Wake Up… It’s ADVENT!

Isaiah 2:1-5

Psalm 122

Romans 13:11-14

Matthew 24:36-44

 

© 2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was preached on the First Sunday of Advent at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of this message may be found here (at the 13:15 mark). 

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.

 

It always surprises people when they come to church on the First Sunday of Advent expecting manger scenes and shepherds…
…and instead get Jesus talking about floods and thieves.

It’s not exactly “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” material.

But this is how the Church keeps time.
Before we get to the Christ Child, before we get to that holy night in Bethlehem, we start with Jesus saying:

“Keep awake.”

 

Which is to say:
“Live with awareness. Live with attention. Live with your eyes open.”

 

Not in fear, but in hope.

This text is not about being afraid.
It is about learning to see God — to notice God — in the present moment.

 

This Sunday we step out of the long companionship we’ve had with Luke — the Gospel writer who sings of universal welcome, table fellowship, God’s love for the outsider and the poor — and we step into Matthew’s world. Matthew’s Gospel has a different tone. Sharper edges. A sense of urgency. A focus on the Kingdom of Heaven breaking in.

Matthew is writing to a Jewish-Christian community who had just lost the Temple — the center of their spiritual world. Everything familiar had collapsed. And into that grief, the Jesus depicted by Matthew seemingly says, “Something new is coming. God is not finished. Stay awake.”

If Luke wants us to see God in the feast, Matthew wants us to see God in the disruption. In the unexpected. In the cracks of ordinary life. And it is exactly there that Advent meets us.

 

Now let’s clear up one of the biggest misunderstandings about this passage. Jesus says, “One will be taken and one left.” For the past 190 years — less than 10% of Christian History — some have used this passage to predict something called “the rapture.”

 

You know the idea: People vanishing into thin air, piles of clothes left behind, bumper stickers that say “In case of rapture this car will be unmanned.”

 

But here’s the problem: Rapture theology didn’t exist in the early Church. Not in the medieval Church. Not in the Reformation. Not in Jesus' time. Not until 1830 — when it first appeared in Scotland and was later popularized in American revivalism.

 

In Matthew’s context, the ones who are “taken” in the flood are those swept away in destruction. The ones left behind are the ones remaining to rebuild. Jesus is not predicting a rapture. Jesus is calling his disciples — calling us — to be spiritually awake. To be ready for where God is breaking into our lives here and now. This text is not about escaping the world. This text is about paying attention to God’s presence in the world.

 

There’s another phrase here that gets misunderstood: The “coming of the Son of Man.” In Greek the word doesn’t mean “arrival from far away.” It means something more akin to presence. A coming presence, a manifestation, or a revelation. A presence that is already close — becoming tangible and real to us.

 

In other words, the “coming” of Christ is not God swooping in from on high — as sad as that makes me because my favorite hymn, just might be “Lo, He Comes With Clouds Descending.” But God is already here, suddenly perceived by us who so often overlook the holy everywhere.

 

So maybe, the Advent question is not “When will Christ come?” but something like: “Where is Christ already present — and have I been awake enough to recognize God?”

 

St. Bernard of Clairvaux, abbot, mystic, and co-founder of the Knights Templar, understood this reality, for he professed three comings of Christ:

1.    The First Coming — in Bethlehem, in the flesh.

2.    The Final Coming — when God makes all things new, perfects all things.

3.    The Middle Coming — the one that happens every day, in every moment, in every human heart.

 

That middle coming is the heart of Advent. Because Christ comes to us not only in ancient history or distant future, but right here:

• in the neighbor sitting beside us in the pew, and
• in that other neighbor who annoys us the most,
• in the beauty of creation,
• in the crack of dawn breaking over a very tired world,
• and yes — even within us, and sometimes precisely in the parts we’re ashamed of. The parts we hide. The parts we call our “shadow selves.”

 

In this season when it gets darker and darker, it's easier for us to sit in the darkness to wait for the light. Advent says: Christ comes into our shadow, too. Not to condemn it — but to heal it. To claim it. To love it into wholeness. This is the presence of Christ awakening us not from the outside but from the inside.

 

There is a reason the Church starts Advent not with shepherds but with wakefulness. The people of God have always needed a reminder that the world is full of distractions — full of noise — full of ways to numb ourselves from the pain, the beauty, and the reality of our lives. To lull us back to sleep.

But Jesus shocks us awake saying: “Just as a thief comes in the night…” so will God's appearing be. Now here's the point: it's not that Jesus is a thief. The point is unexpectedness. Wakefulness means being able to recognize God’s presence even when we didn’t plan for it.

 

To say it plainly: Advent is not about predicting God’s arrival. Advent is about seeing God’s presence here and now.

 

When Jesus says, “Keep awake,” he’s not telling us to be anxious or to drink a ton of Red Bulls or chug a bunch of coffee. He’s telling us to be attentive, to remain spiritually aware, looking for Christ at all times, in all places, and in everyone we meet. Because the Kingdom of Heaven isn’t some far-off reality. It is breaking in right here, right now.

Right in the middle of your life.

• Every moment of forgiveness is Advent (God coming to us).
• Every act of generosity is Advent.
• Every quiet morning cup of coffee with gratitude is Advent.
• Every time you refuse cynicism and choose compassion is Advent.
• Every time you tell the truth, every time you choose hope over despair… Advent is happening.

The world is full of Advent moments. We just need the eyes to see them.

So how do we do that? How do we “keep awake” in real life?

Here are three simple, practical Advent practices for you, Holy Apostles:

 

1. Pay attention to interruptions.

God shows up in the things we didn’t plan:
a phone call,
a difficult conversation,
a moment of unexpected beauty,
a neighbor who needs something simple.
Interruptions are often Advent incarnations.

 

 

2. Slow down — even for five minutes.

Light a candle.
Say a prayer.
Sit in silence.
Let your heart catch up with your life.

Advent rewards slowness.

 

3. Look for Christ in people — all people.

Not just the lovely ones.
Not just the ones who agree with us.
Christ comes in the face of every human being — especially the ones we avoid.

These are simple practices.
But simple is how we wake up.

 

So here is the heart of the matter: Advent is not about fear. Advent is not about prediction. Advent is not about escaping the world. Advent is about presence. God’s presence. Christ’s presence. The Spirit’s presence. Already here. Already stirring. Already whispering, “Wake up. Pay attention. I’m right here.”

 

The world wants to lull us to sleep. Jesus wants to awaken us to life.

And Holy Apostles — if we live this Advent awake… if we walk through this season with eyes open… if we dare to believe that Christ is showing up in every corner of our lives — then I promise you: We will not miss him when he comes.

Because we will already have seen him — in each other, in creation, and in the hidden corners of our own hearts. And for God’s presence reality… Thanks be to God.

 

Amen.

 

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.