No Concept

Dr. Bran Potter, Geology Professor at Sewanee, resplendent in light in the summer of 2006.

This sermon was preached at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the sermon may be found here. The readings which inspired this sermon are as follows:

Joel 2:23-32
Psalm 65
2 Timothy 4:6-8,16-18
Luke 18:9-14

©2022-2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

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

Have you ever—perhaps spurred on by social media—used your phone’s autofill feature to finish a sentence? Recently, I typed: “The Book of Common Prayer…” and let AI finish it. Here’s what Siri formulated: “The Book of Common Prayer is the most comprehensive and powerful book on the topic of religious belief.” Not entirely true or elegant, but not far off!

 

Now, what if you were to autofill this line, not with your phone but with your mind:

“God, I thank you that I am not like other people: ________, ________, and ________.”

Who came to mind? I’ll go first.

• The man who still doesn’t know there’s a turn signal on his car.
• The minister more concerned with being seen at the country club than seeing those in need.
• The CEO who makes hundreds of times what the average worker earns.

Thank you, God, for not making me like these brainless, hypocritical, greedy ones! I always use my turn signals, love others, and give generously. I’m so much better than these offensive people! Of course, I’m joking—but only slightly. It’s easy to fall into the Pharisee’s trap: measuring our goodness by who we’re not.

 

“God, I thank you that I am not like other people…” We can almost hear the smugness in his voice. Yet Jesus’ listeners wouldn’t have heard a villain. They’d have seen a model citizen—prayerful, generous, disciplined. A good churchgoer.

 

But something subtle gets lost in translation. The original language suggests the Pharisee “prayed toward himself.” Imagine that: standing in a house of prayer but facing toward one’s ego, as if the point of prayer were himself. It’s a haunting image—praying to himself about himself while God becomes a silent audience. 

But, I’ll raise my hand and state that sometimes my prayers are all about me—what I want, what I need God to do, instead of listening to what God is asking me to do. 

 

In contrast to both the Pharisee and your priest, the tax collector stands far off, eyes lowered, chest beating—a gesture of grief and confession. “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

 

That word mercy means more than pity. It means, “God, make things right between us.” It’s mercy that restores relationship and evaporates shame. He’s not bargaining, comparing, or promising to do better. He simply trusts that God’s heart is bigger than his failure.

 

And here’s the turn-everything-on-its-head twist that Our Lord is so fond of producing: Jesus says this man—the one everyone thought was lost—goes home justified.

 

“Justified” sounds abstract, but it means “set right.” The tax collector leaves the Temple right with God because he stopped trying to make himself right on his own. Meanwhile, the Pharisee—still clutching his spiritual résumé—leaves just as he came in: impressive, but untouched.

 

His problem isn’t that he’s good at religion; it’s that his goodness has become a mirror instead of a window. His prayer begins in gratitude but ends in comparison. He thanks God for not making him like others—and in doing so, forgets the God who made him at all.

 

When I think about this parable, I’m reminded of a story about a snowball and my college geology professor, Dr. Bran Potter.

 

We were on a three-week geology trip through the Western U.S. One snowy morning on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, a student thought it would be funny to throw a snowball at Dr. Potter. It narrowly missed, exploding against the side-view mirror.

 

Dr. Potter stopped, looked at the student, and in his stately New England accent said, “You have no concept.” It was such an elegant rebuke that no one dared respond, but I’ve thought of it often. 

 

The snowball-wielding student had no concept that Dr. Potter who had been leading that early summer trip for decades had never dealt with snow and in those freezing temperatures was attempting to get our trailer hitched to the lead van so we could travel to a motel—something he had never had to do in all the years of the trip. The student had no concept of what was going on, he didn’t take a moment to look around and observe the challenges at hand.

 

I think about that line whenever I feel myself sliding into throwing a snowball of judgment—when I assume I know why someone drives the way they do, ministers the way they do, or makes executive decisions the way they do. When I assume I know why someone votes the way they do, struggles with what I don’t struggle with, or even prays as they do. Because most of the time, I have no concept.

