We Are All Called To Be Witnesses

Stephen is the first martyr in Christ's Church. He modeled God's love in life and death. While it may sound disconcerting, each of us who claim to follow Jesus are also called to be martyrs.

Acts 7:55-60

Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

1 Peter 2:2-10

John 14:1-14

 

© 2026 The Rev. Seth Olson

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

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

One day in seminary, I was sitting in a class on liturgy, our worship. It may be a churchy word, but liturgy simply means “the work of the people.” Christian worship is the holy work of turning our hearts, bodies, minds, imaginations, and lives toward God — the God who is more real than anything else.

I loved those classes because they helped me see that worship is not just something we attend. Worship is something that forms us.

And one day, in a lecture on the Daily Office — our prayer services for morning, noon, evening, and night — my professor, the Rev. Dr. Nathan Jennings, said something I am still turning over in my heart and mind.

He looked at us and said, “All of us are called to be martyrs.”

And the room got very quiet.

Because that is not exactly the kind of inspirational quote you put on a church brochure. “Come to church. All of us are called to be martyrs. Join us for coffee hour.”

Then he continued, “All of us are called to lay down our lives. Some Christians will give their lives by living for Christ. Others will give their lives by dying for Christ. Our prayers are practice for that. Because when we pray, we stop what we would otherwise be doing, and we turn toward God.” I have never forgotten that.

All of us are called to be martyrs. That may sound dramatic or troubling. But it is also deeply Christian. Because the word martyr does not first mean someone who dies. The word martyr means witness.

A martyr is someone whose life tells the truth. A martyr is someone who bears witness to what is most real, most holy, most life-giving, most true. Today, in Acts, we meet Stephen, the first martyr of the Church. But before Stephen is remembered for dying, he is called to serve.

Earlier in Acts, the apostles realize that some widows are being neglected in the daily distribution of food. The Church is growing, but growth has created a problem. Some people are being overlooked. Some are being left out. Some are not being cared for.

So the community chooses seven people to serve. Stephen is one of them. He is among the first deacons of the Church. That matters.

Stephen’s witness does not begin with a dramatic death. It begins with tables. It begins with food. It begins with noticing who is being neglected. Before Stephen preaches with courage, he serves with compassion. Before Stephen dies like Jesus, he lives like Jesus.

Sometimes we imagine martyrdom as something far away, heroic, and impossible. Something for saints in stained glass windows. Something for ancient Christians facing emperors. Something for people braver than we are. But Stephen’s martyrdom begins in an ordinary and holy place: caring for those who were being forgotten.

His life had already been laid down before the stones were ever picked up. And then, in today’s reading, Stephen stands before the powers of his day. He bears witness to the story of God. He tells the truth. When rage overtakes the crowd and violence begins, Stephen looks into heaven and sees Jesus standing at the right hand of God.

As he is being killed, Stephen prays, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” And then he cries out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” It is almost impossible to miss the echo of Jesus. “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” “Father, forgive them.”

Stephen has become so formed by the way of Jesus that even in the moment of his death, his life takes the shape of Christ. That is witness. That is martyrdom.

Not because Stephen wanted to suffer. Not because violence is holy. Not because God needed his death. But because Stephen’s life had been so given over to the love of God in Christ that even death could not make him stop bearing witness to mercy.

Most of us will not be called to Stephen’s death. But all of us are called to Stephen’s witness. All of us are called to lay down our lives — not usually all at once, but daily. Prayer by prayer. Choice by choice. Act of mercy by act of mercy. Forgiveness by forgiveness. Surrender by surrender.

We lay down the life we would otherwise be living so that we can live the life of Christ. Today’s Psalm reminds us that we do this when we metaphorically move from the fortresses of this world into the shelter of God who is our crag and our stronghold. Of course, making the shift from relying on ourselves to relying upon God isn’t always quick, easy, or straightforward. This is where First Peter helps us.

Peter writes, “Like newborn infants, long for the pure, spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow into salvation.” Grow into salvation. I love that phrase. Salvation is not just a status we claim. It is a life we grow into. We grow into mercy, courage, forgiveness, truth, love—we grow into the Way of Christ.

Peter then proclaims Christ, the rejected one, has become the cornerstone. The one cast aside becomes the foundation of a new way of being human. And then Peter says that we, too, are living stones, being built into a spiritual house. This doesn’t mean we create a walled off castle to keep us safe. We are to do this in the world with our lives. 

