesus doesn’t come at us with guilt or shame. He isn’t yelling from some mountaintop, wagging his finger. He speaks tenderly: “Do not be afraid, little flock…” In the Greek, it’s even sweeter, translating to something like: my little flocklet. My dear ones.

 

In this passage, we observe a trend persisting in Luke. Jesus continues his teachings on possessions, anxiety, and faithfulness. And he offers not just advice, but a reorientation. A new direction for our hearts.

 

“Sell your possessions, and give alms,” he says. But this isn’t only about money. This is about anything that has a grip on us. Anything we cleave to more tightly than we cling to God. This is about the things we’ve made into idols—comfort, control, prestige, self-image, and security (just to name a few).

 

In last week’s reading from Colossians, Paul called greed a form of idolatry. And it’s true: when we grasp so tightly to our stuff, our power, or even our public image, we place ourselves in the position of God. Or, we take things—possessions, accomplishments, people—and use them as if they exist for our gain. We use people and love things instead of loving people and using things.

 

But Jesus is not inviting us to deprivation. He’s inviting us into liberation. He’s beseeching us to let go—so we can receive.

To let go of scarcity and fear…
To let go of pride and performance…
To let go of fool’s gold, so we can make room for treasure that truly lasts.

 

That’s what he means when he tells us to make “purses that do not wear out”—to store up unfailing treasure in heaven. That fortune isn’t tucked away in some far-off realm. That reward shows up here and now:
– in the love of family and friend
– in acts of justice and mercy
– in moments of wonder, awe, and compassion
– in giving away the gifts that the ego so desperately tries to hoard
– in the light of God’s image shining in the face of someone we used to overlook.

 

This is the good stuff—the kind of treasure praised not just by Jesus, but also by the Torah, the Prophets, and most every world religion: lifting up the lowly, caring for the vulnerable, honoring the present moment, living in love.

 

But it’s hard, isn’t it?

Hard to let go.
Hard to trust.
Hard to stay attentive to this work.

 

That may be why Jesus shifts his metaphor so quickly in this Gospel passage. One moment he’s talking about treasure; the next he’s urging us to gird our loins and keep our lamps lit, like servants waiting for the master to return.

 

It may seem like a narrative jump, but I think Jesus knows how easy it is for us to fall asleep to the truth. To numb ourselves with stuff. To be lulled by comfort. To keep quiet instead of confronting injustice. To walk right past the God who comes to us disguised as those ones who irritate us the most.

 

The hard truth is this: Jesus talks about money, wealth, and greed more than almost any other topic in the Gospel accounts. And yet, in the Church today, we’re often hesitant to talk about it at all.

 

Why? Maybe because we know he’s right.

 

We’ve created whole systems that reward greed and punish poverty. We elevate wealth as a virtue, as if it proves someone’s worth. We baptize comfort and crucify sacrifice. And all the while, we make idols of ourselves.

 

But Jesus says, Stay awake. Watch for the places where God is showing up—in the neighbor who annoys us, in the person who needs us, even in the shadowy parts of ourselves that we’re scared to examine.

 

This is no passive waiting. It’s an active, hopeful, humble vigilance.

It reminds me of a lesson I learned the hard way. A few years ago, I crashed while biking. More than once, actually! And each time, it was because I got fixated on the pothole, the rock, the thing I didn’t want to hit.

Turns out, if you focus on the obstacle, that’s exactly where you’ll end up.

But if you focus on where you want to go—on the clear bit of road—you’re far more likely to get there.

 

Jesus wants us to fix our eyes on the real treasure. To stop obsessing over the potholes of fear, greed, and ego. And to aim our hearts toward what lasts. Now let me tell you about someone who knew about what truly lasts.

 

Yesterday, some of us from Holy Apostles traveled to Hayneville, Alabama, for the 29^thannual Jonathan Daniels pilgrimage. For those who don’t know, Jonathan Daniels was a young White seminarian from New Hampshire who, 60 years ago, came down to Alabama during the Civil Rights Movement after he heard the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior’s plea for clergy to help with the integration. Jonathan was arrested for protesting segregation, and shortly after being released from jail, he was shot and killed while shielding a young Black woman named Ruby Sales. The pilgrimage re-membered Jonathan, honored him, and inspired us to follow his witness because…

Jonathan was awake. He was focused on the treasure that lasts. He gave his life not for fool’s gold, but for the eternal treasure of solidarity, justice, and love.