 

I don’t know the stories that have shaped them, the pain they carry, the fears that drive them. And when I forget that, I start praying like the Pharisee—talking to myself about myself, thanking God that I’m not like them.

 

The irony, of course, is that the tax collector, who “stood far off,” ends up closer to God than the one who stood proudly in the center.

Humility in Scripture isn’t about thinking less of ourselves; it’s about thinking more about God and others. It’s about finally seeing truth—about God and about us. We are not the center of the universe.

 

When we pray from that place, our prayers stop bouncing off the ceiling. They shift from our wants to the world’s needs. They connect because they’re real. Saint Augustine once wrote, “God sees a low place to fill, not a high place to topple.” That’s the heart of this parable. God’s grace rushes into any space left open for it. The problem isn’t that the Pharisee is too righteous—it’s that he’s too full of himself to make room for grace.

And grace often works through surprising reversals. Luke loves reversals: the proud brought low, the lowly lifted up. This parable is Mary’s song all over again—“He has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly.” The tax collector goes home justified not because humility earns salvation but because humility receives it. When life brings us low—through our failures or the world’s pain—it’s easier to receive the freedom Christ offers.

 

Faith, at its core, isn’t transaction; it’s trust—the courage to believe that God’s mercy is for me even when I don’t deserve it, and for them—whoever “them” happens to be—even when I wish it weren’t.

 

It’s tempting to think this story is about two kinds of people: the humble and the proud. But maybe both live in us. Some days we pray like Pharisees—confident, polished, maybe a little too certain. Other days we pray like tax collectors—barely holding it together, hoping mercy is real.

 

The good news is that Jesus tells this story for both. He tells it to the Pharisee in us who needs to stop praying at our own reflection. He tells it to the tax collector in us who needs to know that God hears even the simplest cry for mercy. And he tells it to the Church—to remind us that righteousness isn’t about comparison but communion.

 

A few weeks ago, I watched two kids on a soccer field bump into each other. One looked up and said, “Sorry.” The other said, “It’s okay.” And then they just kept playing. No lingering guilt, no keeping score—just restored relationship. That’s what the tax collector discovers in the Temple: God’s “It’s okay” that sends him home free. And that’s what Jesus still offers—to everyone standing far off, to everyone praying toward themselves, to everyone caught between pride and shame.

 

Mercy is the bridge back home. Let’s walk it together—with Christ. Amen.

The Widow's Might

The persistent widow from Luke 18 provides an exemplary model for prayer — even in, especially in the face of injustice, disrespect, or violence. The question is, will we follow her lead?

This sermon was preached at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles on October 19, 2025. A video of the sermon may be found here. The sermon is inspired specifically by the following texts:

Jeremiah 31:27-34
Psalm 119:97-104
2 Timothy 3:14-4:5
Luke 18:1-8

©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.

If you’ve ever felt like the world is unfair, you’re not wrong. You only have to scroll through the headlines for a few moments to feel it — war, corruption, greed, violence, exhaustion, and loneliness. It’s enough to make any person of faith sigh, “What’s the point of praying, of giving, of showing up, when it all feels so stacked against hope?” And that, I think, is precisely where Jesus meets us today — with a story about a widow who refused to give up on justice, and a judge who couldn’t care less.

 

Luke sets the tone right from the start: Jesus told them a parable “about their need to pray always and not lose heart.” The original language is something like to keep on praying and not grow weary, not cave in. The verb literally means “to lose courage” or “to faint within.” So, Jesus is talking about an interior resilience, the kind that holds firm even when the outside world feels unmoved.

 

Then comes the story. A widow — a symbol throughout Scripture for the powerless, the voiceless, the vulnerable — keeps coming to a judge, saying,
“Grant me justice against my opponent.” Her request is simple enough: “vindicate me,” or “set things right.”

She’s not asking for revenge, but restoration. But the judge — and Luke is blunt about this — “neither feared God nor respected people.” He’s the walking opposite of everything Torah (the Law) demands of those in power. In Deuteronomy 16, Israel’s judges are told to “judge the people with righteous judgment, not perverting justice, not showing partiality, and not taking a bribe.”

