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.

 

Who’s At Your Gate?

Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15
Psalm 91:1-6, 14-16
1 Timothy 6:6-19
Luke 16:19-31

 

©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. 

 

There was a man who wore Italian suits and sat in a corner office with glass walls overlooking the whole city. He never thought about how much the meal in front of him cost — only whether the chef had cooked it with enough creativity. If not, he sent it back. His wine was aged, his shirts monogrammed, his calendar packed with power lunches and board meetings.

 

And at the revolving glass doors of the skyscraper with his name on it, a man named Luis sat on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign. Every day. His hair was matted, his body hunched, his legs covered in sores no one wanted to see. Most people walked past with eyes forward, AirPods in.

The CEO did the same. He didn’t curse him or spit on him. He just didn’t see him. Luis was NRP — “not a real person,” as the Roy family from HBO’s Succession might put it. Disposable. Forgettable. Background noise in someone else’s success story.

 

It sounds Dickensian, doesn’t it? Like Ebenezer Scrooge sweeping past the Cratchits, blind to their humanity. But unlike Scrooge, this man never has a ghost of Christmas Future to shake him awake.

 

Because the future arrives too soon. Both men die. The one who lived in penthouses now lies in torment. And the one who begged at the gateway of the building is carried into the nearness of God, embraced by Abraham, Jesus, and the faithful. There, wrapped in God’s love, Luis is made whole.

Across a great chasm, the CEO cries out to the heavenly hosts: “Send Luis to bring me something to drink, a sports drink or some water at the very least.” After being rebuffed — because he had already received his reward in life and had not shared it — the CEO demands that Luis be sent to warn his children and grandchildren.

 

“They have already heard the good news of God’s love for them,” comes the reply.

 

“Yes, but if they receive a special invitation from one risen from the dead, they will listen.”

 

Finally, the heavenly voice answers: “If they do not listen to the good news of love conquering death, of captives released and the lowly exalted, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.”

 

That’s not quite how Jesus told it, but it’s close. And if you’re like me, you might feel your stomach twist a little bit. Because this is one of Jesus’ most unsettling parables. It’s not polite. It doesn’t let us get comfortable.

And here, in this unsettled space, I need to name something clearly: This is not a parable about the afterlife.

 

Yes, Jesus uses afterlife imagery — Hades, Abraham’s bosom, a great chasm — but the point isn’t to map heaven and hell. The point is to expose what happens when wealth blinds us, when indifference becomes the air we breathe, when we treat certain people as if they are “not real.”

 

In Jesus’ time, the gap between rich and poor was as brutal as it is today. A tiny elite lived in luxury while most scraped by. Banquets, purple robes, fine linens — those were the trappings of royalty and an exclusive priesthood, not the daily wear of ordinary people. To imagine someone dressed like that every day was to picture obscene excess—the modern-day equivalent of Ellison, Musk, or Saudi princes. 

 

And Lazarus? He is given dignity in the story by being named, and his name means “God helps.” The rich man remains nameless — not because he is not loved by God, but because in the Kingdom of God, the rich man’s identity has been lost in all his things. As though pieces of his soul are owned by the things he owns. 

 

Back on earth, dogs lick Lazarus’ sores. In Jewish culture, canines were unclean animals. The image isn’t just pitiful — it’s scandalous. This is social, physical, ritual exclusion all in one. No person attends to him; it is the other creatures of God who show him compassion.

 

But, then comes the reversal. Abraham’s bosom was a way of describing the rest of the righteous dead. Hades, torment, the great chasm — these were familiar apocalyptic images, meant to shock hearers awake, not to provide a tourist guide to eternity.

 

Notice how the story unfolds:

• The rich man never once speaks to Lazarus. Even in death, he only talks to Abraham, as if Lazarus were still beneath him. “Send Lazarus to bring me water.” “Send Lazarus to warn my brothers.” He cannot imagine Lazarus as anything other than a servant. His blindness follows him even into Hades.
• Abraham’s response is sharp: “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.” In other words: the rich man doesn’t need new revelations. The Scriptures are already clear. Justice, mercy, care for the poor — it’s written all over the Law and Prophets.
• Then the stinger: “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.” Which foreshadows Jesus’ own resurrection — and the hardness of hearts that refuse to see its power. It points us to the very pattern of existence: life, death, resurrection; order, disorder, reorientation.

Well, what about us?

Luke tells us that Jesus spoke this parable right after the Pharisees ridiculed him, “for they were lovers of money.” They thought their wealth and status were proof that God was on their side. But Jesus says otherwise. And friends, if we’re honest, we need to hear this warning too — because our own comforts can lull us into believing we’re fine, while Lazarus still waits at the gate.

Even if we’re not extravagantly rich like the man in purple robes, many of us live with comforts, with security, with full pantries — and it becomes so easy not to notice the Lazaruses we walk past every day.

