Faith Is Not Certainty

Thomas has long been confused as a naysayer. He's a truth-teller whose questioning deepens our trust in God, but what lesson have we still been missing from our 1st Century spiritual forbear? 

Acts 2:14a,22-32

Psalm 16

1 Peter 1:3-9

John 20:19-31

© 2026 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on the Second Sunday of Easter at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. You may watch a video of it here.

Every year on the Second Sunday of Easter, we hear about Thomas.

And every year, he gets the same nickname: Doubting Thomas.

Which is a little unfair.

Because Thomas is not just doubting. Thomas is being honest. The others have had an experience of the Risen Christ, and he has not. They have seen the Lord, and he has not. And Thomas does not want borrowed faith. He does not want to pretend. He wants encounter.

And I think most of us understand that. But I think the real heart of this Gospel is not Thomas’s doubt. It is our confusion about faith. 

Because many of us were taught, directly or indirectly, that faith means certainty. Faith means no questions. Faith means no struggle. Faith means saying, “I believe,” with a kind of airtight confidence. But that is not faith. That is certainty.

And certainty is not the same thing as trust. Faith is not intellectual assent. Faith is not just agreeing that something is true. Faith is giving yourself over to something you cannot fully control. Faith is trust. Which means doubt is not actually the opposite of faith.

Doubt can deepen faith. Questions can deepen faith. Longing can deepen faith. Honest wrestling can deepen faith.

But certainty? Certainty can actually become a problem. Because certainty leaves no room for mystery. No room for humility. No room for God to be bigger than our understanding.

And that is why this Gospel matters so much. The disciples are in a locked room. They are afraid. Easter has happened, but they are still afraid. Resurrection has begun, but they are still hiding. And Jesus comes anyway.

He does not wait for perfect faith.
He does not wait for courage.
He does not wait for clarity.

He comes into the locked room and says, “Peace be with you.”

That is how resurrection works.

Jesus meets people not on the other side of their fear, but in the middle of it.

And then comes Thomas. He misses that first Easter evening appearance. And when he says what he needs, notice what Jesus does not do.

Jesus does not shame him.
Jesus does not cast him out.
Jesus does not say, “If you were a real disciple, you wouldn’t need that.”

Instead, a week later, Jesus comes back.

That may be one of the most hopeful things in the whole passage: Jesus comes back for Thomas. On Jesus’ own time, yes. He’s not on demand. But he comes back. And when he does, he does not offer Thomas a lecture. He offers him himself. That is the point.

Thomas is not given certainty as much as he is given presence. And that may be what we need to hear too.

Because most of us are not really looking for airtight arguments. What we are looking for, deep down, is the presence of Christ in the middle of our real lives. In the locked rooms of grief. In the locked rooms of fear. In the locked rooms of disappointment, confusion, and change.

And that is what the Church is for—not to manufacture certainty, not to reward people who never question—but to be a place where people can bring their fear, bring their questions, bring their longing, and discover that Christ still comes among his people and says, “Peace be with you.”

Then Jesus says to Thomas, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” That is not a put-down. It is a blessing.

And, it is a blessing for us. Because we are the ones who have not seen in the way Thomas saw. We are the ones who live by trust. We are the ones who are asked to follow Christ without certainty, but not without grace.

And maybe that is the word for us this morning: Do not confuse certainty with faith.

Faith is more alive than certainty. More humble than certainty. More open than certainty.

Certainty wants control. 

Faith learns trust.

Certainty wants proof for everything.
Faith learns to say, “Christ is here, even now, and I will follow as best I can.”

That is resurrection faith—not the absence of questions, not the absence of fear—but trust that Christ keeps coming to us. Trust that his peace is stronger than our fear. Trust that his presence is enough to lead us forward.

And so if you find yourself today with questions, with doubts, with longing, with locked doors in your heart or mind, take heart. You are not disqualified. Remember that Jesus did not always call the qualified, Jesus qualified the called.

And, today we see that the Risen Christ still comes to us. Still speaks peace.
Still shows his wounded love. Still gathers his people. Still calls us forward. So, may we go forth proclaiming and in search of the Risen Christ. 

Amen.

Household of Believers

Ezekiel 37:1-14

Romans 8:6-11

John 11:1-45

Psalm 130

©The Rev. Seth Olson 2026

This sermon was preached on the Fifth Sunday in Lent (Year A, 2026) 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.

