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.

 

Life in the Soil of Discipleship

Are you following Jesus in the midst of a challenging life or are challenges arising in the midst of following Jesus?

Jeremiah 18:1-11
Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17
Philemon 1-21
Luke 14:25-33

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on September 7, 2025 at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the message 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. 

 

Holy Apostles, let me just say it from the start: this Gospel lesson is a doozy. It’s one of those moments when you half-expect me to stop reading, look up at you all, and say, “Wait, do we really want to keep going with this ‘Good News’?” Jesus tells the crowd, “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters—yes, even life itself—cannot be my disciple.” Yo, Jesus who soured your wine? Who burnt your bread, buddy? It appears that Our Lord is coming in hot.

 

This instruction to hate is not exactly the stuff of inspirational posters. It’s not the message one should take to this year’s Thanksgiving dinner: “Pass the turkey, Mom… also, Jesus told me to hate you now.” Awkward, right?!

 

But, this passage is here, which brings us to a larger question: how do we read Holy Scripture? It might be tempting, but as faithful followers of Jesus we don’t get to skip the challenging verses, we don’t soften them, nor do we pretend they aren’t there. Instead, we do what disciples have always done: wrestle with the difficult stories, pray for God’s wisdom, and ask each other what God is saying to us here and now. And sometimes—thanks be to God—together we receive deeper understanding and even get to laugh along the way.

 

A further insight about how we engage Holy Scripture before refocusing on this particular passage. As ones who follow the Revised Common Lectionary, over the course of three years on Sundays we get most of the books of the Bible. This means that if you show up for 156 straight Sundays you’re going to have heard the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of our most sacred text. We cannot hold all of it together without some of it contradicting itself. Our work, with each other and most importantly with God’s help, is to carefully discern how Holy Scripture molds, shapes, and directs our lives. 

 

Think of it this way: We cannot take a cafeteria line approach to reading the Bible where we pick and choose what we want to follow. Instead, together we use our hearts, souls, strength, and yes our MINDS to determine what the Spirit is saying to us the Church through the Living Word of God. 

This means we take the Bible far too seriously to simply take it literally. It’s not an instruction book—it’s a series of varying books about God’s love affair with Creation, specifically human beings. And, it requires the love of Christ (self-giving, sacrificial, extravagant, eternal, and unconditional), it requires this love to serve as the interpretative key. Without Christ’s love it’s not going to make sense! Now, back to our passage, which seems to be lacking in love.

Jesus gives us two little parables about “counting the cost.” A man about to build a tower first sits down and figures out if he has enough to finish it. A king about to go to war first checks whether he has the soldiers to stand a chance.

 

I’ve built a few things in my life—not towers, mind you, but Ikea bookshelves. Even with those, I usually end up with a few pieces left over and a slightly lopsided shelf that looks more like modern art than storage furniture. If even Ikea requires counting the cost, what do you think about the cost of following Jesus? 

 

What Jesus is saying is clear: discipleship (being a student of His Way of Love) is not something you stumble into by accident. Maybe it starts that way, but eventually it takes intention. It takes sacrifice. It takes putting him at the center, so that everything else in your life—family, work, money, politics, even your identity—lines up around him.

Now, that we understand those mini-parables a bit more, what about that “hate your family” line? Jesus is not giving us permission slips to bail on family dinners or to ignore our kids’ soccer games. The Greek word here could be rendered “love less than.” It’s a way of saying: your ultimate loyalty belongs to God. Even the most precious human relationships cannot outrank the call of discipleship, and I always think it’s important to point out: one way to love God is to love your family well. They aren’t mutually exclusive!

 

So, no Jesus isn’t anti-family. He’s pro-clarity. He’s saying: be clear about what’s first. If the Great I AM is first, then everything else finds its rightful place afterward. (Watch this from Stephen Covey about "Big Rocks First" for a visual example of this!)

And, here’s where this hits home. You don’t need me to tell you that life is complicated. I look out at this congregation, and I know:

• Some of you are caring for aging parents, juggling doctor’s appointments, prescriptions, and your own fatigue.
• Some of you are living in the tension of strained or complicated relationships.
• Some of you are raising children in a world that feels less certain, less safe, than the one you grew up in.
• Some of you are working so hard just to make ends meet, and wondering if it will ever get easier.

