Life in the Soil of Discipleship

Are you following Jesus in the midst of a challenging life or are challenges arising in the midst of following Jesus?

Jeremiah 18:1-11
Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17
Philemon 1-21
Luke 14:25-33

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on September 7, 2025 at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the message 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. 

 

Holy Apostles, let me just say it from the start: this Gospel lesson is a doozy. It’s one of those moments when you half-expect me to stop reading, look up at you all, and say, “Wait, do we really want to keep going with this ‘Good News’?” Jesus tells the crowd, “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters—yes, even life itself—cannot be my disciple.” Yo, Jesus who soured your wine? Who burnt your bread, buddy? It appears that Our Lord is coming in hot.

 

This instruction to hate is not exactly the stuff of inspirational posters. It’s not the message one should take to this year’s Thanksgiving dinner: “Pass the turkey, Mom… also, Jesus told me to hate you now.” Awkward, right?!

 

But, this passage is here, which brings us to a larger question: how do we read Holy Scripture? It might be tempting, but as faithful followers of Jesus we don’t get to skip the challenging verses, we don’t soften them, nor do we pretend they aren’t there. Instead, we do what disciples have always done: wrestle with the difficult stories, pray for God’s wisdom, and ask each other what God is saying to us here and now. And sometimes—thanks be to God—together we receive deeper understanding and even get to laugh along the way.

 

A further insight about how we engage Holy Scripture before refocusing on this particular passage. As ones who follow the Revised Common Lectionary, over the course of three years on Sundays we get most of the books of the Bible. This means that if you show up for 156 straight Sundays you’re going to have heard the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of our most sacred text. We cannot hold all of it together without some of it contradicting itself. Our work, with each other and most importantly with God’s help, is to carefully discern how Holy Scripture molds, shapes, and directs our lives. 

 

Think of it this way: We cannot take a cafeteria line approach to reading the Bible where we pick and choose what we want to follow. Instead, together we use our hearts, souls, strength, and yes our MINDS to determine what the Spirit is saying to us the Church through the Living Word of God. 

This means we take the Bible far too seriously to simply take it literally. It’s not an instruction book—it’s a series of varying books about God’s love affair with Creation, specifically human beings. And, it requires the love of Christ (self-giving, sacrificial, extravagant, eternal, and unconditional), it requires this love to serve as the interpretative key. Without Christ’s love it’s not going to make sense! Now, back to our passage, which seems to be lacking in love.

Jesus gives us two little parables about “counting the cost.” A man about to build a tower first sits down and figures out if he has enough to finish it. A king about to go to war first checks whether he has the soldiers to stand a chance.

 

I’ve built a few things in my life—not towers, mind you, but Ikea bookshelves. Even with those, I usually end up with a few pieces left over and a slightly lopsided shelf that looks more like modern art than storage furniture. If even Ikea requires counting the cost, what do you think about the cost of following Jesus? 

 

What Jesus is saying is clear: discipleship (being a student of His Way of Love) is not something you stumble into by accident. Maybe it starts that way, but eventually it takes intention. It takes sacrifice. It takes putting him at the center, so that everything else in your life—family, work, money, politics, even your identity—lines up around him.

Now, that we understand those mini-parables a bit more, what about that “hate your family” line? Jesus is not giving us permission slips to bail on family dinners or to ignore our kids’ soccer games. The Greek word here could be rendered “love less than.” It’s a way of saying: your ultimate loyalty belongs to God. Even the most precious human relationships cannot outrank the call of discipleship, and I always think it’s important to point out: one way to love God is to love your family well. They aren’t mutually exclusive!

 

So, no Jesus isn’t anti-family. He’s pro-clarity. He’s saying: be clear about what’s first. If the Great I AM is first, then everything else finds its rightful place afterward. (Watch this from Stephen Covey about "Big Rocks First" for a visual example of this!)

And, here’s where this hits home. You don’t need me to tell you that life is complicated. I look out at this congregation, and I know:

• Some of you are caring for aging parents, juggling doctor’s appointments, prescriptions, and your own fatigue.
• Some of you are living in the tension of strained or complicated relationships.
• Some of you are raising children in a world that feels less certain, less safe, than the one you grew up in.
• Some of you are working so hard just to make ends meet, and wondering if it will ever get easier.