Ezekiel is set down by God in a valley full of bones. Not just bones.
Dry bones. Very dry bones.

 

That detail means this is not fresh pain. This is old devastation. The kind that has settled in. The kind that starts to feel normal. The kind that becomes the landscape.

 

And God asks Ezekiel, “Mortal, can these bones live?” 

That is a hard question. Because the answer to this sort of question doesn’t feel obvious.

 

Can this faith live?
Can this heart beat with love?
Can this family heal?
Can this weary soul breath again?

I know something about that.

 

When I was a junior at Sewanee, I looked impressive on paper. I was heavily involved in chapel life, Bible studies, residential life, cross-country/track and all while maintaining my grades. From the outside, I looked like someone whose spiritual life was strong and headed in the right direction.

 

And during that season, our Suffragan Bishop Mark Andrus and my rector, Marc Burnette, invited me to come talk with them. They told me they thought I should pursue ordination and go straight to seminary.

 

It was kind. It was humbling. But I had to tell them the truth. Despite how I looked on paper, inside, my life was falling apart. My heart had been broken. My faith was unraveling. The worldview I had carefully built was coming apart. I was still showing up and doing all the right things, but inwardly I felt as dead as Lazarus.

 

Thanks be to God, those men did not shame me. They listened. And they encouraged me to meet with the Rev. Annwn Myers, the associate chaplain at Sewanee at that time.

 

When I sat in her office, I told the truth. And she did not rush to fix me. She made room for me. She reminded me that I did not need a huge faith. Just faith the size of a mustard seed.

 

Still, I felt dead on a soul level. This persisted for not four days, not even four months, but about a year. By that time, I had all but put down the spirituality of my childhood. In the liminal space, walking from what was to what would be I became more open and spent time seeking, wandering, and wondering what my life’s path was and whether God was part of it, nonexistent, or actively trying to sabotage me. I pondered could my spiritual life live again—could my life change?

 

And not on my timeline, but on God’s something did change. It took a long time for me to realize what God was doing, but eventually I realized God was filling my spiritual lungs with something fresh. And looking back now, I know this: through grace God brought me back to life, but it was the community—folks like Annwn, my friends, and my family—it was the community that brought me back to living.

 

And that is why Bethany matters. Bethany is the home of Martha, Mary, and Lazarus. It is more than the place where a miracle happens. It is where this household of believers lives. And each of them shows us something.

 

Martha goes out to meet Jesus. She is active, direct, engaged. And here in John she is not just busy. She is bold in faith. She says, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God.” She shows us that discipleship includes action. Serving, reaching out, showing up, loving our neighbors in concrete ways.

 

Mary shows us something different. She is the one who grieves, who weeps, who stays close to the sorrow. She reminds us that discipleship also includes contemplation. Stillness. Listening. The willingness to sit with grief and let God meet us there.

 

Sometimes people say, “I’m a Martha” or “I’m a Mary,” but we are both—we need both! Action without contemplation can become self-aggrandizing or frantic. Contemplation without action can become self-enclosed, even apathetic. We need both action and contemplation as we experience God’s grace. But, what about when we don’t have either?

 

There’s another member of this household of believers—there is Lazarus. And Lazarus reminds us that sometimes we are not Martha and we are not Mary. Sometimes we are the one in the tomb. Sometimes we are so exhausted, so wounded, so overwhelmed, so heartsick, that we cannot get ourselves to Jesus and we cannot even pray, except with sighs too deep for words.

 

And that is when today’s Gospel becomes especially good news. Because Jesus does not only meet the active. He does not only meet the prayerful. He also goes after the dead. He stands at the mouth of the tomb and calls life forth.

 

And then he says to the community, “Unbind him, and let him go.” That is what the Church is meant to be—a place of God’s liberating love. A place where people do not have to pretend to be fine. A place where some serve like Martha. A place where some pray and weep like Mary. And a place where those who come stumbling out of the tomb, still wrapped in bandages, are not shamed.

 

They are loved. They are seen. They are unbound. So, whether you find Jesus like Martha, or wait for Jesus to find you like Mary, or need Jesus to drag you out of some dead place like Lazarus, the truth is the same:

 

He comes. He enters our grief. He enters our homes. He enters our tombs. And wherever he finds us, he brings resurrected life.

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.

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.

