On Tables & Reconciliation

  

What's the Parable of the Prodigal Son really about? Surprisingly, it's about tables... and reconciliation!

 

Joshua 5:9-12

Psalm 32

2 Corinthians 5:16-21

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

 

The Rev. Seth Olson © 2025

 

Holy One, you prepare a table in the wilderness and set it before saints and sinners alike. Let your Word meet us in this moment. Let us receive your invitation with open hearts and open minds. Amen.

There’s something sacred about a shared table.

 

Maybe it’s the table in your kitchen, cluttered with mail and homework and a stray crayon or two, but still the place your family returns to, night after night. 

 

Maybe it’s a holiday table, bursting with joy, delicious dishes, and awkward conversation. 

 

Or maybe it’s this table—the altar—where bread and wine become more than bread and wine. Where we meet the mystery of grace. Where heaven and earth kiss one another. Where we take part in a feast, which has been on-going for 2,000 years and will continue on into eternity.

 

In today’s Gospel, we hear one of Jesus’ most famous parables. But before we get to the story itself though, it’s helpful to notice what triggered it—a table. “Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling, saying this fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

 

Jesus was welcoming the wrong people to the table. The Pharisees—religious leaders not unlike you or I—and scribes—the lawyers of the day—began to mutter their disapproval. And so, Jesus told them this parable—not to shame them, but to show them what the kingdom of God looks like.

You know this story. Even if this morning was the very first time you ever heard it, the Parable of the Prodigal Son is our story—a tale about the human condition and God’s epic love for us. To recap it in brief, a son squandered his inheritance in a far-off land, wound up feeding pigs (not a great look for an Israelite forbidden from even touching swine), and eventually stumbled home with a well-rehearsed apology. His father saw him, ran to him, embraced him before a word was spoken. There was a feast—a raucous party. And then the elder brother, angry and excluded, was invited to the table, too. Did he go in? It’s a cliff-hanger meant for Pharisees, scribes, and us to figure out!

 

But, before you go picking on one son or the other, here’s the truth: both sons were lost. One was lost in rebellion—the other in resentment. One wandered far from home—the other far from grace.

 

And yet—this is what hits me every time—the father went out to meet both sons. The father ran to the younger and pleaded with the elder. No shame. No punishment. Only this: “Come inside. Rejoice. You are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.”

 

A First-Century patriarch would NEVER do this. And, I repeat, never! He would not run out to meet a son who essentially wished him dead in requesting his inheritance early. Nor would he leave a party that he was hosting. But, this is not a story meant to share the exemplary behavior of a father. No, this is a story about what the Kingdom of God looks like, who Our Father in Heaven is, and at least to me, it looks a lot like a family built not on getting it all right, but on having the grace to reconcile when we don’t get it all right.

Saint Paul knew this. Perhaps that is why in his letters to the Church in Corinth which we heard today, he wrote: “God has given us the ministry of reconciliation.” When heard alongside today’s Gospel lesson, we might just realize the Parable of the Prodigal Son isn’t just about God’s mercy—it’s about our call to join in the reconciling work of Christ. To be people who meet one another with grace. To refuse the false binary of “good son” vs. “bad son.” To say, “Come to the table. There's room for you. No matter where you’re from, what you’ve done, or what you have messed up… No matter what, there’s room for you.”

 

That’s especially important right now, in our church and our country—where it’s easy to define ourselves by who we’re not—not like those people, not like that party, not like them. And yes, it is meet and right, and our bounden duty (to borrow words from the Rite I Eucharistic Prayer) to live lives where we uphold Gospel values—to be people committed to unconditional love, service, stewardship, humility, grace, and prayer. But, anytime we put up a barrier separating us from them Christ tears down that dividing wall. Christ continually makes all things new, and we are invited to take part in that. To have the vision of Christ and to see that they are us and we are them. All of us are one.

 

At Holy Apostles, we strive to be a community that lives this out—not just in word but in action. A community where you can come back after you’ve made a mess of things. A community where resentment doesn’t harden into exile. A community where we feast on grace.

 

But, sometimes we don’t even get that right. Sometimes we hold grudges. We experience real hurt and it’s hard then to make amends. When this happens to me, sometimes I dig my feet into stubbornness. If I don’t forgive someone else, I think, I maintain power over them. However, Anne Lamott, the Christian author and pastor, described withholding forgiveness as us drinking rat poison and expecting the rat to die. It’s only hurting us. And, it is not taking seriously who God is calling this community to be. 

 

We can hear echoes of who God yearns for us to be in words we heard from Joshua. God says, “Today I have rolled away from you the disgrace of Egypt.” In this story, the people eat the first Passover in the Promised Land—they take part in a new beginning, a new table in a new place. It echoes the Gospel’s table of return and reconciliation. It foreshadows the Eucharistic table we approach week after week—our own table of new beginnings.