And in the middle of all this, here comes Jesus with his cross, saying: “Follow me.”

But, when we go about our lives in this way, we are living out of order. For the heart of this Gospel message is this: You aren’t following Jesus in the midst of all these challenges, as though your life is primary and Jesus is the side project. No—the challenges arise in the midst of following Jesus.

 

Maybe it seems like a slight shift, but it makes all the difference. My mom used to have a shirt, by the way it read: Do you have change for a paradigm? This shift means that discipleship is not something we squeeze in around the edges of our busy lives. Discipleship is the soil in which our lives grow. It’s the ground we stand on. Everything else—our families, our work, our challenges—sprouts up from that holy soil.

That means the tough stuff isn’t proof that you’re doing it wrong. Life is hard. And, that difficulty is simply part of life in the soil of discipleship. Following Jesus doesn’t exempt us from hardship. But it also isn't the last word!

Take Paul’s letter to Philemon today. Paul is writing from prison, urging Philemon to receive Onesimus—a runaway slave—not as property, but as a brother in Christ. Whoa, that’s a costly word! That wasn’t the way of the world—Paul was upending social norms, disrupting economic stability, and challenging Philemon to see his life not through the lens of Roman law but growing from the soil of discipleship.

 

This, friends, is exactly what we are trying to live into together as a congregation right now, in this soil of discipleship. We’re entering into a season of envisioning—asking who we are, what values shape us, and what mission God is calling us to in the next three to five years.

 

It might be tempting to think: “Once life calms down, once the budget is easier, once we all agree on everything—then we can get serious about following Jesus.” But that’s not how it works.

 

The Gospel says: we don’t wait for the perfect conditions. We start here, now, with the lives we actually have. Walking the Way of Love is not something we tack on after the fact. Discipleship is the ground on which we build.

 

So as we dream together—about values, vision, and mission—we’re not inventing something new from scratch. We’re tending the soil that’s already beneath us. We’re asking: what does it look like to live more deeply into our identity as students of the Divine, the Incarnate One we call Jesus?

And, y’all want to know the really good news? The challenges you carry—caring for parents, raising kids, navigating brokenness, making ends meet—these don’t mean you’ve failed at discipleship. They are indicators that you are engaging in tilling and tending to that soil, so that something remarkable will grow with God’s help.

 

Think about it like gardening. If you’ve ever planted vegetables, you know: some years the plants thrive, other years they wither. Sometimes you get blossoms and no fruit. But the soil is still the soil. And so, persistent gardeners keep at it—composting, watering, weeding—because they know eventually the soil yields abundance. 

 

So too with us. Following Jesus is about tending the soil of our lives. Some seasons are lean. Some are abundant. But the soil is still holy. And God still scatters seeds in our soil.

Now, does this mean it’ll all be smooth sailing? Hardly! If you think discipleship is easy, try putting together a piece of Ikea furniture with your family. That’ll test the holiness of your soil right quick.

 

But the good news is that Jesus walks this road ahead of us and with us. He carried the cross first. Now He shows us that the way of sacrifice is also the way of life, the way of love, the way of hope.

 

And if Jesus can redeem the cross, then surely he can redeem our family struggles, our weariness, our loooong meetings, and yes—even our half-built Ikea purchases.

So friends, let’s not get spooked by this Gospel’s intensity. Let’s hear it for what it is: Jesus calling us to clarify our lives. To make him the soil in which everything else grows.

 

Let’s count the cost together—not to scare ourselves away, but to remember the amazing gift of what we’re being invited into: life with God, life in Christ, life rooted in love that no challenge, no hardship, no brokenness can uproot.

 

And as we take up our envisioning work, may we do so with that same clarity. We don’t follow Jesus in the midst of our challenges. These challenges arise in the midst of following him. And that shift makes all the difference.