Now, we may think we’re not capable of such courage—and on our own, we’re not. But the good news is that we’re not on our own.

Where we are weak, God is strong.
Where we are fearful, God is faithful.
Where we are asleep, the Spirit stirs us.

 

There is no “I” in church, but there is a you. There is a we. There is the Spirit. And there is the invitation to join in God’s healing of the world—not someday, but today.

 

So, on this day, as we bless backpacks and feast together at our back-to-school cookout, let’s ask ourselves again:
What are we keeping? And, why do we keep it? 

What is keeping us? And, what might happen if we dared to let go, to live more freely?

 

Let us stay awake to what really matters.
Let us fix our eyes on the road ahead.
Let us build up one another, serve the poor, care for the sick, tend to the children, love our neighbors, love ourselves—and yes, even our enemies.

Let us become one Body, rich in the treasure that never fades.

For where your treasure is,
there your heart will be also.

 

Amen.

 

Teach Us To Pray

The disciples have a simple plea for Jesus, "Teach us to pray," so why is prayer such a mysterious art?

Hosea 1:2-10
Psalm 85
Colossians 2:6-15, (16-19)
Luke 11:1-13

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on July 27, 2025 at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL.

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen. 

“Lord, teach us to pray…”

 

It’s a beautiful request. Not, “teach us what to pray” or “give us the perfect words,” but, teach us to pray. Teach us how to live in this strange, sacred rhythm of communion. Instruct us in how to enter the mystery that holds us. Educate us in how to show up—even when we’re tired, confused, or grieving. Even when we’re joyful or just busy. Teach us to pray.

 

Because prayer is not something we master. It’s something into which we enter, like a gateway. It’s not something we perfect; it’s something that perfects us—over time, like water smoothing stone. And, perhaps most importantly, prayer is not something we do as much as something we become.

 

When the disciples asked Jesus this question, he didn’t respond with a lofty lecture or even a story right away. He gave them words. A model. Something simple.

 

Not flashy. Not proud. Just: “Father, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread. Forgive us our sins… and do not bring us to the time of trial.”

 

The verbs Jesus employed are bold imperatives—Give! Forgive! Lead! Deliver! There’s an urgency to it. But there’s also intimacy: “Father”—in Aramaic, Abba—Papa or dada is the more colloquial form in English. This does not depict a distant deity, but a loving parent. One who already knows what we need before we ask. One who invites us to keep asking anyway because Lord knows I don’t always hear my children’s requests the first time they say it.

 

And there’s something else here, something that connects this prayer across centuries and continents: it endures. 

 

What I mean is 2,000 years later, it’s a prayer within every Episcopal service we offer. And more than that, the Lord’s Prayer is one of the most universal prayers in all of Christianity. Maybe the only supplications more well-worn are the ones Anne Lamott, the theologian and writer, lifts up: Help. Thanks. Wow. 

 

The prayer Jesus taught us has been whispered by children at bedtime and recited in crowded churches. It’s been said in the hush of early mornings and the chaos of emergency rooms. It echoes through recovery meetings in church basements, and sometimes it’s the very last thing a person with Alzheimer’s remembers how to say. It’s simple, powerful, and rooted in trust—and it came in response to this honest plea: “Lord, teach us to pray.”

 

But let’s be honest—sometimes prayer feels like shouting into the void.

Especially for those among us who are grieving… who are aging and feeling their bodies change in ways they never asked for—losing taste, smell, or mobility… who struggle to hear their grandchildren’s laughter… who are facing health diagnoses or wrestling with spiritual fatigue.

 

We also have folks who feel anxious about the return of the school year—whether they’re students, teachers, or parents counting down the days. We have those who are hurting from recent loss. 

 

We have those who are flourishing—empty nesters rediscovering themselves, retirees finally enjoying rest, and people entering exciting new chapters of their careers or relationships.

