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.

 

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.

Having One Purpose

In college I went through a Faith Crisis. Maybe you have experienced a period in life like my own. I began to question everything that I had previously held sacred from my beloved Episcopal Church to the Holy Scriptures. I reverted back to my two or three-year-old self, asking repeatedly, “But why?” to my longstanding beliefs about God existing, God loving me, and Jesus being my savior. Why is Jesus my Savior? That was the question that seemed to linger the longest without my having any progress towards an answer.

As an “invincible” and angst-y twenty-year-old I believed that I needed not a Savior. “From what is Jesus even saving me?” I questioned some friends who were also struggling with their faith. No ghouls, ghosts, or goblins attacked me. No struggle for existence happened. Maybe an existential dilemma or two, but comfortably I sat thinking that I needed not a Savior. At the time I could not comprehend or feel that what I need saving from was not something outside of myself, but something within me.

No beasts existed on the outside, but on the inside a monster lurked that all of us inevitably must face. That monster is the Truth: We are mortal. We are broken. We are sinful. And while I know that we are wonderfully made “very good” in God’s eyes, the lives we live so often distort our relationship with God, as we believe in our own divinity instead of God’s. Like the naïve twenty-something that I was, we sometimes must turn our backs on God scorching the forest that was our faith, so that God can grow something anew and we can realize that it is not we that saves ourselves.

Today is a day when we come face-to-face with our mortality, our brokenness, and our sinfulness. The fires may have subsided, but the ashes remain. The marks we will receive from those ashes on our foreheads keep in the forefront of our hearts and minds that we are not infinite, but merely dust. Yet, how do we honestly confront the truth of our existence? Some of us will take on Spiritual Practices that aid us in remembering the Truth. And yet, Jesus warns us to be mindful of how we go about this discipline.

Throughout the Sermon on the Mount, of which today’s Gospel lesson is a part, Jesus teaches of alms giving, praying, and fasting, as spiritual disciplines. These are ways that we can all build upon our relationship with God. Still a temptation exists in believing that these practices are for achieving some external merit. Even when we do our best, these spiritual disciplines have a way of manipulating our egos making us think we are better than we are.

Not too long after God had found me in the burned up Faith of my youth, I began discerning a call to ordained ministry. Every week I would sit with a mentor and we would discuss our spiritual lives. Inevitably whenever one of us said, “Man, my prayer life is kicking!” or “I am on a real roll spiritually!” that would be the moment when I would fall on my face or he would stumble in his walk with Christ. Again, I wondered why?

A quick glancing at today’s reading from Matthew might give us the impression that Jesus only warns about spiritual practices falling prey to hypocrisy. While hypocrisy remains a troubling attribute of Christianity, a deeper problem persists. Doing something for others to see, saying something and doing the perceived opposite, or being overly showy with religious gestures all seem detestable. Yet, that is not what my mentor or I were doing. We were simply sharing our faith journey, but that moment of saying, “I’m doing well,” took the concentration away from God. Digging deeper in today’s Gospel lesson, we discover that Jesus’ primary concern is one of intention.

Giving alms, praying and fasting do not exist as stepping stones, but rather they develop in themselves a deeper connection with God. Put another way, when we follow Christ’s warning the spiritual practices we choose are most beneficial when they possess an inborn connectivity with God. The point of giving alms, praying, or fasting is not to be seen, heard, or respected, but rather to be in the presence of the Almighty.

Giving up something during this season comes from a need to recognize our complete reliance upon God. Taking on a new discipline is not about also losing a few pounds or restarting a New Year’s resolution. Instead let the Spirit guide your Lenten Discipline, so that whatever it is you do or do not do will in and of itself push you to experience the transforming release of God’s grace. Does this mean we say nothing of our Lenten discipline?

Lent is a communal season for us and to practice Lent as a community remains a valuable gift of the Church. Yet in this time when we take on disciplines we must examine the purpose of what we are doing. Are we trying to save ourselves like I thought I could when I was younger, are we thinking about what others will say or think about whatever it is we are doing, or are we yearning to be in deeper communion with Father, Son, and Spirit?

Lent is a season when we practice storing up treasures not here on earth, but in heaven by returning and reconnecting with the Almighty. This is the one, pure purpose of our Lenten journey. If we are pious for the sake of power, control, affection, esteem, approval, pleasure, security, or even survival, then we are setting ourselves up to be cloth to a moth, metal to rust, or goods to a thief. We are mortal, we are broken, and we are sinful, but we have a Savior who yearns for us to grow closer. Not for the benefit of anyone or anything else, but because God loves you so dearly and yearns that you turn back to God!