 

I don’t know if he took any bribes, but this man seemingly fails every other clause from the Law. And yet… even he gives in. “Because this widow keeps bothering me,” he says, “I will grant her justice so that she may not wear me out.”

The original language is much more colorful, “so she doesn’t give me a black eye.” It’s comically vivid: this little widow, metaphorically boxing the judge into submission through sheer persistence.

 

Now, here’s where Luke’s artistry shines. Most parables work through comparison — “the kingdom of God is like…” But this one works through contrast. Jesus isn’t saying that God is like the unjust judge. He’s saying God is nothing like him.

 

“If even a corrupt, heartless man yields to persistence,” Jesus says, “how much more will God — the One who loves justice and mercy — respond to those who cry out day and night?” But, Jesus doesn’t stop there. He twists the story on its head and asks a question that lands a punch not just back then but through the centuries unto today: “When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” In other words: The question isn’t whether God is faithful, but whether we will be.

 

So what about today? This parable doesn’t deny the world’s injustice (then or now); it names it. Jesus doesn’t tell a story about a fair system or a kind judge. He tells a story about maintaining faith even when you live within a system that isn’t fair, about living with persistence when the odds are impossible. That’s where the Gospel lives — in the tension between a broken world and a faithful God.

 

The spiritual giant Henri Nouwen once wrote: “Do not despair. Stand in your suffering as one deeply loved by God.” That’s what the widow does — she stands, day after day, knowing she’s loved enough not to give up. (And guess what — you are too, you're loved enough to not give up on!)

 

Another wise one Richard Rohr says that prayer isn’t meant to change God’s mind, but to change ours — to make us into people who can persist in love.

And Frederick Buechner, with his usual wit, says, “The secret of prayer is persistence. Keep at it… speak again, and then again, and then again to God.”

 

Faith, in other words, isn’t measured by how often we feel God’s nearness, but by whether we keep knocking, keep praying, keep showing up – even when, especially when, we do not feel God’s nearness. 

 

Now, here’s where this parable gets beautifully relevant. Because today, as we gathered for our Annual Parish Meeting, we did something that feels — on the surface — ordinary: electing a new Vestry, hearing reports, talking about our financials. But beneath the ordinary lies something sacred.

 

We’re saying, like that widow: “We will not give up on the work of God’s justice and mercy.” We will keep coming. We will keep believing that how we live, how we give, how we serve — still matters in a world that doesn’t always play fair. We will pray always and not lose heart.

 

That’s also the spirit of our “Tell Out My Soul” Stewardship Campaign. In Mary’s song — the Magnificat — she tells out her soul because she has seen what God can do when the lowly are lifted up. And she doesn’t wait for the world to be fixed before singing. She sings while still living under Roman oppression. She sings while the powerful still sit on their thrones. She sings because faith refuses to lose heart.

 

In the same way, our pledges, our gifts, our ministries — they are songs of faith. They are acts of persistence in love. When you give, when you volunteer, when you pray, you are saying, “I still believe in what God can do here.” I still believe in what God is doing here, what God is doing now!

 

Every parish has its moments when things seem uncertain — budgets that need balancing, ministries that need volunteers, challenges that test our patience or unity. But every time we choose to show up — to worship, to pray, to discern, to give — we are answering Jesus’ question: “Yes, Lord, you will find faith here.”

 

When a congregation like Holy Apostles gathers to elect a new Vestry class,
it’s not just an administrative act. It’s a statement of trust — trust that God’s Spirit continues to raise up faithful leaders who will guide us with courage and compassion. 

 

And when we fill out a pledge card, it’s not a transaction — it’s a testimony. It says: “I will persist in hope. I will do my part.” It’s a way of keeping faith when the world says, “You’re wasting your time.”

 

One final bit from the Gospel text that seems fitting here. The text says God will bring justice quickly, but the Greek phrase doesn’t mean “instantly.” It means “suddenly, decisively.” It’s like saying: when the time comes, God will move in ways that surprise us — but until then, we keep praying, we keep loving, we keep building the church.