 

And we have some who are wounded by the hurts of the world—by war, famine, political division, economic injustice, and the slow, aching burn of God’s Creation crying out as we continue to pollute and ignore Mother Earth. In short, we have people all over the physical, spiritual, emotional, and psychological maps… So, it’s worth wonder…

 

What unites us? What draws us together as one?

 

Well, prayer! That’s part of why we’re all here right now. And perhaps even more what binds us together is that we still don’t know how to pray. At least, not perfectly. We are stumbling and fumbling into God’s presence together, and that’s okay.

Because prayer is not a magic trick to make life better. It is not a transaction with a vending-machine God. Prayer is not about presents (what we get), but about presence (who we are with). As Frederick Buechner wrote, “We all pray whether we think of it that way or not. The quiet, tired, aching part of us is always praying.”

 

Prayer is the language of longing. Of trust. Of communion.

And sometimes it sounds like silence. Sometimes it sounds like screaming. Sometimes it’s tears. Sometimes it’s song—when you pray twice. And sometimes it’s just showing up—again and again—like the neighbor in Jesus’ parable.

 

Let’s talk about that neighbor.

 

It’s midnight. One friend is knocking on another’s door, demanding bread. The host is annoyed—his kids are asleep in his bed (very relatable, as I awoke this morning to find Teddy next to me). The man’s locked in for the night. But Jesus says, the neighbor doesn’t give up. And not because of friendship, but because of word we misinterpret from the Greek. In our Gospel lesson I read it as persistence, but it’s closer to shamelessness.

 

That friend is without shame. He’s bold, unfiltered, unembarrassed to ask for what he needs on behalf of someone else.

And Jesus says… that’s what prayer can be like.

 

Shameless in our need. Bold in our trust. Relentless in our knocking—not to wake up a sleepy God, but to awaken ourselves to the divine presence that is already within and around us, so that we might act—that we might respond as God’s hands and heart in this world.

 

The Episcopal tradition teaches that prayer is “responding to God, by thought and by deeds, with or without words.” Did you catch that? Prayer doesn’t start with us. Prayer is always a response to what God is already doing. And sometimes the best way to pray is just to notice. To be aware. To be willing.

 

Willing to sit in silence. Willing to name our wounds. Willing to ask boldly, even if we don’t know what we’re really asking for. Willing to be changed.

 

Friends, I don’t think prayer is about getting what we want. I think it’s about becoming who we are.

 

Because if we are made in the image of God, and if God is the Great Mystery, then there’s something mysterious in each of us too. Prayer is the meeting of our mystery and the Great Mystery. It is not always rational. It is not always productive. But it is always holy.

 

In prayer, we don’t solve the mystery of God or of life or of ourselves. But we can be saved by it. Transformed by it. Freed by it—to live more fully, more honestly, and more courageously.

 

And maybe that’s where this sermon lands: not with answers, but with an invitation.

 

To pray. Shamelessly. Boldly. Simply. Consistently. To show up for yourself. To show up for the neighbor knocking and the neighbor who has traveled from far off. To show up for the world.

 

Because when we pray—whether it’s in our hearts or in our bodies, in this sanctuary or stuck in traffic—we are not just talking to God out there. We are communing with the God who dwells within. We are aligning ourselves with the divine grace already present. We are awakening to the truth that even our smallest prayers stretch outward to the farthest bounds of God’s Creation.

 

We are not alone. We are connected. We are loved. And we are heard.

So pray. As you can. As you are. Not to change God’s mind, but to change our lives.

 

Amen.

Bless Both

Which way is right: Martha's or Mary's?

Amos 8:1-12
Psalm 52
Colossians 1:15-28
Luke 10:38-42

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen. 

 

It has been a full and holy week around here.

 

Laughter echoing through the hallways. The entire interior of this building transforming into an Alaskan forest. And every day, a sanctuary full of children singing out a sacred truth: that we can trust Jesus because God is with us—no matter what.