 

In truth, the parable we heard today from Luke isn’t just a story Jesus told. This is a narrative Jesus lived. He was accused of eating with the wrong people. He was betrayed at a table. He gave himself at a table. And he invites us still to join him at table.

 

So, wherever you are today—whether you feel like the younger son, broken and unsure if you belong, or the elder son, righteous and quietly bitter—the invitation is the same:

 

Come to the table.

 

Not because you deserve it. Not because you’ve got it all figured out. But because this is what grace looks like. A father running. A feast beginning. And, a love that refuses to let anyone stay lost. 

 

Amen.

Under the Wings of Love

When given the chance to compare himself to anything Jesus chose a mother hen!

 

Deuteronomy 26:1-11

Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16

Romans 10:8b-13

Luke 4:1-13

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was inspired by the above readings and was preached on the Second Sunday in Lent at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL.

 

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

 

Speaking of words, words are clumsy things.

 

Each week, I try to use them to describe the indescribable, to frame the infinite, to map the contours of a mystery far beyond us, yet infinitely near. 

 

One of my favorite comedians, states that priests and preachers weekly (or is it weakly—W-E-A-K-L-Y) get up to give a book report they’ve had 2,000 years to prepare. He’s not wrong. The words we have, and I use, for God—Lord, Rock, Shepherd, King, Redeemer, etc.—are like arrows launched toward something greater, but often they never quite land where I was aiming. Still, I try… we try… to wrap words around the Great Mystery that is the Divine intermingling with us humans. Like how we see the sacred and the mundane interweaving in today’s readings: 

 

Abram sees a vision in the night, and God speaks of descendants as countless as the stars. But have you ever tried counting the stars, really? It’s nearly impossible! So, how does one measure a promise that vast?

 

The Psalmist declares, The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear? But fear so often pervades our lives—lurking in shadows, whispering lies. What does it mean to trust in a God we cannot see, to believe in safety beneath wings we cannot touch with our hands?

 

Paul invites us to citizenship in heaven, but our feet are planted on earth. Do we get a dual passport—one from the nations of earth and one from the Kingdom of God?

 

And then there’s Jesus standing in the streets of Jerusalem, lamenting over the city, reaching for an image—something, anything—that might convey his longing, his love. And so, the Son of God reaches into his bag of analogies and calls himself… a mother hen.

 

A hen. Not a lion or an eagle or a mighty warrior, but a small, vulnerable creature with open wings, yearning to gather her children home.

 

If ever there were proof that we need poetry to speak of God, here it is.

So today, instead of my ordinary attempts at explanation—my grasping at theological coherence, my striving to box the Word of God into something neat and orderly, like Peter wanting to build booths on the Mount of the Transfiguration to house Jesus, Moses, and Elijah—instead of this, let us lean into the poetic.

 

Let us take these scriptures, these visions, these laments, and listen for something deeper.

 

Let us set aside our need to explain God, and instead simple experience God in the beauty of metaphor. 

 

“Under The Wings Of Love”

 

The night sky swells with promise,
a sea of stars stretching beyond Abram’s weary sight.
He stands, old and childless,
heart aching with unanswered prayers,
palms empty with waiting.

And yet, God whispers—
Look up.

Count the stars, if you can.
Count the impossibilities I make possible.
Count the barren places I fill with life.
Count the moments when you thought I was absent,
but I was nearer than your own breath.

 

Beloved of God,
do you trust this promise?
Can you see the light when the night is deep?
Can you hold fast when all around you shakes?

 

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem—
the city of holy longing,
the city of prophets and blood,
the city that cannot recognize Love
even when LOVE stands before them, arms wide.

How often I have wanted to gather you,
like a mother hen, wings outstretched,
a fierce, sheltering love.
Yet you would not come.

Would you?

 

Would you?
Would you let yourself be gathered?
Would you nestle beneath the shadow of holy wings?
Would you let go of all the ways you’ve tried to save yourself—
your striving, your sorrow, your self-sufficiency—
and simply be held?

 

There is a road that leads to Jerusalem,
a road that winds through wilderness and weeping,
through betrayal and brokenness,
to a cross upon which Love will hang.

But this is not a road of defeat.
This is the road of love unfurling,
of a mother’s wings opening wider,
of a Love so vast, so wild, so tender,
that not even death can suppress it.

 

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?
Not the foxes of this world, scheming in the shadows.
Not the doubts that creep in when the night stretches long.
Not the wounds of rejection,
nor the ache of longing unanswered.

For we are citizens of another kingdom,
children of a greater promise,
nestled beneath wings that will not fail us.

 

So come, beloved.
Come beneath the wings of Christ.
Come with your weary bones,
your unanswered prayers,
your faltering faith.

 

Come and be gathered.
Come and be held.
Come and trust the Love that will not let you go.