 

God’s justice may not operate on our timetable, but it always operates on God’s faithfulness. Our role is not to predict when it comes, but to live in a way that says, “I trust that it will.”

 

“When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” 

I can’t help but imagine Jesus looking out at you Holy Apostles — at our choir and acolytes, our altar guild and youth, our Vestry, our outreach volunteers, our children running through coffee hour, and saying: “Yes. Right here. I have found faith here.”

 

Faith looks like persistence.
Faith looks like generosity.
Faith looks like community — this community.

 

The widow teaches us that prayer and justice, hope and giving, are all part of the same heartbeat — a rhythm of love that keeps pulsing even when the world goes cold.

 

So, beloved, as we celebrate this Annual Meeting Sunday, as we encourage our vestry members, as we Tell Out Our Souls through faithful giving — let’s do so with the persistence of that widow. Let’s be a people who keep coming, keep praying, keep hoping, and never lose heart. Because our God — unlike the unjust judge — hears us, loves us, and will make things right in the end.

 

And for that, thanks be to God. Amen.

The Wisdom of Creation

Our pet companions, like St. Francis, preach the message of God's unconditional love (with or without words)—will we follow their example?

Lamentations 1:1-6
  Psalm 137
2 Timothy 1:1-14
Luke 17:5-10

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

Holy God, open our eyes to see your glory in all creation, our hearts to rest in your Son, Jesus Christ, and our lives to be filled with your Spirit. Amen.

 

Growing up my family had a dog named Galahad. Sadly, we eventually gave him away because my dad figured out, he was allergic to canines. It made me sad and I pined for a dog for several years after that. 

 

A few years later, my parents decided to file for divorce. When my mom sat down to tell me the news, I was silent for a very long time. And, the first thing I said to her, the very first thing I said in response to this devastating (but not unexpected news) was: “Does this mean we can get a dog?” 

 

A month later for my 11^th birthday, I received a springer-spaniel runt of the litter puppy whom I named Merlin, and he was truly a magic dog. He was mischievous—eating whole sticks of butter, stealing hot dogs out a hot pan, and one time climbing up on our kitchen table to take a nap. But, he was also one of the most compassionate creatures I ever have met. 

 

When my mom or I was sad, Merlin would come up to us, sit down, and paw at us. It was almost like he was trying to pat us on the back or to place an encouraging paw on our shoulders. Merlin knew instinctively just how to show up, to be with us regardless of how we were feeling, and in his witness of his Creator, helped me to know that I do not carry my burdens alone, that the God of Creation is with me, as evidenced by this furry creature. 

 

That’s a glimpse of the Gospel today. Jesus says: “Come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

 

St. Francis of Assisi whom we celebrate in this service lived those words. He was born into wealth, with every opportunity for comfort and power. But he heard Jesus’ call in a different way—he heard the invitation to lay down those heavy burdens of ambition and privilege, and to take on instead the lighter yoke of humility and love. He chose simplicity. He chose service. He chose joy.

 

And Francis saw something that most of us overlook: that all of creation is part of God’s family. The sun and moon, the birds and beasts, even the wolf he famously befriended—he called them brothers and sisters. Not because it made for sweet children’s stories, but because he truly believed God’s love bound all life together.

 

That’s why we bless animals today. Not just because they’re cute (though we all know they are). We bless them because they help us glimpse the goodness of God. They show us loyalty, joy, comfort, and rest. Wouldn’t we all be better human beings if we just napped a little more like our dogs or cats or hamsters or snakes? If we were loyal like dogs, cunning like cats, friendly like hamsters, and ever evolving like snakes?

 

And, there’s something more, our animal companions invite us back into relationship with all of creation. They remind us of our place in the family God made. This family of all Creation spans from microscopic bacteria to the vast expanse of interstellar space. Goodness that’s wild, right? 

 

Now, going back to our passage from Matthew. In this Gospel, Jesus promised an easy yoke—he did not promise that discipleship is effortless. And, we can see that in the life that St. Francis led. 