 

Vacation Bible School, as joyful and chaotic and colorful as it is, teaches us something that today’s Gospel lesson holds in beautiful tension. In the sacred chaos of dancing to “This is the Day the Lord Has Made,” and water coloring around sacred verses, and eating chicken nuggets on picnic blankets in the Narthex, there is movement. There is service. There is a very Martha-like hustle that makes VBS happen.

 

And yet, we didn’t just rush around like a squirrel on espresso in a room full of marbles. We paused. We gathered in circles to tell stories. We asked each other questions and heard each other’s wonderings. We talked about wounds and healing, about belonging and hope. And, those moments sound an awful lot like Mary to me.

 

So, this makes me wonder, perhaps this week was not just a gift for our children—but also a gentle parable for us grown-ups and youth to learn.

 

In our Gospel reading, Jesus enters the home of two sisters: Martha and Mary. Martha gets to work immediately—preparing the meal, tending to hospitality. She is doing what society expects, what custom prescribes, what her generous spirit likely yearns to offer.

 

Mary, on the other hand, sits at Jesus’ feet. She listens. She chooses presence over productivity.

 

And Jesus…does not say that Martha is wrong. But he does say that Mary has chosen the better part. And it will not be taken from her.

 

Now, let’s be honest—this story has rubbed people the wrong way for centuries. Especially those of us who know the weight of the “to-do list.” Particularly in church, where hospitality is a sacred act and nothing happens unless someone does the dishes.

 

It may be tempting to pit Martha against Mary—one bad, one good. But that’s not what Jesus is doing here. He’s not canceling Martha. He’s inviting her to breathe. 

 

There is a phrase from the Jewish tradition that fits appropriately with today’s Gospel: “Put both hands on the world.”

 

I hear in that phrase an invitation to be like Martha and Mary. To hold in one hand the work of love, of justice, of service. And in the other, the presence, the stillness, the sabbath rest of God.

 

Jesus doesn’t want us to abandon serving others, but he does want us to let our service be nourished by being present to the Presence.

 

After all, even God rested. Six days, six eras of Creation, then one of Recreation, of Restoration. 

And, even Jesus took time in the wilderness. To pause. To pray. To be present with His Heavenly Father.

Even the Holy Spirit hovers, breathes, waits. We may think that we can make Her show up on Sundays right at 10:30 a.m. and 8:30 a.m. starting on August 10^th, but we must exhibit patience to feel the Spirit’s wind rushing over us, to hear the still, small voice of Divine Wisdom.

 

We cannot demand God’s presence. However, we can wait for it—being open to anything while expecting nothing.

 

There’s something else here too—something VBS kids seemed to grasp better than I do sometimes. This story is not just about the difference between action and contemplation. It’s about belonging.

 

Mary sits where only disciples sat! At the feet of the rabbi. That was not a place for women in her time. So, working in the background of Martha’s complaint is a subtle sexism—my sister can’t do that! “She’s supposed to be helping me!” I hear the busy sister protesting.But Jesus sees Mary, affirms her presence, blesses her learning.

 

It’s another way of saying: You belong here. You are part of my beloved circle. You are a disciple, just like Peter and James and John.

 

And Martha? She belongs, too. In truth, I think Jesus’ gentle correction isn’t about the food or the fuss. It’s about her worry. “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things…”

Isn’t that us? I know it’s me…

 

In seminary there’s this phrase that gets tossed around in courses about how to be an effective pastor. The phrase is “You must learn to be a non-anxious presence.” If I’m honest, there are times when I am the exact opposite, an anxious non-presence. I come by it honestly though, just look at our society.

 

We’ve built lives, churches, and communities full of good intentions, brimming with important work—but we’ve often lost the sacred pause. The better part. We’ve gotten so good at doing for Jesus that we’ve forgotten how to be with Jesus.

 

I heard someone once say that Christianity is not about getting things done—it’s about becoming someone new in Christ. And becoming someone new takes time. Space. Silence. Sabbath.

That’s part of why we’re offering our Parish Sabbath Retreat over Labor Day Weekend. It’s not just another event on the church calendar. It’s a deliberate invitation to step away from the noise and re-center our lives on what really matters. No committee meetings, no formal agenda, no rush. Just time to breathe, to reconnect with one another, with Creation, and with God, and to remember who we are beyond what we do.