 

And when the morning comes,
when the third day dawns,
when the tomb stands alone—
then you will know,
here you’ve always been home. 

Amen.

 

The Devil Went Down to Judea

Before he went to Georgia, the Devil made a stop in Judea

 

Deuteronomy 26:1-11

Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16

Romans 10:8b-13

Luke 4:1-13

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was inspired by the above readings and was preached on the First Sunday in Lent at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. 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.

 

I have a question for you: If you had just been baptized, had heaven open up above you, had the Spirit descend on you like a dove, and had God Almighty declare you to be “beloved” with whom he was “well pleased”—what’s the thing you’d expect to happen next?

 

Maybe a nice meal? A reception? A solid nap?

 

NOPE! Jesus doesn’t even get a festive potluck before the Spirit sends him into the wilderness for forty days with nothing but his hunger and a very persistent tempter. That’s right, before he went to Georgia the Devil went down to Judea, and you thought your Lenten discipline was tough. 

 

This is the kind of story that reminds us—if the Son of God himself wasn’t spared a wilderness experience, what makes us think we will be? This is like a twist on the famous Alabama highway sign: “Go to Church and the Devil Still Gets You.” Right? If it happened to the most faithful Jesus, what makes us think it won’t happen to us?

 

Jesus’ temptations took place in a literal desert, but for most of us, our wilderness is a little less sandy and a lot more psychological. Maybe your wilderness looks like anxiety. Or grief. Or fear of the unknown. Maybe your desert is full of distractions, empty promises, and the seductive pull of “just one more episode” on Netflix.

 

But no matter what your particular wilderness looks like, one thing is for sure: at some point, the tempter, the great Spiritual stumbling block personified will shows up, ready to make you an offer. So, what might that look like? Probably not a guy with a goatee, red spandex, and a pitchfork. Instead of envisioning a modern day devil, let’s wonder: what would the Tempter’s offers look like if he made them to Jesus today?

 

The first temptation? Bread. “If you are the Son of God, turn this stone into bread.” In modern terms, this is the “you deserve this” temptation. It’s instant gratification. It’s the little voice whispering, 

“Go ahead, buy it—you’ve had a hard week.”

“Eating this, drinking that, or doing _______ will make everything right.”

“You don’t need to rest; just push through, you’ll be fine.”

 

Here the devil isn’t tempting Jesus with something bad. He’s tempting him with something good (sustenance)—but at the wrong time, in the wrong way. Indeed, Jesus would go on to feed thousands, but not by turning stones into bread for himself. Jesus’ “no” came in the desert and his “yes” will come in multiplying loaves and fishes, in breaking bread at a table where all are welcome.

 

The second temptation? Power, control, authority. “Bow down, and I’ll give you all the kingdoms of the world."

This is the temptation of shortcuts. The “just do what it takes to get ahead or to get power” lie. It’s the devil whispering:

“Just this once, tell them what they want to hear.”
“A little bending of your principles won’t hurt.”
“You can make a difference if you play their game.”

 

Jesus indeed had power and would be called the King of Kings—but not because he took a deal from the devil. He said “no” in the desert so that he could say “yes” to following the will of the Father and beginning a ministry to upend worldly power itself. In doing so, Jesus created a reign where the humble are exalted and the exalted are humbled, where the first become last and the last become first.

 

And the third temptation? Spectacle. “Throw yourself down from the Temple; let God prove he’s with you.” This is the social media temptation: “Let people see how special you are.”

 

It’s the pull to curate a perfect image proving our worth and ensuring people recognize our value. But Jesus refuses. He did indeed show the world who he was, who he is—not by throwing himself from the Temple, but by walking from the Temple down the road carrying his cross to Calvary.

 

So often we think of Lent as a time where we are supposed to prove ourselves, to win our own battles, to white-knuckle our way through the wilderness. But here’s the good news: Jesus already won.

His “nos” to the devil were not just rejections of the tempter’s false promises, they were also affirmations of something better.

 

Instead of turning stones into bread, he became the Bread of Life.
Instead of grasping at earthly power, he ushered in the Kingdom of God.
Instead of demanding God prove himself, he walked all the way to the cross to show us who God really is.

 

And here’s the best part: When we face temptations we never have to face them alone. We might be under the illusion that we do, but the same Spirit that led Jesus into the wilderness is with us right now leading us onward. The same Spirit that sustained him through temptations strengthens us through ours, too. And the same Jesus who refused the devil’s offers is the one who walks alongside us, helping us to say no to the false promises of sin, so that we can say yes to something sustaining, powerful, and real—Life in Christ!

 

So as we walk this Lenten journey, let us not be afraid of the wilderness. Let’s walk out into it boldly, knowing that we do not walk alone. You’ll never walk alone! 

 

And let’s be ready—because out of every “no” we say to temptation, there is a greater, divine “yes” waiting on the other side. Amen.