Faith in Action

Video of worship from the 16th Sunday after Pentecost at Holy Apostles, Hoover, AL

 

This sermon was preached on the 16^th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 18B) at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles. You may watch the video of this sermon by clicking here. The readings which inspired the sermon were the following: 

 

Proverbs 22:1-2, 8-9, 22-23
Psalm 125
James 2:1-10, [11-13], 14-17
Mark 7:24-37

 

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

Beloved friends, this passage from the Letter of James confronts us with a powerful challenge: Can faith without action truly save us? By this I mean, will an inactive faith bring us into the fullness of Life in Christ? In our lives, it can be easy to speak of faith, to talk about love and mercy, but as James reminds us today, words alone will not reveal the kingdom of God in our midst. This is not a comfortable teaching, as it calls us to account for our actions—or, as James suggests, for our inactions.

We see in James's vivid imagery the practice of favoritism that has, sadly, plagued humanity for centuries. James was the half-brother of Jesus and was tasked with leading the nascent Church in Jerusalem after Christ ascended to the right hand of the Father. James led this community of the Way through challenging times, like the Romans’ destruction of the Temple. As a pastor, James saw first-hand the social distinctions of his day.

The one with gold rings and fine clothes is invited to sit at the place of honor, while the one in rags was told to sit at our feet or to stand in the back. Do we not see this same behavior today? We may be subtler about it; however, in our assemblies, in our workplaces, even in our churches—do we not sometimes give deference to those who appear more powerful or more well-off while overlooking those whom we deem less significant?

I think about the countless ways our society divides us. Wealth, race, education, and social status all play into this ugly game. Almost thoughtlessly we comply with the competitive nature of our society. We buy into a myth, a lie that says scarcity is the way, that life is all or nothing, you either win or you lose. But James holds up a mirror to us: “Have you not made distinctions among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?” God shows no partiality, and neither should we. In truth, James reminds us that God has chosen the poor to be rich in faith, heirs of the kingdom. If we dishonor them, we dishonor God’s own heart. This does not have to be our way. Instead of following the rulers of this world we may choose to follow Christ the King.

James urges us to fulfill Christ’s royal law. What’s the royal law? According to Christ Jesus: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” We already know this, but there’s something that may be harder to know or at least harder to admit: It’s easy to love the neighbor who looks like us, thinks like us, or lives like us. The real challenge, as James points out, is loving the neighbor who might make us uncomfortable—the one who calls us out of our bubbles of security and forces us to reckon with the brokenness in the world. This love requires us to go beyond sentiment; it calls us to action.

Fortunately for us in our hurting and broken world, there is a lot of action for us apostles to complete. And, today, right after this service you’ll have a host of ways to participate in apostolic action. Stick around today to participate in the Ministry Fair. There you can learn about and sign up for ways to grow your faith, to live out your faith, and to connect your faith with works that have the power to move us collectively from the feeling of love to the action of love.

James certainly knew about this need to have a living faith. Perhaps, that is why James was insistent that faith without works is dead. Now, make no mistake, he’s not saying that we earn our way into God’s grace through good deeds. No, our faith is a gift. But if we have received the gift of faith, how can we not respond by living it out in the world? How can we look at a person in need and simply say, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,’ without providing for their needs? And yet, even when we miss the mark here God’s grace abounds.

For at the heart of this passage stands the transformative power of mercy. James says, 'Judgment will be without mercy to anyone who has shown no mercy; mercy triumphs over judgment.' What a radical idea! We live in a world that often values judgment—whether in the legal sense, in social media, or in our day-to-day interactions. We can even become judgmental of those who do not serve others or help those in need. But God’s law of liberty calls us to show mercy to all, to meet others where they are with compassion, to offer not condemnation but healing.

This is not easy. Showing mercy can be exhausting and uncomfortable, especially when it challenges our preconceived notions of who deserves help and who does not. However, if we are truly living into our faith, then mercy will rightly reside at the center of our actions.

Alongside mercy, we are called to embody our faith through works of justice and love. When we see someone in need, our response cannot be limited to mere words of well-wishing. If we have the means, we are called to act. If we do not have the means, we are called to find ways to support others in the work of mercy. This is how the world sees the Body of Christ alive and at work in the world—through our collective efforts to heal, feed, clothe, and love. They will know we are Christians by our love. I think there’s even a song about that.