 

So, if your soul is craving rest… if your calendar is too full… if you find yourself, like Martha, distracted by many things—come. This is your permission to pause. To be still. To choose the better part. You belong at the table, not just in the kitchen. And God delights in your presence.

 

Church, here’s the invitation Jesus offers all of us in today’s Good News:

Don’t stop setting the table.
Don’t stop feeding the hungry.
Don’t stop showing up when the work needs doing.

But remember: the table is set so we can sit at it.

The food is prepared so we can break bread together.

The work of hospitality is holy—and so is the pause that lets love speak.

 

Let’s be a community that blesses both. That gives thanks for every Martha who prepares the way, and every Mary who reminds us to listen.

Let’s practice a rhythm of movement and stillness, action and contemplation, service and sabbath.

 

Let’s put both hands on the world.

 

Because only with both hands can we hold it with love.

 

Amen.

 

 

Belonging and Being Sent

Belonging to God means both being rooted in something other than yourself and serving something other than your self!

2 Kings 5:1-14
Psalm 30
Galatians 6:(1-6)7-16
Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen. 

 

Hello, my name is Seth, and I am your rector. It’s been 4 Sundays, 28 days since I have preached in this pulpit. I’ve missed this AND… I have a lot to say! So, let’s go!

 

Last week at Camp McDowell, I was reminded again how desperately young people want to know that they belong. 

That they are seen…

That they are accepted… 

That they matter… 

And, honestly it’s not just true for young people—we all want that, don’t we?

 

The theme for my program all week at Junior High 2 Session was “You Belong Here.” You belong here not just in the superficial way of fitting in or being included in a group photo, but in the deeper, sacred way that says you belong to God. And if you belong to God, then you also belong to this world that God loves, which means you belong to others. You belong to community. And, in this community that means you belong to the mission.

 

Which brings us to today’s Gospel.

 

Jesus sends seventy followers—seventy everyday disciples—ahead of him to the places he himself intends to go. That’s a beautiful paradox latent in this passage: the sent ones are not separated from Christ. They are not lone rangers on a mission of their own design. They’re sent with power, yes, but also with vulnerability. “Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals… eat what is set before you.” They go with their whole lives—messy, uncertain, unfinished—as their testimony. 

 

They go ahead of Jesus, which seems counter-intuitive. However, when I was a camp counselor, I would often walk at the tail end of my campers, as they traveled from activity to activity. More often than not, they already knew the way, but what they needed was encouragement. They yearned for someone not to bark orders, but to shout direction or to start a cheer that would unite us as one! Of course, these disciples didn’t go as one—not as individual beings I mean. 

 

They were sent two by two—because belonging is never a solo endeavor.

This is a text about being sent. But it’s also a text about being rooted—grounded in God’s peace, in the life of the community, and in the assurance that we belong to the one who sends us. We are apostles—which means sent ones—not because we are perfect, but because we are known and loved by Christ.

 

And as the Church of the Holy Apostles, that ought to sound familiar. In this year when we are recognizing 30 years of this community, we can remember that at our church’s genesis we were sent from other Episcopal churches, from other denominations, from other places to be here. And, I believe God will continue to send us. 

 

The seventy from today’s Gospel lesson were not just sent to deliver information. They were sent to create connection. “Whatever house you enter, say first, ‘Peace to this house.’” Not debate. Not judgment. Not even persuasion. Peace. Do I need to repeat that? They were sent to create connection. Not debate. Not judgment. Not even persuasion. Peace. The world is desperately craving this. We are built to be united, but…

 

In a world where people feel increasingly fragmented—where algorithms divide us, politics harden us, and busyness isolates us—Jesus sends us as ministers of peace, to show others that they belong to God, and to one another.

 

But here’s the part I don’t want you to miss: in order to proclaim belonging, we have to believe we belong ourselves. And that is harder than you think.

 

For we have to know deep in our bones that we are not imposters or outsiders in God’s household. That’s why during this past week at camp I began the spiritual program not with service projects or grand tasks, but with grounding the campers and staff in this truth: “You belong here.” Belonging isn’t something you earn by good behavior or high performance. It’s something you receive—like the gift of grace, which shares a connection with the fascinating story from our First Lesson.