The sin of the rich man is not that he is wealthy, nor is it cruelty. It is neglect. He never strikes Lazarus, never yells at him. He just lives his life as if Lazarus does not exist. That neglect condemns him.

And it corrodes whole systems too. The Roy family in Succession coined “NRP” — “No Real Person Involved.” That’s chilling, isn’t it? A category for people whose suffering doesn’t matter, whose disappearance won’t be noticed. And yet, if we’re honest, we have our own versions of “NRP”: the immigrant family caught up in politics; the unhoused neighbor we pass with eyes averted; the incarcerated person whose humanity is erased by statistics.

Barbara Brown Taylor calls this “living in a gated community of the heart.” It’s not just iron gates. It’s emotional and spiritual walls that keep us from seeing.

Richard Rohr says sin is blindness — the refusal to see reality, the refusal to see Christ in the least of these.

This parable is not a horror story meant to scare us into good behavior. It is a wake-up call to reorder our lives now. The chasm is not simply in the afterlife — it is in our world, in our neighborhoods, in our pews. And the gospel call is to bridge it before it becomes unbridgeable.

How do we bridge it?

• First, notice that the poor man is named. Even the rich man knew who Lazarus was. Who are the named, real people in our lives whom we are tempted to treat as invisible? Can we learn their names, hear their stories, see their dignity?
• Second, act now. Abraham says, “They have Moses and the prophets.” Friends, we already know what God requires: to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with God. This isn’t new revelation. It’s old truth waiting to be lived.
• Third, embody the power of Christ’s love. Abraham warns, “Neither will they believe even if someone rises from the dead.” Resurrection is not magic proof. It is an invitation. If we don’t practice compassion now, we may miss Christ even when he stands before us, alive.

Friends, this is a hard parable. But the good news is that it’s not finished. We’re still alive. We still have time. The great chasm is not yet fixed. We can still cross it.

We cross it every time we notice someone at the gate. Every time we resist the urge to label someone “not a real person.” Every time we open our hearts, our wallets, our schedules, and our communities to those the world overlooks.

And when we do, we discover that it’s not just Lazarus we’re meeting at the gate. It is Christ himself.

Because Christ is always found at the margins. Christ is always with the one on the sidewalk, the one in the detention center, the one who’s been told they don’t matter. Christ is waiting at the gate, calling us across the chasm, into the Kingdom of God that is already breaking in.

Amen.

 

No One Talks About Dried Fish

Dried fish usually are not the topic of sermons, but they are today.

Dried fish. No one ever talks about dried fish. Sure, throughout the Bible there are dozens of mentions of fishing. Jesus even recruits his first disciples using the analogy of angling to lure them to follow him (yes, pun intended). However, we do not hear about dried fish. I bet you’ve never even heard a sermon mention dried fish. Perhaps that is because the fragrance of perfumed nard covers up any stench of smoked fish, but as we walk with Jesus into the home of Lazarus, Martha, and Mary in Bethany, I want to tell you about dried fish.

Before I can tell you about the fish though, we have to do a little math. This is not my strong suit, so forgive me if I miscalculate, but to talk about the fish we have to do the math and we have to talk about some money. When our Gospel story for today took place the way that people were paid for their deeds was a silver denarius. This was not a completely silver coin. It was probably 80%, which would not have been acceptable in Temple sacrifice, no they needed the more pure 94% silver pieces minted in Tyre. This is beside the point, and I am getting away from the money, and the math, and the fish. A denarius, regardless of its silver content, was the standard wage for a day’s work. A week’s work equaled 6 denarii, remember to keep the Sabbath holy. A month’s work equated to about 26 denarii. A year’s salary (with a little vacation thrown in there) would be right around 300 denarii. If you put 300 denarii, or a year’s salary into today’s standards that is $30,000 (plus or minus a little bit). Now what does this have to do with dried fish? We’re getting there.

$30,000 is an eye popping amount of money. Maybe not to Bill Gates, but to me that is a lot of money. Even more, that is a ton of money to spend on one item. Maybe not if we are talking about a car, or a year of college (yeah, that's what it costs at some schools), or remodeling a kitchen, but what about something for a dead man? When we hone in on the audacity of Mary Magdalene busting open a $30,000 bottle of essential oil used for burial, it is quite shocking! Of course, Judas got upset. $30,000 was the total of our Outreach Grants last year at St. John’s. What if I decided I wanted to go out and get some essential oils for one person’s funeral instead? I have a feeling I would get more than a slap on the wrist for that costly “mistake.” Fortunately my Google searches for $30,000 essential oils came up with surprisingly few options, although I could make my own perfume fragrance for about that much money. So what does the smell of extravagant nard have to do with dried fish? We’re there now.

