Alive To Rise

Where in life do you need God's help to rise again? 

Haggai 1:15b-2:9
Psalm 145:1-5, 18-22
 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17
Luke 20:27-38

 

© 2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was preached on the 22nd Sunday after Pentecost (November 9, 2025) at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the sermon may be found here. 

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.

 

“He is not God of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive.”

 

There are moments in scripture where someone asks Jesus a question that sounds religious but really isn’t. The inquiry that kicks off today’s Gospel is one of those moments.

 

A group of Sadducees—religious leaders known for their wealth, influence, and skepticism—approach Jesus with a story they’ve carefully crafted to make resurrection seem as ridiculous as possible. My friend, the Rev. Charles Youngson, likes to say, “The Sadducees were ‘Sad, you see’ because they didn’t believe in the Resurrection.” They didn’t believe in it because they were the biblical literalists of their day, accepting only the first five books of Moses as authoritative. And, those books don’t explicitly mention resurrection, so they reasoned it couldn’t possibly be true.

 

And if you’ve ever read this exchange, you know—it’s kind of absurd. They present Jesus with this long hypothetical: “A woman marries one brother, he dies. Then she marries the next one, he dies. Then the next, and the next, until she’s married seven brothers. In the resurrection, whose wife will she be?”

 

It’s not a question of faith; it’s a trap. (And yes, Star Wars fans, I can’t read this passage without hearing Admiral Ackbar shout, “It’s a trap!”) The Sadducees’ question is less theology and more theater. They’re performing their cleverness, hoping to make Jesus look foolish. Thank goodness, we never do that to one another (he says with sarcasm dripping from his words).

 

But Jesus doesn’t take the bait, y’all. He doesn’t argue the logic or try to outwit them. Instead, he reframes the entire conversation. He refuses to play by their categories of ownership, possession, or legal status. He says, in effect, You’re missing the point.

The resurrection isn’t about whose wife someone is—it’s about whose life we all belong to. “Those who belong to this age marry and are given in marriage,” Jesus says, “but those who are considered worthy of that age and the resurrection… cannot die anymore, because they are like angels and are children of God.”

 

And then he quotes the very scripture the Sadducees claim to honor: Exodus 3:6. God says to Moses, “I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” Notice the verb tense here—am, not was. God is—present tense—the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Which means that even though they died long ago, they still live in God.

 

And then Jesus delivers one of the most remarkable lines in all of Holy Scripture: “He is not God of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive.”

 

Friends, that is resurrection. It’s not about biology—it’s about belonging. It’s not about life after death—it’s about life beyond fear. Resurrection means that life in God is never over, never lost, never gone. To God, all are alive.

 

That’s good news for those who grieve—but it’s also good news for those who live. Because if resurrection is real, then it’s not something we simply wait for—it’s something we participate in now. And on this Consecration Sunday, that’s exactly what we are doing: participating in the living work of God. 

 

This morning, we’ll ask God’s blessing upon our 2026 pledge commitments—our Tell Out My Soul campaign. These estimates of giving aren’t just about maintaining the institution or paying the bills; they’re acts of resurrection faith.

 

The Greek word for resurrection literally translates “to stand up again. Resurrection is standing up again. After grief. After exhaustion. After doubt. After years when hope feels too costly or faith feels too fragile.

 

Every pledge, every act of generosity, every prayer for the future of this church—each is a form of rising again. A standing up again in faith. We stand up again as people of the living God, declaring that this community is vibrant. That Christ’s ministry with us is growing. That the Spirit still moves through us to bring healing, justice, compassion, and joy into a world that often feels like it’s dying of cynicism, apathy, and despair.

 

I think about this sanctuary—this holy space filled each week with the living presence of God and the living faith of God’s people. When a child splashes at the baptismal font or a choir anthem rises to the rafters, when bread is broken and wine is poured, when hands are held and prayers are whispered—these are not signs of a church that once was. No, you are the living, breathing Body of Christ here and now.

 

And our giving—our stewardship—is not a transaction. It’s an act of resurrection. It says, We believe in life. We believe in love that outlasts death. We believe in the God of the living.

 

The Sadducees’ mistake was assuming that death has the last word. Jesus’ answer tells us that the last word belongs to God—and God’s word is life. That truth is not abstract. It’s not only about heaven someday. It’s as close and as tangible as this moment—where we, the living, gather to commit ourselves again to the life of God in this place.