 

In our Old Testament reading, we meet Naaman, a great military commander who carried an invisible wound—a skin condition that set him apart, that made him feel unclean, unwhole. He wanted to be healed, but on his terms. He came with money, status, and expectations., but God didn’t meet him in power. God met him in humility. The prophet Elisha did not even come to the door. Instead, he sent a messenger with a simple prescription: “Go wash in the Jordan seven times, and you shall be clean.”

 

At first, Naaman resisted—thinking how could it be so easy?! But then, thanks to the quiet courage of his servants—people he likely overlooked—Naaman surrendered. He dipped in the muddy waters of the Jordan, and he was made new. He found healing not through power or prestige, but through belonging to a God who met him in humility.

 

That’s our God. A God who uses the ordinary to do the extraordinary. A God who meets us in the places we are tempted to feel ashamed, and says, “You belong. You are not beyond my reach.”

 

Psalm 30 put it this way:
“You brought me up, O Lord, from the dead;
you restored my life as I was going down to the grave.”

 

This is the voice of someone who has known alienation, who has felt disoriented, who has been cut off. But they are brought back. Restored. Reclaimed. As Richard Rohr puts it so succinctly, the pattern of this life is order, disorder, reordering or life, death, and resurrection!

 

Which brings us to Paul’s words in Galatians.

He ends this beautiful, complicated, passionate letter with a call to community:
“Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

 

This is what belonging looks like in action. Not just warm feelings or inclusion for inclusion’s sake, but mutuality. Vulnerability. Bearing burdens. Carrying each other. Making space at the table not out of pity, but out of shared humanity. Witnessing one another’s life, death, and resurrection, as we share our own struggles of order, disorder, reordering. 

 

Saint Paul inspires us in this holy work writing:
“Let us not grow weary in doing what is right.”

 

Of course, if we are honest: the work of proclaiming peace, building community, and practicing belonging is exhausting sometimes. We grow weary of hard conversations. Of cultural divisions. Of our own inner doubts and wounds.

 

But God through Paul encourages: we sow now so that others may reap later. We love now so that others may heal later. We show up in Jesus’ name so that others might realize they are not alone.

 

So, beloved friends, holy apostles, here is what I want you to hear this morning:

You belong here.
Not just because your name is in the directory.
Not just because you serve or give or sing in the choir.
You belong here because Jesus has called you, sent you, and is with you.

You belong to God.
You belong to this world that God loves.
You belong to the mission of healing and reconciliation.
You belong to the household of peace.

And because you belong, you are sent.

Just like the seventy.
Just like Naaman’s servants.
Just like Paul.
Just like those campers and staff who learned this week that belonging isn’t just something you feel—it’s something you offer to others.

So go.

Go as apostles—not perfect, but faithful.
Go two by two, bearing burdens and good news.
Go with no sandals if you have to.
Go to declare peace.
Go knowing that Jesus is already ahead of you.

You belong here. So go to help others know that they too belong to God.

Amen.

 

 

The Wild Breath of God

A Pentecost Selfie at Holy Apostles

Acts 2:1-21

Psalm 104:25-35, 37

Romans 8:14-17 

John 14:8-17, (25-27)

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on Pentecost Sunday at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. Video of the sermon may be found here. 

 

Holy God, let my words be your words—and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

 

Happy birthday to you. Cha cha cha!

Happy birthday to you. 

Happy birthday Mother Church,

Happy birthday to you!

 

I tried to bring candles, and no not the ones already on the altar, but the Holy Spirit keeps blowing the little ones out. Okay, I kid, but…

 

Today, Pentecost is a day full of wind, fire, confusion, and—as Peter helpfully points out—supposed pre-noon intoxication. And that’s just the opening verses of Acts. 

 

Today is the moment when we celebrate the Spirit bursting onto the scene not as a polite suggestion, but as a rush of violent wind and divided tongues of flame. It’s holy. It’s chaos. It’s Holy chaos. And somehow, in that chaos, people hear clearly in their own native tongue.