Even though this ideal family of believers (Lazarus, Martha, and Mary) were residing in Bethany, most put Mary attribute her home town as Magdala. The research on this town is a little confusing, as there were probably two towns with the same name (like Decatur, AL and Decatur, IL), but scholars point out that the main export in Mary’s hometown was you guessed it dried fish. The people of Magdala were known around the entire region for their ability to smoke and ship fish. This is as though Mary was running her day’s version of the Omaha Steaks company. However, this does not take away from the over generous gift that she so lovingly poured out upon Jesus’ feet. No, it all the more highlights our need, regardless of our status or income level to offer up not just part of us, but all of us to God especially during Holy Week.

Seeing the overgenerous offer that Mary extends to Jesus in Bethany serves as a call to us on this Monday of Holy Week. Yes, it is clever and ironic that a woman who made her living by smoking fish gave to Jesus the sweetest smelling gift. Even more than this moment being humorous though, this show of servanthood shines as a foretaste of John’s story of the “Last Supper.” Jesus will follow in Mary’s path of kneeling down to wash his disciples’ feet, just as Mary washed and whipped his feet with oil and hair. In this holiest of weeks our lives and Jesus’ life are to be so entangled that Christ’s story and our stories become one. To paraphrase from the Rite I Eucharistic Prayer: God, make us one body with Christ that he may dwell in us, and we in him (BCP 336). So now you have heard a sermon about dried fish (and costly nard), but this day and this week are not about one smell covering another, but rather God weaving our stories into the story of Christ. Won’t you get tangled up in God’s Story this Holy Week?

What Does It Mean To Follow Jesus?

Jesus never says to worship him, but repeatedly he invites any who hear his message to follow him. We spend a lot of time, and I in particular contemplate often, how we can best praise the Almighty. Certainly we can bear spiritual fruit by experiencing powerful moments of reverence and devotion. Yet, all the worshipping can distract us from following. Over the next six days let everything else fade away. Ponder the central question of Holy Week and all of our lives: “What does it mean to follow Jesus?”

John’s Gospel account invites us to enter into this journey to the Passover feast following after Jesus. When hearing this character-packed story we tend to put ourselves in the place of one or more of the characters. We, as human beings, have a great gift to put ourselves in the place of someone else. We can sympathize, empathize, and even project what a potential outcome would be if we were in another’s place. So with what character do you most identify? Who are you? What does this say about how you follow Jesus?

As John brings us to Bethany we first hear of Lazarus. How does Lazarus follow Jesus? Almost immediately preceding this reading Jesus had raised Lazarus from the dead. This is one instance in which we might have a difficult time empathizing with a character for who among us has ever tasted death and come back to talk about it. And yet, in our lives we experience many small deaths. The death of someone we love, the death of a job, or the death of a dream are three examples. If we find ourselves in Lazarus’ place, then following Jesus means dying and allowing the Word of God to bring us through this death.

We do not hear of the Chief Priests until late in this passage, but they concern themselves with forcibly standing against Jesus. The Chief Priests react towards this Galilean Rabbi. They not only do not follow him, but they desire to wipe away any evidence of his life and ministry, even seeking out Lazarus to put him to death once more. While we may sharply deny our hostility towards those with different beliefs, yet this Holy Week ask when we have found ourselves in the place of the Chief Priests? When have we not only been dead in our following of Jesus, but also attempted to kill someone’s attempt to follow him?

These questions bring us fittingly to Judas. The Narrator in John’s account lets us know that Judas will betray Jesus and he has even taken money from the common purse lying of his intentions to give something to the poor. The pain that this disciple of Jesus inflicts may prevent us from putting ourselves in his place. Still honestly we must admit that we fail Jesus. We do the right action for the wrong reason. We teem with jealous of others’ seemingly higher favor with Jesus. We betray Jesus because things do not go as we plan. Strangely those not named as Jesus’ disciples are the ones we do best to emulate in following Jesus

Martha went out to meet Jesus when her brother had died. She actively looked for him as he approached the lifeless Lazarus. Then on this night, Martha served those gathered to dine with Jesus. Her sister Mary went even further.

Mary spent a year’s worth of earnings to buy a pound of nard. This substance typically used to make incense, perfume, and medicines so filled the house that no one could deny Mary’s devotion to Jesus. Unlike the Chief Priests who wanted to wipe away the memory of Jesus, Mary wanted to wipe Jesus’ feet in a display of pure devotion. Mary’s self-sacrifice, giving up a large sum of money to purchase the nard, and her show of dedication, cleansing Jesus’ feet, presupposes Jesus’ own show of service washing his disciples’ feet. Clearly, we must look to the sisters Martha and Mary for the epitome of following Jesus.

This Holy Week lose yourself in the story of Jesus. Wonder who you are in this story. Courageously place yourself in the sandals of the Chief Priests and Judas and at the feet of Jesus rubbing off the nard with your hair. For we are not simply one character or another. We have a choice in following Jesus. What does it mean to follow Jesus? How do you follow him?