 

So let me offer you a question—not a trick one, but a real one: Where in your life do you need to “stand up again”? Where have fear, regret, or weariness kept you sitting down, holding back, staying small? Where do you need God’s resurrecting power to lift you up once more?

 

Because the God of the living invites us to rise—to trust that we are not done, that the story of Holy Apostles is not finished, that the story of your soul is not done. When we rise in generosity, in faith, in love, we proclaim resurrection in the here and now.

 

Years ago at my first parish, a parishioner on a fixed income confided in me, “I’m not sure my pledge will make much difference.” My response was, “You have no idea how much it will.” Because the miracle of resurrection is that even the smallest seed of faith can grow into something beautiful—much like the mustard seed Jesus spoke of earlier in Luke.

Even the smallest act of generosity can change a life. Even the faintest prayer of hope can ripple through this community and raise someone else up. That’s what the Church is meant to be: a gathering of people who stand up again and again, trusting that God’s life flows through us, through our giving, through our love.

 

So today, as we offer our 2026 pledges, as we tell out our souls, we do so not as people trying to prove something to God, but as people already held in the life of God. We give because we are alive. We serve because God’s Spirit breathes in us. We hope because resurrection is real.

 

The same God who raised Jesus from the dead raises us still—raises our courage, our compassion, our commitment—to build up the ministry of Christ Jesus in this place. We are, all of us, standing up again. And when we do, the world catches a glimpse of what resurrection looks like: not only life after death, but life before death. Not only heaven to come, but heaven breaking in—right here, right now.

 

“He is not God of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive.”

That means Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are alive.
That means Mary and Elizabeth are alive.
That means the Holy Apostles and all beloveds who have gone before us—their love, their faith, their generosity—are alive.
And that means you and I are alive too.

Alive to give.
Alive to love.
Alive to rise...

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Amen.

 

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.

Who’s At Your Gate?

Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15
Psalm 91:1-6, 14-16
1 Timothy 6:6-19
Luke 16:19-31

 

©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 was a man who wore Italian suits and sat in a corner office with glass walls overlooking the whole city. He never thought about how much the meal in front of him cost — only whether the chef had cooked it with enough creativity. If not, he sent it back. His wine was aged, his shirts monogrammed, his calendar packed with power lunches and board meetings.

 

And at the revolving glass doors of the skyscraper with his name on it, a man named Luis sat on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign. Every day. His hair was matted, his body hunched, his legs covered in sores no one wanted to see. Most people walked past with eyes forward, AirPods in.

The CEO did the same. He didn’t curse him or spit on him. He just didn’t see him. Luis was NRP — “not a real person,” as the Roy family from HBO’s Succession might put it. Disposable. Forgettable. Background noise in someone else’s success story.

 

It sounds Dickensian, doesn’t it? Like Ebenezer Scrooge sweeping past the Cratchits, blind to their humanity. But unlike Scrooge, this man never has a ghost of Christmas Future to shake him awake.

 

Because the future arrives too soon. Both men die. The one who lived in penthouses now lies in torment. And the one who begged at the gateway of the building is carried into the nearness of God, embraced by Abraham, Jesus, and the faithful. There, wrapped in God’s love, Luis is made whole.

Across a great chasm, the CEO cries out to the heavenly hosts: “Send Luis to bring me something to drink, a sports drink or some water at the very least.” After being rebuffed — because he had already received his reward in life and had not shared it — the CEO demands that Luis be sent to warn his children and grandchildren.

 

“They have already heard the good news of God’s love for them,” comes the reply.

 

“Yes, but if they receive a special invitation from one risen from the dead, they will listen.”

 

Finally, the heavenly voice answers: “If they do not listen to the good news of love conquering death, of captives released and the lowly exalted, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.”

 

That’s not quite how Jesus told it, but it’s close. And if you’re like me, you might feel your stomach twist a little bit. Because this is one of Jesus’ most unsettling parables. It’s not polite. It doesn’t let us get comfortable.

And here, in this unsettled space, I need to name something clearly: This is not a parable about the afterlife.