This passage from James is as relevant today as it was when it was written. The gap between rich and poor, the divisions of class and status—these are still with us. But in Christ, we are called to a different way of being. We are called to tear down the barriers that divide us, to lift up the poor, and to live out our faith with integrity. Faith without works is dead because faith, at its heart, is about transforming the world in love. Not a love of sentimentality, but a love of sacrifice, of self-giving, and of service, especially to the least, the lost, and the unloved.

So, my beloveds, let us not be content with empty words. Let us not fall into the trap of favoritism, judging others by their appearances or status. Instead, let us live out Christ’s royal law of love. Let us be doers of the word, and not hearers only. Let our faith shine brightly, not only in what we believe but in what we do—how we love, how we serve, how we welcome all into the fold of God’s grace. May our faith be alive with the works of mercy, justice, and love that reflect the heart of God.

Leaping Off The Ledge

 

Taking up our crosses requires a leap.

 

Jeremiah 20:7-13
Psalm 69: 8-11, (12-17), 18-20
Romans 6:1b-11
Matthew 10:24-39

 

©The Rev. Seth Olson 2023

 

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

What I am about to say may be the most unpopular and (dare I say) controversial thing that I have ever said from any pulpit. I think it is not just okay, but even sometimes good (meet and right) when sporting events end in a draw. Maybe this is because I grew up playing soccer and there were many times when a well-fought 1-1 or even nil-nil (that’s zero-zero) stalemate was the most fitting outcome. You who are shocked by such an un-American concept are not alone. The title character from the series Ted Lasso agrees with you, as he said, “If God would have wanted games to end in a tie, she wouldn’t have invented numbers.” Despite Ted’s protestation, I believe forced dichotomies—like winning or losing—can be antithetical to a God who is three-in-one and one-in-three. That’s why I try to see the world not through an either/or lens instead opting for a both/and view.

While I firmly believe that life is not typically an either/or choice, that life is not even like a multiple-choice test, that almost always more than one way exists to solve a challenge, it would seem that Jesus, in today’s Gospel account, is more in the Ted Lasso camp. Jesus has a completely different way for us to follow clearly articulating a dichotomous pathway of discipleship. Back in Jesus’ day, because of following him, family members were turning on each other. This was not seen as problematic, instead Jesus named it as inevitable—even going so far as to say that he had come to bring a sword instead of peace. The penultimate statement of this passage delineates a binary choice: “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.” Jesus’ words sound crystal clear: choose me or choose your family.

Now the last time I preached on this passage back in 2017, Kim and I were about a month and a half away from Teddy’s birth. Jesus’ either/or choice was a challenge then, but now that we have two children and have lived through a move to Birmingham, a global pandemic, and so many other transitions in life, I feel angry that these words appear in the Gospel according to Matthew. Jesus seems cruel here. Yes, I am sure we all have a family member or two—that creepy uncle or that annoying cousin—whom we would gladly leave behind for Jesus. And yet, Jesus’ way here of being exclusionary to our family runs counter to so much of the Good News. So, the question must be asked: is this what Jesus said?

When Matthew and his community came together to write down this Gospel account they did so in a very particular context. Soon after Jesus’ death, resurrection, and ascension, many believed the Way of Christ was simply an offshoot of Judaism. These ragtag followers of Jesus believed some outrageous things that many Jewish people struggled to comprehend. Namely, these disciples thought that the hope of the People of God had become incarnate in Jesus of Nazareth, that he fulfilled all the law and the prophets, and that even death had been destroyed through the power of the Cross and empty tomb! We’ve heard these claims so often that they might sound mundane to us 21^st Century American Christians, but to First Century Mediterranean audiences, especially Jewish ones, these words were preposterous.

I can empathize with the people of Israel who would have not only given Christians an odd glance, but also would have thought there’s no way that God had fulfilled all the promises from Hebrew Holy Scripture in the person of Jesus. Things were still wrong. People were still suffering. The Romans were still occupying Israel. How could all things be fulfilled if this much brokenness was still present?

So many Israelites would have believed this way of Christ was way out of touch with reality. Thus, many members of the Early Church would have been standing up to their parents, or perhaps the other way around with parents converting as their children wanted to keep the way of the Torah. In this world then, an either/or choice seemingly existed: Family or Jesus.