So, Peter here evokes baptismal language. Identity language. Calling language. “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people.” Those words are not meant to make us arrogant, they’re not a weapon, nor a claim of superiority. They are a vocation.

Peter tells us who we are so that we can remember what we are for: “In order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.”

God calls us out of darkness and into light. Out of fear into love, shame into belovedness, distorted relationships into reconciliation. God invites us to move from the shadowy places where we hide from God, ourselves, and each other — and into the marvelous light of Christ.

And then God sends us to proclaim that light. Not only with words, though words matter. But with lives that bear witness. Lives that say: another way is possible. A more merciful way, a more courageous way, a more truthful way, a more loving way is possible, which brings us to the Gospel. 

Thomas says to Jesus, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” Thomas is so relatable here because so often we do not know the way.

We don’t know how to be faithful in a world this anxious, to love enemies, to forgive, to give ourselves away without losing ourselves. Simply put, we do not know how to follow Jesus when the path gets taxing. 

And into this, Jesus speaks, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.” Not: I will hand you a map, give you a five-step plan, or make the path easy. But: I am the way, which means we know the way by knowing Jesus. We know the way by seeing him touch the untouchable, feed the hungry, welcome sinners, forgive enemies, wash feet, and lay down his life in love.

And in the resurrection, we have seen that this self-giving love is not a pipe dream. It is not a sentimental ideal. It is not naïve optimism. It is the deepest truth of the universe. The way of Christ is the way of life.

So, in your holy imagination, wonder with me: What would it mean for you and me, for us to lay down my life? Not necessarily to die, but to witness. To give up what we would otherwise be doing so that love becomes visible.

Maybe it means coming alongside someone who is lonely. Perhaps it’s visiting someone in prison. Or your witness might be feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, or tending the sick. Your witness of God’s love might be forgiving someone who does not deserve it — which, of course, is the only kind of forgiveness there is. Witnessing can even mean loving the enemy without pretending the enemy has done no harm, telling the truth when silence would be easier, praying when we would rather stay busy, distracted, or numb. Now, all of these will cost us something. So how might we move towards this way of witnessing?

Prayer, for prayer is practice for martyrdom. Prayer is preparation for laying down our lives. We stop what we would otherwise be doing, and we turn toward God.

And, little by little, God forms us—like Stephen, like the apostles, like the saints who came before us, which means we do not do this alone.

We stand on the shoulders of those who have walked before us. We are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses. And we walk alongside one another now. That is the point of the Church. We help each other walk the way of Christ. We remind each other that the Kingdom of God is near. We witness what it looks like!

And we practice together the self-giving love of Jesus until, by grace, our lives become the good news of Christ. So yes, as strange as it sounds, all of us are called to be martyrs because all of us are called to be witnesses.

All of us are called to lay down the lives we would otherwise live so that the life of Christ may be revealed in us. And the good news is this: The one who calls us is also the way. The one who sends us is also our refuge. The one who asks us to lay down our lives is the source of life. 

So may we place our spirits into the hands of God. May we grow into salvation. May we be built upon Christ, the cornerstone. May we walk the way of Jesus. And may our lives bear witness to the self-giving love that is the truest thing in all Creation. Amen.

Passionate About Bread

Delicious bread... What about the bread of life?

This sermon was preached at St. John’s Church, Decatur, AL on the Third Wednesday in Easter. The lessons used were the following:

Acts 8:1b–8
John 6:35–40

When I was a child I loved bread so much. I would save whatever roll or toast or croissant or biscuit was on my plate until the very end. My obsession over bread was so well known in my family that they often made fun of me for it. They thought it was funny how I saved my bread for last or made subsequent trips back to the kitchen not for more of the main course, but for a side roll. I wonder sometimes if I have that sort of passion for the bread of life. Do you? Do we?

We find ourselves during this Third Week of Easter in the midst of John 6, which is all about bread. The bread of life to be more specific. We will hear this chapter again for five weeks this July and August. By the end of that time, we may all be too stuffed to hear any more about the bread of life. But, at this moment, when we are less satiated by glorious gluten, Jesus being the bread of life tastes fresh. So, if I am passionate about that bread—if I do not merely consume the Body of Christ, but allow it to consume me and to transform me, what happens? Well, our story from the Acts of the Apostles gives us a couple of hints.