 

Yes, Jesus uses afterlife imagery — Hades, Abraham’s bosom, a great chasm — but the point isn’t to map heaven and hell. The point is to expose what happens when wealth blinds us, when indifference becomes the air we breathe, when we treat certain people as if they are “not real.”

 

In Jesus’ time, the gap between rich and poor was as brutal as it is today. A tiny elite lived in luxury while most scraped by. Banquets, purple robes, fine linens — those were the trappings of royalty and an exclusive priesthood, not the daily wear of ordinary people. To imagine someone dressed like that every day was to picture obscene excess—the modern-day equivalent of Ellison, Musk, or Saudi princes. 

 

And Lazarus? He is given dignity in the story by being named, and his name means “God helps.” The rich man remains nameless — not because he is not loved by God, but because in the Kingdom of God, the rich man’s identity has been lost in all his things. As though pieces of his soul are owned by the things he owns. 

 

Back on earth, dogs lick Lazarus’ sores. In Jewish culture, canines were unclean animals. The image isn’t just pitiful — it’s scandalous. This is social, physical, ritual exclusion all in one. No person attends to him; it is the other creatures of God who show him compassion.

 

But, then comes the reversal. Abraham’s bosom was a way of describing the rest of the righteous dead. Hades, torment, the great chasm — these were familiar apocalyptic images, meant to shock hearers awake, not to provide a tourist guide to eternity.

 

Notice how the story unfolds:

• The rich man never once speaks to Lazarus. Even in death, he only talks to Abraham, as if Lazarus were still beneath him. “Send Lazarus to bring me water.” “Send Lazarus to warn my brothers.” He cannot imagine Lazarus as anything other than a servant. His blindness follows him even into Hades.
• Abraham’s response is sharp: “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.” In other words: the rich man doesn’t need new revelations. The Scriptures are already clear. Justice, mercy, care for the poor — it’s written all over the Law and Prophets.
• Then the stinger: “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.” Which foreshadows Jesus’ own resurrection — and the hardness of hearts that refuse to see its power. It points us to the very pattern of existence: life, death, resurrection; order, disorder, reorientation.

Well, what about us?

Luke tells us that Jesus spoke this parable right after the Pharisees ridiculed him, “for they were lovers of money.” They thought their wealth and status were proof that God was on their side. But Jesus says otherwise. And friends, if we’re honest, we need to hear this warning too — because our own comforts can lull us into believing we’re fine, while Lazarus still waits at the gate.

Even if we’re not extravagantly rich like the man in purple robes, many of us live with comforts, with security, with full pantries — and it becomes so easy not to notice the Lazaruses we walk past every day.

The sin of the rich man is not that he is wealthy, nor is it cruelty. It is neglect. He never strikes Lazarus, never yells at him. He just lives his life as if Lazarus does not exist. That neglect condemns him.

And it corrodes whole systems too. The Roy family in Succession coined “NRP” — “No Real Person Involved.” That’s chilling, isn’t it? A category for people whose suffering doesn’t matter, whose disappearance won’t be noticed. And yet, if we’re honest, we have our own versions of “NRP”: the immigrant family caught up in politics; the unhoused neighbor we pass with eyes averted; the incarcerated person whose humanity is erased by statistics.

Barbara Brown Taylor calls this “living in a gated community of the heart.” It’s not just iron gates. It’s emotional and spiritual walls that keep us from seeing.

Richard Rohr says sin is blindness — the refusal to see reality, the refusal to see Christ in the least of these.

This parable is not a horror story meant to scare us into good behavior. It is a wake-up call to reorder our lives now. The chasm is not simply in the afterlife — it is in our world, in our neighborhoods, in our pews. And the gospel call is to bridge it before it becomes unbridgeable.

How do we bridge it?

• First, notice that the poor man is named. Even the rich man knew who Lazarus was. Who are the named, real people in our lives whom we are tempted to treat as invisible? Can we learn their names, hear their stories, see their dignity?
• Second, act now. Abraham says, “They have Moses and the prophets.” Friends, we already know what God requires: to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with God. This isn’t new revelation. It’s old truth waiting to be lived.
• Third, embody the power of Christ’s love. Abraham warns, “Neither will they believe even if someone rises from the dead.” Resurrection is not magic proof. It is an invitation. If we don’t practice compassion now, we may miss Christ even when he stands before us, alive.