You Might Be Afraid of Public Speaking and Death, But Jesus Isn't!

John 11:1-45

Sermon audio click here

“Just as Jesus has met us at our tombs so we must follow him now to his own.” Meda Stamper

Sometimes I hear people say, “Public speaking is my biggest fear. Most people would rather die than speak in front of a crowd, at least that’s what I read in a study!” As someone who spends a large chunk of time speaking in front of people, and as one who every once in a while finds his foot in his mouth, I tend to say there is not much to fear up here. What I receive in return for any blunders is mostly grace upon grace from those listening. Of course my perspective is limited to my own experience, so I began wondering, “Are people really more afraid of public speaking than death?” What I discovered is there is not much evidence that talking in front of a group is more terrifying than death.

(An old saying goes, “There are lies, there are damn lies, and there are statistics.”) The often misunderstood statistic about public speaking, death and their correlation with fear originates from a 1973 questionnaire circulated by Bruskin Associates. In this study the researchers asked respondents to list their fears. Researchers gave no choices of scary things to select. Instead, those surveyed wrote down whatever came to mind. “Public speaking” was the most common answer. A distant seventh on the list was death, just behind sickness and just ahead of flying. This study with a small sampling size and an open response has made a huge impact on us. Even though it does not say that public speaking is scarier than death. We still believe that speaking in front of groups (heights, insects and bugs, financial problems, deep water, and sickness) are more to be feared than death. Yet what this research shows is that when asked blankly “What do you fear?” we will respond with a commonplace, everyday fear (public speaking or spiders).

Yet the top six responses on this list all have one thing in common. They are preventable or curable. If you are afraid of speaking in public take speech lessons. The King’s Speech chronicles the life of King George VI who suffered from Glossophobia (fear of public speaking). King George overcame this fear to deliver comforting words to England during World War II. If you are fearful of heights, you can avoid them, or get over it by doing a high ropes adventure course. Scared of insects and bugs? Squash them or call Cook’s! Financial Problems? Dave Ramsey would love to help you with that. Deep water? I hear personal flotation devices or swim lessons work pretty well these days. Even sickness has become something that we can almost completely avoid. Yet, there is one thing that is unavoidable on this list… death.

There is a 100% chance everyone in this church will die. I hope that this is not shocking news to you. I love my life. I love my family. I love Kim. I love my friends. I love working at St. John’s Church. I do not want to face my mortal demise, but I know that one day I will meet the cold kiss of Death. Even though I can consciously comprehend this, I still find myself fearful of what lies in death and beyond.

I believe we are all, to some degree, afraid of death, even more than public speaking and spiders. Yet, what happens in Bethany, the place where Jesus’ friends live, (Just like the part of Camp McDowell that is going to be talked about today right after this service at a wonderful lunch!) tells us something very different about this undeniably fearful end that we all must face.

Martha and Mary were all followers of Christ. The sisters trusted in Jesus verbally in today’s gospel lesson. They believed in Resurrection through him. Still there is doubt expressed, “If you had been here, Lazarus would not be dead.” The word here is not just death like the body ceasing to produce breath and life, this dying is all encompassing. Their brother is physically dead, but he is also spiritually dead.

In the total of John’s gospel account we hear of many signs that point to Jesus being the one through whom all things were created, the Son of God, the one coming into the world! We can get so swept up in this that we miss that part of being Incarnate God meant that Jesus was fully human as well as fully divine. Death, even to God, is something that is tragic and depressing. When Jesus walks to the tomb of his friend Lazarus with the beloved Martha and Mary he cannot deny his humanity. Jesus weeps.

I have loved this verse since I was a child because it shows Jesus’ humanity. He is empathic for us human beings because he is one of us. He may know what is about to happen. He may know that everything will be okay. He may know that God will resurrect the Faithful. Still he weeps.

Then, in a way that only God can, he goes further than just empathizing with Lazarus and the bereaved. Jesus goes beyond our human understanding, he responds to this moment of deep sadness with an overabundant love that will remain a mystery to us on this side of the grave. Jesus goes to the entrance of the tomb, the place of a rotting corpse, the mouth of Death, and in this realm of reeking, dark nothingness he calls life. Jesus calls life from death.

Jesus, the God of the living, does not fear death. He walks into his friend’s tomb to be with him in the realm of that unknown mystery that awaits all of us. For those who believe and those, like Lazarus, who are spiritually dead Jesus is always present. He will go walk with us everywhere we go. He will journey with us when we are well, when we are scared of public speaking, and even into our tombs. He is our partner in life and death. As we approach Holy Week, let us respond to his partnership, his walking with us, and let us go with Jesus to his death and tomb. Amen.