Yesterday we heard the story of Stephen’s martyrdom and today we heard the story of Saul’s persecution of the early Jesus movement—both point to how the bread of life not only feeds but transforms our selves, souls, and lives. Stephen heard the story of Jesus, he was transformed by the bread of life. He was called to distribute sustenance to the poor. In his death he relied on Jesus as his source of strength. And, even after his death, as Evan reminded me today, his grave would have been a place where early Church members shared Eucharist to commemorate and celebrate his life and his second-birth into heaven. Stephen’s life, death, and example point to the power that the bread of life can have on an entire community. What about Saul?

We may be familiar with the story of Saul, but how was he transformed by the bread of life? Saul, the pious of the pious among the People of Israel, devoted his life to being devout. When others stoned Jesus to death, they laid their coats at Saul’s feet. He was a persecutor of the early Church because it threatened his own Faith. Of course, all of that changed one day on the road to Damascus. There he was blinded by God, heard God’s voice, was healed by a Christian, and his life turned from a persecutor of Christ to one of his greatest evangelists. God gave Saul a new name Paul. Right then, his old life died and he was born again.

In this new life, Paul was nourished by the bread of life. Through consuming that bread he was transformed, and he became consumed by the Body of Christ. He articulated that image for us, such that we hold onto it to this day. Paul would eventually die his own gruesome death standing up for the very thing he had persecuted others for. This sounds very much like transformation. How did it happen? Through being nourished by the bread of life.

So, what about us? How will we be transformed by the bread of life? When we come to this table, when we approach the Good News of Christ Jesus, when we share in fellowship with others, when we give of ourselves to God’s work in this world, when we pray to God, when we dwell in silence with God, in all of these ways and many more we take in the bread of life. The changes that we may show are probably too numerous to name; however, we will look something like Stephen and Paul.

We will be filled with God’s Good News. We will share it in churches, in public spaces, and even to the powers that be. We will care for the weak and the outcast. We will feed others with the bread of life physically and otherwise. Wherever it is we go we can be fed by the bread of life. And wherever it is we go God will be there to transform us, just as God did with Stephen and Paul through Christ who was and is the bread of life.

Bread of Life

This block of our Sunday School classes has me particularly excited. Our theme throughout the church among children, youth, and adults is worship. Evan and I are team teaching a class entitled, “Instructed Worship.” Each week we explore a different service or part of a service in depth, as we actually walk through the Prayer Book liturgy.

Looking over the course syllabus gets this church nerd fired up! We will soon get to the Holy Eucharist, the Daily Office, the Blessing of a Marriage, and the Burial of the Dead, which is this week’s topic. Evan taught on this past Sunday about the Reconciliation of a Penitent. And, back during our first class, fittingly enough we went through the service of Holy Baptism. We walked through the liturgy during the class and then at the 10:30 service we actually baptized a new member—Gunnar Mattox.

At the start of the Sunday School session we worked our way through a small piece of the Catechism, which is an Outline of our Faith. It is located in the back part of our Prayer Book. If you are ever wondering about a nagging theological question it probably won’t give you a complete answer, but it is a good place to start. On that Sunday morning we perused the bit from the Catechism on the sacraments. The definition our Prayer Book gives for sacraments is “Outward and visible signs of inward and spiritual grace, given by Christ as sure and certain means by which we receive that grace” (Book of Common Prayer, 857). Outward signs that are sure and certain means of inward grace. As usual when I read this part of the Prayer Book and thought about it, I was amazed.

Christ has given to us signs that are sure and certain means of a profound gift of love that we receive inside ourselves. For us Episcopalians we hold up Holy Baptism and Holy Eucharist as the two sacraments that Christ Jesus gave to us. He participated in these two sacraments, thus we can read about them in Holy Scripture. We have five other sacramental rites, outward signs that also point to inward grace—only they were not given to us by Christ. These are Confirmation, Reconciliation of a Penitent, Blessing of a Marriage, Ordination, and Ministration to the Sick. We can pretty easily see the outward and visible signs in any of these, but especially in Holy Baptism and Holy Eucharist. What are they?