Friends, this is a hard parable. But the good news is that it’s not finished. We’re still alive. We still have time. The great chasm is not yet fixed. We can still cross it.

We cross it every time we notice someone at the gate. Every time we resist the urge to label someone “not a real person.” Every time we open our hearts, our wallets, our schedules, and our communities to those the world overlooks.

And when we do, we discover that it’s not just Lazarus we’re meeting at the gate. It is Christ himself.

Because Christ is always found at the margins. Christ is always with the one on the sidewalk, the one in the detention center, the one who’s been told they don’t matter. Christ is waiting at the gate, calling us across the chasm, into the Kingdom of God that is already breaking in.

Amen.

 

Shrewd Wisdom

The Parable of the Dishonest Manager is the most confusing tale, until it's not...

Jeremiah 8:18-9:1
Psalm 79:1-9
1 Timothy 2:1-7
Luke 16:1-13

 

©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. 

 

Today’s Gospel is confusing. Some Church scholars call it the most perplexing parable Jesus ever told. The story of a dishonest manager leaves us scratching our heads—why on earth does Jesus seem to praise someone who’s been caught cheating his boss? 

 

But maybe the parable isn’t about dishonesty at all. Maybe, if we approach this not as a morality tale but as a spiritual invitation, we will discover this is a parable about urgency, risk, and who we choose to serve. Still don’t get what I’m saying, just keep listening.

 

Listen again to the details of the story. A wealthy landowner discovers that his steward—his business manager—has been wasting his resources. The man is about to be fired. He panics: “I’m not strong enough to dig, I’m too proud to beg. What am I going to do?”

 

So he comes up with a plan. He goes to the landowner’s debtors and reduces what they owe—slashing one man’s bill from a hundred jugs of oil to fifty, another’s from a hundred measures of wheat to eighty.

 

At first glance, it looks like more dishonesty. Surreptitiously cutting what’s owed his master, but here’s the interpretive key: most likely, the steward is cutting out his own commission, the markup he would normally keep for himself. He sacrifices his portion in order to win favor with others.

 

It’s a bold, risky move. He gives up money he could have held onto, but in doing so he secures relationships, reputation, and maybe even a future home when he’s unemployed.

 

And surprisingly, the landowner commends him. Not for being dishonest, but for being shrewd—for being clever enough to see that in a world ruled by money, it’s people and relationships that actually matter.

 

And then, Jesus turns to us. He has a word that is as clear now as it was 20 centuries ago! “No slave can serve two masters… You cannot serve God and Mammon.” That’s the heart of the passage. That’s the bottom line. You can only serve one.

 

Now, what is Mammon?

 

When Jesus says, “You cannot serve God and Mammon,” he’s not just using a generic word for money.

• Mammon comes from an Aramaic word (mamona), which meant wealth, riches, or property. Luke and Matthew, both preserve it into their Gospel accounts, as though the word carried more weight than just “money.”
• Over time, Mammon became personified. In Jewish and early Christian thought, it wasn’t just wealth—it was the false god of greed and possessions.
• By the Middle Ages, Mammon was imagined as a demon of avarice, showing up in literature like Paradise Lost by John Milton.

 

So, jumping back to our Gospel lesson, when Jesus says, “You cannot serve God and Mammon,” he’s pointing to something bigger than coins or bills. He’s naming money’s spiritual power. He’s exposing the way wealth can demand allegiance, whispering promises of security, identity, and control.

 

Mammon is money treated as ultimate.
Mammon is wealth turned into a master.
Mammon is what happens when money shifts from being a tool to being a god.

 

And here’s the thing: Mammon doesn’t have to make us villains. It’s allure is more subtle. Mammon just has to distract us. It simply has to keep us clinging tight, trusting more in what we have than in the God who provides. That’s why Jesus is so stark: you cannot serve both.

 

That’s not easy to hear, especially in our world. We live in a culture obsessed with wealth. It’s not enough just having enough, our society’s message is that you always need more—more savings, more investments, more possessions, more security.

 

And often, that accumulation doesn’t look like it comes at the expense of others. We do not see the hidden costs of cheap goods or unfair labor practices, we just see the package arrive in two days or less. I said we do not see this because I am guilty of this too. But the stark truth is, the way money flows in this world has consequences. Every purchase, every investment, every choice is connected.