 

So, let’s follow. Let’s have change for our paradigm. Let’s dream. Let’s live as students of the Divine, the Incarnate One, who is our soil, our center, our life.

 

Amen.

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.

 

Teach Us To Pray

The disciples have a simple plea for Jesus, "Teach us to pray," so why is prayer such a mysterious art?

Hosea 1:2-10
Psalm 85
Colossians 2:6-15, (16-19)
Luke 11:1-13

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on July 27, 2025 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. 

“Lord, teach us to pray…”

 

It’s a beautiful request. Not, “teach us what to pray” or “give us the perfect words,” but, teach us to pray. Teach us how to live in this strange, sacred rhythm of communion. Instruct us in how to enter the mystery that holds us. Educate us in how to show up—even when we’re tired, confused, or grieving. Even when we’re joyful or just busy. Teach us to pray.

 

Because prayer is not something we master. It’s something into which we enter, like a gateway. It’s not something we perfect; it’s something that perfects us—over time, like water smoothing stone. And, perhaps most importantly, prayer is not something we do as much as something we become.

 

When the disciples asked Jesus this question, he didn’t respond with a lofty lecture or even a story right away. He gave them words. A model. Something simple.

 

Not flashy. Not proud. Just: “Father, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Give us each day our daily bread. Forgive us our sins… and do not bring us to the time of trial.”

 

The verbs Jesus employed are bold imperatives—Give! Forgive! Lead! Deliver! There’s an urgency to it. But there’s also intimacy: “Father”—in Aramaic, Abba—Papa or dada is the more colloquial form in English. This does not depict a distant deity, but a loving parent. One who already knows what we need before we ask. One who invites us to keep asking anyway because Lord knows I don’t always hear my children’s requests the first time they say it.

 

And there’s something else here, something that connects this prayer across centuries and continents: it endures. 

 

What I mean is 2,000 years later, it’s a prayer within every Episcopal service we offer. And more than that, the Lord’s Prayer is one of the most universal prayers in all of Christianity. Maybe the only supplications more well-worn are the ones Anne Lamott, the theologian and writer, lifts up: Help. Thanks. Wow. 

 

The prayer Jesus taught us has been whispered by children at bedtime and recited in crowded churches. It’s been said in the hush of early mornings and the chaos of emergency rooms. It echoes through recovery meetings in church basements, and sometimes it’s the very last thing a person with Alzheimer’s remembers how to say. It’s simple, powerful, and rooted in trust—and it came in response to this honest plea: “Lord, teach us to pray.”

 

But let’s be honest—sometimes prayer feels like shouting into the void.

Especially for those among us who are grieving… who are aging and feeling their bodies change in ways they never asked for—losing taste, smell, or mobility… who struggle to hear their grandchildren’s laughter… who are facing health diagnoses or wrestling with spiritual fatigue.

 

We also have folks who feel anxious about the return of the school year—whether they’re students, teachers, or parents counting down the days. We have those who are hurting from recent loss. 

 

We have those who are flourishing—empty nesters rediscovering themselves, retirees finally enjoying rest, and people entering exciting new chapters of their careers or relationships.

 

And we have some who are wounded by the hurts of the world—by war, famine, political division, economic injustice, and the slow, aching burn of God’s Creation crying out as we continue to pollute and ignore Mother Earth. In short, we have people all over the physical, spiritual, emotional, and psychological maps… So, it’s worth wonder…

 

What unites us? What draws us together as one?

 

Well, prayer! That’s part of why we’re all here right now. And perhaps even more what binds us together is that we still don’t know how to pray. At least, not perfectly. We are stumbling and fumbling into God’s presence together, and that’s okay.

Because prayer is not a magic trick to make life better. It is not a transaction with a vending-machine God. Prayer is not about presents (what we get), but about presence (who we are with). As Frederick Buechner wrote, “We all pray whether we think of it that way or not. The quiet, tired, aching part of us is always praying.”

 

Prayer is the language of longing. Of trust. Of communion.

And sometimes it sounds like silence. Sometimes it sounds like screaming. Sometimes it’s tears. Sometimes it’s song—when you pray twice. And sometimes it’s just showing up—again and again—like the neighbor in Jesus’ parable.