 

In Bible Study earlier this week, we recalled that this story is the undoing of what happened at Babel. When all the people of the earth all spoke the same language, which sounds lovely; however, it was highly problematic. For, as Genesis 11:1-9 informs us, the people attempted building a mighty tower to make a name for themselves, avoid being scattered—which God had commanded them “fill the earth”—and reach (beyond) heaven. Why? It's not quite clear, but some think it was to exert control over who gets into heaven. What happened?

 

The tower collapsed. The efforts failed. But, here on Pentecost we observe a throughline. Like Jesus undoing the denials of Peter on the beach, which we read earlier in Easter, here the Spirit brings back together these people from across the world. And yet, they keep their individual identity, still they can hear through the mighty power of not Google Translate, but the Holy Spirit!

 

It's as though the Spirit doesn’t just stir the pot—it lights it on fire and tosses it out the window. And, truth be told the Spirit is wild like that. God is wild like that.

 

I had a moment a few years ago that I think of every Pentecost. It wasn’t a wind or a fire. It wasn’t even very dramatic. It was just a breath.

 

It happened during an ordinary Tuesday. I was feeling worn down. Emails piling up. Laundry left unfolded. Parishioners in pain. Children growing faster than I could process. I sat down in a chair in the corner of our living room, not to pray—just to be still. I didn’t say a word. I just sighed.

And in that sigh, something happened.

 

Not a dove descending. Not a voice from heaven. But in that moment, a sense of peace washed over me—not like a solution, but like companionship. I felt held. It was as if the very air in my lungs was whispering: “You are not alone. I am with you.”

 

Jesus calls the Spirit the Advocate. The Greek word here is Paraclete, which literally means “the one called alongside.” The one who shows up. Who sighs with us. Who intercedes with sighs too deep for words, as Paul says elsewhere.

 

The Spirit is not just fire and frenzy; the Spirit is breath. In Hebrew, the word is רוח (ruach or roo’aak). It even sounds like a breath. And like breath, the Spirit is steady. Unrelenting. She’s ever pulsating within our mortal being. 

 

And the Spirit is ever present within our Holy Scripture, too. Like in Psalm 104, which reads, “You send forth your Spirit, and they are created; and so you renew the face of the earth.” That may sound familiar to anyone who has gone through Cursillo—precisely because that piece of the Psalter is quoted within the prayer invoking the Holy Spirit. “Send forth your Spirit and we shall be created and you shall renew the face of the earth,” is almost a direct quotation and just think about what that is saying: the Spirit’s mission is not just creation, but also re-creation. Renewal. She didn’t simply move over the face of the Deep at the beginning of Genesis, she renewed those weary ones on the first Pentecost, and she’s here now (and I heard she’s bringing tacos and ice cream).

 

Yes, the Spirit is not done. God is not finished. And if you’re here today wondering whether God still shows up—wondering if there's anything left to breathe into the dust of your soul—then I have good news: Pentecost isn’t a one-time event. It’s a daily reality.

 

Sometimes I think we imagine the Spirit like a wind turbine out in the desert—powerful, yes, but distant, industrial, mechanical. What Scripture offers is more like this: the Spirit is the wild breath of God, as close as our next inhalation, as unpredictable as a summer storm in Alabama, as fierce as wildfire and as intimate as a whispered name.

 

Now I know that sounds poetic, but it’s also terrifying. Because if the Spirit is wild, then we can’t control it, like those ones wanted to do at the Tower of Babel. The uncontrollable nature of God’s Spirit unsettles us. We like to know the plan. We like to keep things orderly—thank you very much, The Book of Common Prayer. But the Spirit doesn’t follow our rubrics—those little italicized instructions.

 

As one preacher said: “The Holy Spirit will not be boxed, bottled, or booked in advance.” The Holy Spirit is more jazz than classical—improvisational, collaborative, and full of unexpected grace notes. 

That’s the kind of God we have. A God who breathes into locked rooms where disciples cower in fear. A God who sets shy fishermen on fire with courage. A God who whispers peace—not in the absence of trouble, but right in the middle of it.

