Not False Peace, but Shalom

True peace is not just the absence of violence.

Isaiah 5:1-7
Psalm 80:1-2, 8-18
Hebrews 11:29-12:2
Luke 12:49-56

 

©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. 

 

We prefer a Jesus who soothes. A Jesus who blesses the children, stills the storm, multiplies bread, all while telling us not to worry. We like “Jesus meek and mild,” the little one lying in the manger from Luke’s opening chapters. But the Jesus we meet today here in Luke Chapter Twelve is anything but mild. He comes speaking of fire, division, and a baptism of suffering. This is not the sort of passage you embroider on a throw pillow.

 

When talking about this lesson with a parishioner earlier in the week the following question was asked, “How am I supposed to get up out of bed and do this, day-in and day-out?” That’s an honest inquiry. And it’s exactly the point: what Jesus is saying here is exceedingly challenging.

Today’s Gospel finds us far from the babe in Bethlehem. Jesus and his ministry are fully grown. And, the one we call the King of kings is heading toward Jerusalem, not to mount a typical throne, but to ascend the cross. His mission is urgent, costly, and deeply disruptive to the way things are.

 

Still, when he says, “Do you think I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division”, he’s not describing a new divine preference for quarrels. This is not a license to go picking fights in Jesus’ name. Instead, he’s warning that the arrival of God’s Kingdom — the real one, not any counterfeit version — will expose the fault lines in our loyalties. The peace Jesus refuses to offer here is the world’s peace: false tranquility, appeasement, the kind that maintains quiet on the surface while resentment, injustice, and wounds fester underneath.

The peace Jesus offers instead is shalom — the deep wholeness that comes only through truth, justice, and reconciliation. And that kind of peace is almost always preceded by discomfort, disorientation, and sometimes even death. Perhaps not literal, but nonetheless painful.

Of course, we all know the temptation especially in the South to “keep things nice.” Don’t rock the boat. Avoid hard conversations. Pretend it’s fine. But false peace is a thin crust over a fractured foundation. Eventually, it breaks, and you can’t call Alabama Foundation Specialists to fix this one.

 

Jesus refuses to plaster over the cracks of this faulty footing. He knows that if the truth is told in love — the truth about God, about ourselves, about the dignity of every human being — it will upset someone. It will divide households. It will cost relationships. But it will also open the door to healing that lasts. It will bring us into that New Jerusalem about which Isaiah speaks when he writes, “The lion and lamb shall lie down together.” 

 

But before you go off thinking your rector has gone off the deep end, or that in these divided times, I am going on a Don Quixote like mission, tilting at windmills, here’s another way to hear this passage: maybe Jesus isn’t only talking about external households divided against themselves. Perhaps Jesus isn’t speaking exclusively about the fractured systems that are everywhere in our world today. Maybe he’s also naming the divided household within us.

 

There is a part of me that knows who I am in Christ — beloved, called to love my neighbor, called to live truthfully. But there’s also a part of me that resists, that would rather take the easy way, that throws a tantrum until my superficial needs are met. Those parts of me, and even several others, are often at odds. And until they are all reconciled — until I let Christ be Lord over every room in my inner house — my peace will be partial, fragile, false.

 

Shalom requires that I invite God’s light into those locked rooms, even the ones I’d rather keep shut. It requires that I face my own divided heart before I go around fixing someone else’s. It necessitates that I tell the truth in love to myself first before I go off commending everyone else change their ways.

If we follow Jesus, we can’t sidestep the hard work:

• Naming where our lives are out of step with the Gospel.
• Speaking truth in love, even when it’s unpopular.
• Choosing to seek reconciliation rather than quiet avoidance.

And yes, it might mean division — not because we’re trying to create enemies, but because not everyone will welcome the truth of God’s inclusive, restorative love. Some will push back. Some will walk away. Some will follow for a time, then turn away. Jesus knew this. He warns us so we won’t be surprised when it happens.

So, what do we do? How do we live in this Shalom instead of false peace?
It requires doing the inner work — tending to our own divided hearts — so that we can engage the outer world with love, courage, and integrity.
It looks like refusing to accept “nice” when God calls us to “whole.”
It means being willing to let the Spirit set a holy fire in us — a refining fire that burns away pretense and makes space for truth.

Beloved in Christ, here is an invitation for you this week: As we encounter these hard words from Jesus, may we lean into Shalom instead of appeasement.
May we speak the truth in love.
May we not intentionally seek division, but may we not avoid it unnecessarily either.

May we reconcile all the parts within us around the throne of Christ in our hearts — so that we may join God in transforming this world into a place where all are loved, accepted, and welcomed as children of the Divine. For that is who we truly are and how we find true peace—Shalom.

 

Amen.

Why Do We Keep It?

Where are you keeping your treasure?

Isaiah 1:1, 10-20
Psalm 50:1-8, 23-24
Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16
Luke 12:32-40

 

©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. 

 

“Why do we keep it?”

 

That question—posed by David McElroy—has lingered in my spirit this week. It floated into our weekly Bible Study like a wisp of incense and stayed there, hanging in the air and in my heart.

 

Why do we keep it?

 

The box of mismatched A/V cords in the drawer. The dusty kitchen gadget we swore we’d use. The clothes that no longer fit. The stacks of papers, just in case. The inherited china we don’t like, but feel guilty giving away.

 

Why do we keep it?