 

Jesus reminds us: you cannot serve two masters. You can’t serve God and Mammon. You will love one and despise the other, cling to one and reject the other.

 

What do we do, then, as followers of Jesus in a world like ours?

 

I think we do exactly what the steward in the parable did—we take on some risk, and we choose to use money not as an end in itself but as a tool for something greater. We use money to serve God. We use money to serve our neighbors. We use money to create fountains of goodness in a world parched for grace.

 

The Church has language for this. We call it stewardship.

• First fruits giving—offering to God not what’s left over, but the very first portion of our income. It’s a way of saying, “God comes first. God is my master, not Mammon.” This doesn’t have to be to the Church—although we will use everything we can to build up this outpost of Christ’s Reign here in Hoover. Still, you can give to God’s work in this world through charities, institutions, nonprofits, or other organizations that are focused on revealing God’s grace here and now. Another aspect of Stewardship is…
• Proportional giving—deciding a percentage of our income to give, so that our generosity grows with our blessings. It’s not about guilt; it’s about rhythm, discipline, intentionality. This way of giving leads us into the truth that the more we give the more we get and the more we get the more we give. A final important attribute of Stewardship is…
• Sacrificial giving—choosing to give in a way that actually costs us something, that stretches us. Like the steward, we may cut into what would have been ours in order to make space for someone else to thrive. On the surface, this is so counter-cultural it might feel impossible. However, there are countless examples of spiritually and yes financially prosperous people who sacrifice for a time so that they can reap the reward in return. 

 

None of this is about fundraising for the Church. It’s about discipleship. So while this is about money, it’s about much more than that. It’s about how we invest our lives. It’s about choosing whom we serve. It’s about refusing to let money be our master and choosing instead to let God’s love shape how we use every resource entrusted to us.

 

There’s a saying that I shared not too many weeks ago, but it bears repeating: Love people and use things. Not the other way around.

Too often, we get that reversed. We use people and love things. We measure success by what we own, what we drive, what we bank, what we achieve—while neglecting the very relationships that bring life.

 

The steward in Jesus’ story, flawed as he was, realized that things couldn’t save him, but people could. God’s love in the hospitality of others could. The steward risked his own share of the profit to secure community. And Jesus says, in a way:

That’s the kind of cleverness my disciples need.

 

Be wise. Be shrewd. Don’t let Mammon own you. Use money to bless. Use money to reconcile. Use money to serve God’s kingdom.

 

So, what does that look like in practice? What is it to take Jesus seriously here? Maybe it starts by examining our lives and asking: Am I serving God or Mammon? Some other questions might sound like:

• When I choose to spend money, time, or other resources, is generosity part of the decision?
• When I look at my budget, does it reflect my faith, my values, and my trust in God?
• When I think about my wealth, do I see it as mine, or as God’s gift entrusted to me for the sake of others?

 

Maybe this way of following Jesus requires us taking a risk—like the steward—by giving away more than feels comfortable, trusting that God provides. Maybe it means simplifying, so that what we save on ourselves can flow into someone else’s life.

 

And maybe this way looks like remembering that stewardship isn’t just about money—it’s about our whole selves, our time, our talents, our hearts. It’s about asking daily: Whom do I serve?

 

The good news is this: when we choose to serve God, we’re not left empty-handed. We’re not abandoned to risk without promise. We are caught up into the abundance of God’s kingdom.

 

In that kingdom, generosity multiplies. In that kingdom, giving leads to receiving. In that kingdom, we discover that the very things we thought we were giving up become the channels through which God pours joy and life back into us.

 

The steward risked his commission to gain relationships. We risk serving God over Mammon—and we gain dwelling eternally with God, spiritual treasures in heaven, and lives filled with meaning and purpose here and now.

 

So, let’s be wise. Let’s be shrewd. Let’s be disciples who know that money is never neutral, but that it can be holy when placed in God’s hands.

 

Let’s serve God—not Mammon. Let’s use money to love neighbors, to heal wounds, to lift burdens, to shine Christ’s light.

 

Because in the end, it’s not money that saves us. It’s Christ. Christ, who gave everything—sacrificially, proportionally, first and last—to bring us home to God.

Amen.