 

Let’s talk about that neighbor.

 

It’s midnight. One friend is knocking on another’s door, demanding bread. The host is annoyed—his kids are asleep in his bed (very relatable, as I awoke this morning to find Teddy next to me). The man’s locked in for the night. But Jesus says, the neighbor doesn’t give up. And not because of friendship, but because of word we misinterpret from the Greek. In our Gospel lesson I read it as persistence, but it’s closer to shamelessness.

 

That friend is without shame. He’s bold, unfiltered, unembarrassed to ask for what he needs on behalf of someone else.

And Jesus says… that’s what prayer can be like.

 

Shameless in our need. Bold in our trust. Relentless in our knocking—not to wake up a sleepy God, but to awaken ourselves to the divine presence that is already within and around us, so that we might act—that we might respond as God’s hands and heart in this world.

 

The Episcopal tradition teaches that prayer is “responding to God, by thought and by deeds, with or without words.” Did you catch that? Prayer doesn’t start with us. Prayer is always a response to what God is already doing. And sometimes the best way to pray is just to notice. To be aware. To be willing.

 

Willing to sit in silence. Willing to name our wounds. Willing to ask boldly, even if we don’t know what we’re really asking for. Willing to be changed.

 

Friends, I don’t think prayer is about getting what we want. I think it’s about becoming who we are.

 

Because if we are made in the image of God, and if God is the Great Mystery, then there’s something mysterious in each of us too. Prayer is the meeting of our mystery and the Great Mystery. It is not always rational. It is not always productive. But it is always holy.

 

In prayer, we don’t solve the mystery of God or of life or of ourselves. But we can be saved by it. Transformed by it. Freed by it—to live more fully, more honestly, and more courageously.

 

And maybe that’s where this sermon lands: not with answers, but with an invitation.

 

To pray. Shamelessly. Boldly. Simply. Consistently. To show up for yourself. To show up for the neighbor knocking and the neighbor who has traveled from far off. To show up for the world.

 

Because when we pray—whether it’s in our hearts or in our bodies, in this sanctuary or stuck in traffic—we are not just talking to God out there. We are communing with the God who dwells within. We are aligning ourselves with the divine grace already present. We are awakening to the truth that even our smallest prayers stretch outward to the farthest bounds of God’s Creation.

 

We are not alone. We are connected. We are loved. And we are heard.

So pray. As you can. As you are. Not to change God’s mind, but to change our lives.

 

Amen.

Bless Both

Which way is right: Martha's or Mary's?

Amos 8:1-12
Psalm 52
Colossians 1:15-28
Luke 10:38-42

 

©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. 

 

It has been a full and holy week around here.

 

Laughter echoing through the hallways. The entire interior of this building transforming into an Alaskan forest. And every day, a sanctuary full of children singing out a sacred truth: that we can trust Jesus because God is with us—no matter what.

 

Vacation Bible School, as joyful and chaotic and colorful as it is, teaches us something that today’s Gospel lesson holds in beautiful tension. In the sacred chaos of dancing to “This is the Day the Lord Has Made,” and water coloring around sacred verses, and eating chicken nuggets on picnic blankets in the Narthex, there is movement. There is service. There is a very Martha-like hustle that makes VBS happen.

 

And yet, we didn’t just rush around like a squirrel on espresso in a room full of marbles. We paused. We gathered in circles to tell stories. We asked each other questions and heard each other’s wonderings. We talked about wounds and healing, about belonging and hope. And, those moments sound an awful lot like Mary to me.

 

So, this makes me wonder, perhaps this week was not just a gift for our children—but also a gentle parable for us grown-ups and youth to learn.

 

In our Gospel reading, Jesus enters the home of two sisters: Martha and Mary. Martha gets to work immediately—preparing the meal, tending to hospitality. She is doing what society expects, what custom prescribes, what her generous spirit likely yearns to offer.

 

Mary, on the other hand, sits at Jesus’ feet. She listens. She chooses presence over productivity.