 

Perhaps that’s the very question Jesus wants us to ask ourselves today—not just about our closets, our garages, or our family estates, but about our hearts. “For where your treasure is,” he says, “there your heart will be also.”

 

But Jesus doesn’t come at us with guilt or shame. He isn’t yelling from some mountaintop, wagging his finger. He speaks tenderly: “Do not be afraid, little flock…” In the Greek, it’s even sweeter, translating to something like: my little flocklet. My dear ones.

 

In this passage, we observe a trend persisting in Luke. Jesus continues his teachings on possessions, anxiety, and faithfulness. And he offers not just advice, but a reorientation. A new direction for our hearts.

 

“Sell your possessions, and give alms,” he says. But this isn’t only about money. This is about anything that has a grip on us. Anything we cleave to more tightly than we cling to God. This is about the things we’ve made into idols—comfort, control, prestige, self-image, and security (just to name a few).

 

In last week’s reading from Colossians, Paul called greed a form of idolatry. And it’s true: when we grasp so tightly to our stuff, our power, or even our public image, we place ourselves in the position of God. Or, we take things—possessions, accomplishments, people—and use them as if they exist for our gain. We use people and love things instead of loving people and using things.

 

But Jesus is not inviting us to deprivation. He’s inviting us into liberation. He’s beseeching us to let go—so we can receive.

To let go of scarcity and fear…
To let go of pride and performance…
To let go of fool’s gold, so we can make room for treasure that truly lasts.

 

That’s what he means when he tells us to make “purses that do not wear out”—to store up unfailing treasure in heaven. That fortune isn’t tucked away in some far-off realm. That reward shows up here and now:
– in the love of family and friend
– in acts of justice and mercy
– in moments of wonder, awe, and compassion
– in giving away the gifts that the ego so desperately tries to hoard
– in the light of God’s image shining in the face of someone we used to overlook.

 

This is the good stuff—the kind of treasure praised not just by Jesus, but also by the Torah, the Prophets, and most every world religion: lifting up the lowly, caring for the vulnerable, honoring the present moment, living in love.

 

But it’s hard, isn’t it?

Hard to let go.
Hard to trust.
Hard to stay attentive to this work.

 

That may be why Jesus shifts his metaphor so quickly in this Gospel passage. One moment he’s talking about treasure; the next he’s urging us to gird our loins and keep our lamps lit, like servants waiting for the master to return.

 

It may seem like a narrative jump, but I think Jesus knows how easy it is for us to fall asleep to the truth. To numb ourselves with stuff. To be lulled by comfort. To keep quiet instead of confronting injustice. To walk right past the God who comes to us disguised as those ones who irritate us the most.

 

The hard truth is this: Jesus talks about money, wealth, and greed more than almost any other topic in the Gospel accounts. And yet, in the Church today, we’re often hesitant to talk about it at all.

 

Why? Maybe because we know he’s right.

 

We’ve created whole systems that reward greed and punish poverty. We elevate wealth as a virtue, as if it proves someone’s worth. We baptize comfort and crucify sacrifice. And all the while, we make idols of ourselves.

 

But Jesus says, Stay awake. Watch for the places where God is showing up—in the neighbor who annoys us, in the person who needs us, even in the shadowy parts of ourselves that we’re scared to examine.

 

This is no passive waiting. It’s an active, hopeful, humble vigilance.

It reminds me of a lesson I learned the hard way. A few years ago, I crashed while biking. More than once, actually! And each time, it was because I got fixated on the pothole, the rock, the thing I didn’t want to hit.

Turns out, if you focus on the obstacle, that’s exactly where you’ll end up.

But if you focus on where you want to go—on the clear bit of road—you’re far more likely to get there.

 

Jesus wants us to fix our eyes on the real treasure. To stop obsessing over the potholes of fear, greed, and ego. And to aim our hearts toward what lasts. Now let me tell you about someone who knew about what truly lasts.

 

Yesterday, some of us from Holy Apostles traveled to Hayneville, Alabama, for the 29^thannual Jonathan Daniels pilgrimage. For those who don’t know, Jonathan Daniels was a young White seminarian from New Hampshire who, 60 years ago, came down to Alabama during the Civil Rights Movement after he heard the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior’s plea for clergy to help with the integration. Jonathan was arrested for protesting segregation, and shortly after being released from jail, he was shot and killed while shielding a young Black woman named Ruby Sales. The pilgrimage re-membered Jonathan, honored him, and inspired us to follow his witness because…

Jonathan was awake. He was focused on the treasure that lasts. He gave his life not for fool’s gold, but for the eternal treasure of solidarity, justice, and love.

Now, we may think we’re not capable of such courage—and on our own, we’re not. But the good news is that we’re not on our own.

Where we are weak, God is strong.
Where we are fearful, God is faithful.
Where we are asleep, the Spirit stirs us.

 

There is no “I” in church, but there is a you. There is a we. There is the Spirit. And there is the invitation to join in God’s healing of the world—not someday, but today.

 

So, on this day, as we bless backpacks and feast together at our back-to-school cookout, let’s ask ourselves again:
What are we keeping? And, why do we keep it? 

What is keeping us? And, what might happen if we dared to let go, to live more freely?

 

Let us stay awake to what really matters.
Let us fix our eyes on the road ahead.
Let us build up one another, serve the poor, care for the sick, tend to the children, love our neighbors, love ourselves—and yes, even our enemies.

Let us become one Body, rich in the treasure that never fades.

For where your treasure is,
there your heart will be also.

 

Amen.