And in the middle of all this, here comes Jesus with his cross, saying: “Follow me.”

But, when we go about our lives in this way, we are living out of order. For the heart of this Gospel message is this: You aren’t following Jesus in the midst of all these challenges, as though your life is primary and Jesus is the side project. No—the challenges arise in the midst of following Jesus.

 

Maybe it seems like a slight shift, but it makes all the difference. My mom used to have a shirt, by the way it read: Do you have change for a paradigm? This shift means that discipleship is not something we squeeze in around the edges of our busy lives. Discipleship is the soil in which our lives grow. It’s the ground we stand on. Everything else—our families, our work, our challenges—sprouts up from that holy soil.

That means the tough stuff isn’t proof that you’re doing it wrong. Life is hard. And, that difficulty is simply part of life in the soil of discipleship. Following Jesus doesn’t exempt us from hardship. But it also isn't the last word!

Take Paul’s letter to Philemon today. Paul is writing from prison, urging Philemon to receive Onesimus—a runaway slave—not as property, but as a brother in Christ. Whoa, that’s a costly word! That wasn’t the way of the world—Paul was upending social norms, disrupting economic stability, and challenging Philemon to see his life not through the lens of Roman law but growing from the soil of discipleship.

 

This, friends, is exactly what we are trying to live into together as a congregation right now, in this soil of discipleship. We’re entering into a season of envisioning—asking who we are, what values shape us, and what mission God is calling us to in the next three to five years.

 

It might be tempting to think: “Once life calms down, once the budget is easier, once we all agree on everything—then we can get serious about following Jesus.” But that’s not how it works.

 

The Gospel says: we don’t wait for the perfect conditions. We start here, now, with the lives we actually have. Walking the Way of Love is not something we tack on after the fact. Discipleship is the ground on which we build.

 

So as we dream together—about values, vision, and mission—we’re not inventing something new from scratch. We’re tending the soil that’s already beneath us. We’re asking: what does it look like to live more deeply into our identity as students of the Divine, the Incarnate One we call Jesus?

And, y’all want to know the really good news? The challenges you carry—caring for parents, raising kids, navigating brokenness, making ends meet—these don’t mean you’ve failed at discipleship. They are indicators that you are engaging in tilling and tending to that soil, so that something remarkable will grow with God’s help.

 

Think about it like gardening. If you’ve ever planted vegetables, you know: some years the plants thrive, other years they wither. Sometimes you get blossoms and no fruit. But the soil is still the soil. And so, persistent gardeners keep at it—composting, watering, weeding—because they know eventually the soil yields abundance. 

 

So too with us. Following Jesus is about tending the soil of our lives. Some seasons are lean. Some are abundant. But the soil is still holy. And God still scatters seeds in our soil.

Now, does this mean it’ll all be smooth sailing? Hardly! If you think discipleship is easy, try putting together a piece of Ikea furniture with your family. That’ll test the holiness of your soil right quick.

 

But the good news is that Jesus walks this road ahead of us and with us. He carried the cross first. Now He shows us that the way of sacrifice is also the way of life, the way of love, the way of hope.

 

And if Jesus can redeem the cross, then surely he can redeem our family struggles, our weariness, our loooong meetings, and yes—even our half-built Ikea purchases.

So friends, let’s not get spooked by this Gospel’s intensity. Let’s hear it for what it is: Jesus calling us to clarify our lives. To make him the soil in which everything else grows.

 

Let’s count the cost together—not to scare ourselves away, but to remember the amazing gift of what we’re being invited into: life with God, life in Christ, life rooted in love that no challenge, no hardship, no brokenness can uproot.

 

And as we take up our envisioning work, may we do so with that same clarity. We don’t follow Jesus in the midst of our challenges. These challenges arise in the midst of following him. And that shift makes all the difference.

 

So, let’s follow. Let’s have change for our paradigm. Let’s dream. Let’s live as students of the Divine, the Incarnate One, who is our soil, our center, our life.

 

Amen.