 

And Jesus…does not say that Martha is wrong. But he does say that Mary has chosen the better part. And it will not be taken from her.

 

Now, let’s be honest—this story has rubbed people the wrong way for centuries. Especially those of us who know the weight of the “to-do list.” Particularly in church, where hospitality is a sacred act and nothing happens unless someone does the dishes.

 

It may be tempting to pit Martha against Mary—one bad, one good. But that’s not what Jesus is doing here. He’s not canceling Martha. He’s inviting her to breathe. 

 

There is a phrase from the Jewish tradition that fits appropriately with today’s Gospel: “Put both hands on the world.”

 

I hear in that phrase an invitation to be like Martha and Mary. To hold in one hand the work of love, of justice, of service. And in the other, the presence, the stillness, the sabbath rest of God.

 

Jesus doesn’t want us to abandon serving others, but he does want us to let our service be nourished by being present to the Presence.

 

After all, even God rested. Six days, six eras of Creation, then one of Recreation, of Restoration. 

And, even Jesus took time in the wilderness. To pause. To pray. To be present with His Heavenly Father.

Even the Holy Spirit hovers, breathes, waits. We may think that we can make Her show up on Sundays right at 10:30 a.m. and 8:30 a.m. starting on August 10^th, but we must exhibit patience to feel the Spirit’s wind rushing over us, to hear the still, small voice of Divine Wisdom.

 

We cannot demand God’s presence. However, we can wait for it—being open to anything while expecting nothing.

 

There’s something else here too—something VBS kids seemed to grasp better than I do sometimes. This story is not just about the difference between action and contemplation. It’s about belonging.

 

Mary sits where only disciples sat! At the feet of the rabbi. That was not a place for women in her time. So, working in the background of Martha’s complaint is a subtle sexism—my sister can’t do that! “She’s supposed to be helping me!” I hear the busy sister protesting.But Jesus sees Mary, affirms her presence, blesses her learning.

 

It’s another way of saying: You belong here. You are part of my beloved circle. You are a disciple, just like Peter and James and John.

 

And Martha? She belongs, too. In truth, I think Jesus’ gentle correction isn’t about the food or the fuss. It’s about her worry. “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things…”

Isn’t that us? I know it’s me…

 

In seminary there’s this phrase that gets tossed around in courses about how to be an effective pastor. The phrase is “You must learn to be a non-anxious presence.” If I’m honest, there are times when I am the exact opposite, an anxious non-presence. I come by it honestly though, just look at our society.

 

We’ve built lives, churches, and communities full of good intentions, brimming with important work—but we’ve often lost the sacred pause. The better part. We’ve gotten so good at doing for Jesus that we’ve forgotten how to be with Jesus.

 

I heard someone once say that Christianity is not about getting things done—it’s about becoming someone new in Christ. And becoming someone new takes time. Space. Silence. Sabbath.

That’s part of why we’re offering our Parish Sabbath Retreat over Labor Day Weekend. It’s not just another event on the church calendar. It’s a deliberate invitation to step away from the noise and re-center our lives on what really matters. No committee meetings, no formal agenda, no rush. Just time to breathe, to reconnect with one another, with Creation, and with God, and to remember who we are beyond what we do.

 

So, if your soul is craving rest… if your calendar is too full… if you find yourself, like Martha, distracted by many things—come. This is your permission to pause. To be still. To choose the better part. You belong at the table, not just in the kitchen. And God delights in your presence.

 

Church, here’s the invitation Jesus offers all of us in today’s Good News:

Don’t stop setting the table.
Don’t stop feeding the hungry.
Don’t stop showing up when the work needs doing.

But remember: the table is set so we can sit at it.

The food is prepared so we can break bread together.

The work of hospitality is holy—and so is the pause that lets love speak.

 

Let’s be a community that blesses both. That gives thanks for every Martha who prepares the way, and every Mary who reminds us to listen.

Let’s practice a rhythm of movement and stillness, action and contemplation, service and sabbath.

 

Let’s put both hands on the world.

 

Because only with both hands can we hold it with love.

 

Amen.