Jesus told the disciples, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives.” This isn’t Hallmark peace. It’s not spa-day peace. This is hard-earned, crucified, and risen peace. It’s the kind of peace that keeps showing up when everything else falls apart.

 

Friends, I don’t know what kind of Pentecost you’re hoping for. But I know what kind we need.

We need a Pentecost that breaks open our tightly sealed agendas.
We need a Pentecost that speaks to our divided tongues and reminds us we are still one body.
We need a Pentecost that breathes new life into the weary, the grieving, the burned out, and the fed up.

So breathe, Church.

 

Take a deep breath—like right now.
That breath is a gift.
That breath is a promise.
That breath is the Spirit.

And God’s Spirit is wild enough to help us wherever we journey next.

So, Come Holy Spirit fill the hearts of your faithful, kindle in us the fire of your love, and through your work help us to renew the face of the earth. It may be the Church’s birthday, but we are nothing without the gifts of the Spirit. Amen. 

A Few Words For Our Youth

Acts 11:1-18

Psalm 148

Revelation 21:1-6

John 13:31-35

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

 

There’s a saying I’ve seen on a bumper sticker before that reads:
“Don’t make me come down there — Love, God.”

 

When seeing this, I imagine God with one eyebrow raised, holy hand scratching his blindingly bright beard, standing on a cloud, looking down at our mess and our mischief. But the truth is — God probably doesn’t look like this and more importantly, God did come down here! And not with a lightning bolt, but with sandals and stories and, above all else… love.

 

And today — on Youth Sunday — I’m convinced that the message God came to give through Jesus could not be clearer. In John’s Gospel account, Jesus reclined at the table with his disciples. And in this story of the last night before the cross, there is no Last Supper. Just this:

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you.”

 

Now, let’s pause for a second. When Jesus says something is a commandment, we should probably write that down. It’s not a suggestion from our incarnate influencer—this isn’t a divine recommendation. He doesn’t say, “Try love when you’re feeling holy” or “Maybe sprinkle in a dash of godliness when you want some zest.” No — he says: Love. One another. As I have loved you.

 

And how did Jesus love them? 

Well, he loved everyone—the bold ones and the shy ones. The fishermen and the tax collectors. He loved the ones who understood what he was saying and the ones who constantly asked, “Wait, what?” He loved Judas. He loved Peter — even after Peter denied knowing him. He loved through challenge, through wisdom, through healing, feeding, and sacrificing. And, his love had no exception clause, no footnotes, no expiration date. 

 

That’s the kind of love we’re talking about.

 

And here are two things I want every youth at Holy Apostles to know — and honestly, what I hope all of us remember:

1.    You are loved. Without limit. Without exception. Without end.

By God. By this church. By the people who make up this fun-loving, table-sharing, music-making, prayer-raising, Holy Apostles family.

 

2.    And — here's the second part — that love is not a souvenir. 

 

It’s not meant to sit on your shelf like your 3rd place ribbon from the science fair (although, well done!). It’s meant to be shared. Worn. Passed on. Like glitter at Vacation Bible School — it sticks to everything and everyone, and you can’t get rid of it.

 

You’re called to live out that love in real ways. In how you treat the new kid. In how you respond to hate or bullying. In how you show up when someone’s having a rough time. In how you include, rather than exclude.

 

Because, as Acts reminds us today — this love of God is for everyone. Peter has that weird picnic-blanket vision — you know, the one where animals come down from the sky like a heavenly food court — and it becomes clear that God's love is for all people. No one is unclean. No one is left out. Love has no border.

 

And Revelation paints the vision even more beautifully: a new heaven, a new earth, a world where every tear is wiped away. That’s where all this is going. And between now and then, our job is to love like that future is already true.

 

So — if you forget everything else from your years at Holy Apostles (even the doughnuts at Sunday School), I hope you remember this:

You are beloved. Always.
And your life’s work — wherever you go — is to love like Jesus. Loudly. Boldly. Graciously.

Not because it’s easy. But because it’s who we are.
And because the world needs it.

 

And remember — when in doubt, just love. You’ll be doing the holiest work of all.

 

Amen.