 

Francis’ life was not easy—he suffered, he gave up wealth, he faced ridicule. When we picture him preaching to birds or an apex predator, it wasn’t just because he loved them—it was also because his message of God’s radical love and our need to reform the Church was not met with applause from other human beings. Often they ran such that only the other creatures of God were left listening. 

 

But in all of this Francis was joyful, because he walked in step with Christ. His yoke was lighter than the burden of chasing wealth or status, because it was carried in love.

 

And maybe our pets are some of the best preachers of that truth. A dog wagging its tail at the door, a cat purring in your lap, a bird singing in the morning—they remind us of God’s tenderness and joy. They live fully in the present moment, and in that way, they invite us to rest in God’s presence now and always.

 

So today as we bless our animals, let’s also receive their blessing. Let’s hear again Jesus’ invitation to rest, to live simply, to walk in love. And let’s remember Francis, who saw the whole creation as a choir singing praise to God.

 

Because in their eyes, their wagging tails, their songs and their purrs, we catch glimpses of the Kingdom of God—a Kingdom where the yoke is easy, the burden is light, and all creation rests in God’s love.

Amen.

 

Step By Step, Seed By Seed

Our Faith does not require works, but in our work (especially our inner work) we find our faith in God.

Lamentations 1:1-6
  Psalm 137
2 Timothy 1:1-14
Luke 17:5-10

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles on October 5, 2025, the 17th Sunday after Pentecost. A video of the sermon may be found here.

 

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. 

 

When I was in college, running cross-country, there was a race when I thought I couldn’t take another step. The hilly course seemed endless. The finish line was nowhere in sight. And as I struggled past my coach, he could tell I was on the verge of quitting the race. His response? He yelled, “Just give me one!”

 

Meaning: just give me one step, the next step. Just focus on one hill, this hill. Just concentrate on this moment, and the next moment will have work of its own to do. For it was (and still is) all too easy for me to get overwhelmed by the toomuchness of it all, instead of focusing on the work right in front of me, or even right within me.

 

I think that’s exactly what the disciples are feeling in our Gospel lesson for today. Jesus has just been teaching about forgiveness—about forgiving again and again—and the disciples are overwhelmed. They cry out, “Increase our faith!” In other words: “Jesus, give us more fuel. Supercharge us. Give us some kind of spiritual injection.”

 

And Jesus’ answer is both comforting and challenging. He says: “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” In other words, it’s not about the size of your faith. It’s not about having a big tank full of it. Even a tiny speck is enough, because it’s not about quantity—it’s about trusting in the God who can do much with little.

 

And then Jesus tells this hard parable. He talks about a servant coming in from the fields, who still has work to do—serving the master’s meal, doing his duty. To our ears, this sounds harsh and thankless. But remember: in Jesus’ world, this was a familiar image. A servant wasn’t praised for just doing what was expected; that was simply part of life.

 

So, what’s Jesus saying here? He’s saying that faith is not some magical quality you either have or don’t have. It’s not about asking God to do the heavy lifting while we sit back and prop our feet up. Faith grows when we step into the work before us—when we forgive, when we love, when we show up, when we do the ordinary things that discipleship requires.

 

Faith isn’t a lightning bolt—it’s a long race, which is run step by step. It isn’t earned by doing the work, but it is discovered within the work.

 

And if we’re honest, sometimes that work is internal. Looking at the wounds or fears we’ve carried. Allowing God to soften our hearts. And sometimes that work is external—serving a neighbor, forgiving a friend, showing up for and as the Body of Christ.

 

The disciples ask for more faith, but Jesus points them back to their own lives. To the small steps of service. To the hidden, ordinary ways that faith is planted and grows.

 

So here’s the good news for us today: you don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t need a super-sized faith. A tiny seed is enough. One step is enough. One act of love, one prayer, one moment of forgiveness—that’s enough for God to work wonders.

 

Maybe that’s the invitation for us this week: not to worry if our faith feels big or small, but to ask: What step is God calling me to take today?

 

Because faith grows not in one grand achievement, but in the daily, humble work of love. Step by step. Seed by seed.

 

Amen.