Maybe Jesus said these exact words as presented here by Matthew. There are some scholars though that believe this is an example of the phenomenon known as transparency. When the words of Jesus were presented in such a way that they spoke more closely to the realities of Matthew’s community (forty years after Jesus’ Passion) than to the realities of Jesus’ earthly ministry (around the year 30) this is an example of transparency. Let this bit wash over you as we explore what Jesus said after this statement about family.

He added on, concluding this passage with an enigmatic declaration, “Whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.” Buried in this statement about taking up the cross, following Jesus, and losing one’s life for Christ’s sake—buried in this statement a mysterious kernel hides that pushes us to see the choice of family or Jesus differently. The way of Jesus is always the way of the Cross. As much as I yearn to see the beauty and benefits of this way—taking up one’s cross still stands out as deeply painful, profoundly difficult, and requiring one’s entire life. And, I believe that when we give up everything, we receive in return an overabundance of God’s bounteous grace!

This is the crux of Our Faith. We are called to be like Jesus, the Christ, who completely emptied himself. Leaping off that ledge of certainty, we are called to offer everything such that God might take, bless, break, and give our lives back to us anew, transformed, and fulfilled. This is the path of Christ.

And this way of the Cross pushes us beyond a worldview of either/or. If we are cynical though, we might jump to the conclusion that Jesus himself only had a couple of choices in taking up the cross: On one path, Jesus could have become a victim in the moment—taking on the suffering of the cross to an unhealthy point identifying only as powerless and persecuted. On another course, Jesus could have become a victimizer in the Resurrection—avenging his death by paying back those who betrayed, tortured, and killed him, but there is no Bible Part Two: Jesus’ Revenge.

God took neither of these roads, instead walking a third way not victim nor victimizer, but instead redeeming the world through self-emptying love. When Jesus asks us to pick up our crosses and follow him, we are not being asked to make an either/or choice. No, instead we must do something much harder.

The way of Jesus requires us to give up our usual way of seeing the world and living in it. We must take up the sword that Jesus speaks of not to cut others out unnecessarily and certainly not to inflict physical harm. Instead, God calls us to discern how we might more closely follow Christ by cutting away material items, unhealthy relationships, selfish tendencies, and all that serves only our false selves. We must practice a type of living martyrdom in which we give up how we would otherwise be living, so that we might take up our crosses and follow Christ. Does this mean we abandon our families, our friends, or our communities? By no means!

Two chapters after this passage, Jesus went on to say, “A house divided [against itself] cannot stand.” On the surface, today’s passage makes it seem like Jesus wanted to bifurcate families; however, the larger scope of the Good News of Christ Jesus points toward a third way. Think about this: when Jesus synthesized all of Hebrew Scripture he said, “Love the Lord, your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind and love your neighbor as yourself.” Here he was answering a question about the greatest commandment. He did not give the greatest commandment, instead he offered three simultaneous commands. My interpretation of it is that we love God by loving our neighbor. We love our neighbor by holding up a true image of God who is both self-differentiated and self-giving, who loves us freely and fully, who is as immediate as our very breath and as transcendent as multiverses light years away. We love our neighbor as ourselves—implying we love ourselves by being a part of the life of God in community.

Much of the culture around us wants us to believe that everything is either/or: black or white, male or female, rich or poor, old or young, weak or strong, gay or straight, cis or trans, Christian or not, Protestant or Catholic, typical or atypical, Alabama or Auburn, us or them. This is even how some people make their living. By scaring others into believing that if you are going to be a part of us you must buy this, buy into that, or cut them out. This is not the way of the Cross—this is not the way of Christ.

As one scholar put it, “This entire [passage] is finally about the radical choices that constitute the life of discipleship [that is following and learning from Jesus]. To forsake lesser loyalties is to risk social death in hope of a new kind of life. The image most adequate to this wager is the cross and the life it promises beyond, NOT INSTEAD OF, such dying.”[1] To live life in Christ you have to risk the death of your current life, but there is life beyond—here and now—and it is eternal life.

God will always find a way to break down the barriers of either/or that our world clings to so forcefully. The question is are we in this church going to help God break down those walls to co-create a both/and existence in this life? May we take up our crosses giving our lives to God, so that God might take, bless, break, and give our lives back to us anew, transformed, and fulfilled. Amen!

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[1] Lance Pape “Commentary on Year A Proper 7 Matthew 10:24-39” in Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 3. Eds. David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor. (Louisville KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 169.