The outward and visible signs in Baptism are water and oil. While in Eucharist they are bread and wine. As I prepare for officiating at a wedding this Saturday, I think of the signs in that liturgy. Giving and receiving rings, the priest tying his stole around the couple’s joined hands as she or he pronounces they are married, and even the kiss or other sign of peace they share. All of these are signs that point to something happening inside. But, with all of these liturgies—whether they are sacraments or simply sacramental—I wonder, “What would Jesus think of what we are doing?”

In today’s Gospel lesson we happen upon Jesus discussing signs with a crowd. This was a group of people who had been fed by Jesus during his mass feeding. Before we get to the part of the conversation we heard, Jesus claimed that they were not looking for signs, but more food. They did not see that feeding as a moment of transformation when their hearts, their souls were transformed by grace. Rather, they were looking for Jesus to become their miracle caterer. As they were good Israelites, they knew the story of Moses and the manna.

The crowd began to point to how Moses was a miracle worker in the wilderness. With this reference they were attempting to retort Jesus’ claim that they were only looking for food. Essentially they said, “Well, our ancestors did that with Moses, right?” Jesus, though did not take their bait. Instead, he recognized the true source of that bread—God, the Father! Then, he went on making a bold claim in the process.

Not only was God the one who gave the bread that would give life to the world, Jesus said, “I am that bread!” I will give life to the world. When we gather for Holy Eucharist that is what we are celebrating. We are celebrating Jesus as the bread that gives life to the world—gives life to us. When we take the bread and drink from the cup we are receiving life. So, again I wonder, “What would Jesus think?”

The answer to that is tricky. God is the one who does the action in the Eucharist. We are part of it. We are there. We are celebrating with God, but the efficacy of Holy Communion or any sacrament/sacramental rite does not depend upon our understanding what is happening. Instead, what matters is our participation, our being here, our receiving, and in our reception we are transformed.

I find it striking that we also heard the story of Stephen today. It almost seems like we can look at these two readings in reverse order and see a before and after moment. What happens when we allow God to transform us through these signs that are sure and certain means of God’s grace? Well, living (and dying) like Stephen is what happens!

While looking at the protomartyr Stephen may scare us, I actually find solace in his story. Stephen a member of the early Church certainly received communion. He was enhanced by the Good News of Christ Jesus. He was fed by the bread of life. He knew that is what truly mattered. And, his whole life was transformed by the grace of God such that he had the courage to do what he did. What will happen to us? How will God transform us? What will eating the bread of life do to you?

Uncover Your Ears

Are we reliving the story of Stephen every time we don't listen to the prophets of our own day?

When people ask me what is the best part of my work week many moments rush to mind. Sunday services, Christian Formation, Centering Prayer, Staff Meeting (yes, I said Staff Meeting), and Wednesday Night Series all stand out as marvelous, but one other very informal gathering also sits near the top of this list. Theology on Tap (TonT)—which happens most Thursdays at 5:15, although not this next one—provides  a space for fellowship and fun to be had amongst our Christian community.

As the clergy often remind those who show up at the Brick Deli on Thursday nights, no one comes for the question. Each week though, Evan or I ask something that hopefully sparks at least a small conversation about God, religion, spirituality, faith, theology, or life. Usually everyone talks for a moment about it and then returns to whatever it was they were discussing previously. Sometimes though the question sticks with you. Like a few months ago when something was asked that I am still pondering.

Evan enquired, “Who are the prophets of our own day?” After he asked this, instead of turning back to what we had talked about earlier, most people discussed this query for some time. One said, “Poor people who share what life is like below the poverty line.” Another stated, “Religious leaders who advocate for unity across religious boundaries.” My response was environmental scientists who tell us that our carelessness has consequences. Still others pointed to women, people of color, or others who have historically and even now still struggle to gain equality. I am still wondering, “Who are the prophets of our own day?” Especially on this St. Stephen’s Day we would do well not only to figure out who they are, but also to listen to what the Spirit is saying through them to the Church.

We remember on the day after Christmas the deacon and martyr St. Stephen. He is the protomartyr in the Church—the first one to give up his life in witness to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. We heard the retelling of this story in today’s lesson from the Acts of the Apostles. What stands out today for me from this event relates less with Stephen’s actions and more with the response of the people around him.

God’s Spirit clearly shined in the works of Stephen who the Church charged with caring for the poor. When he came to the synagogue of the Freedmen those there did not have ears to hear Stephen’s challenging message. Like Jesus before him, Stephen challenged the status quo. He was a prophetic messenger of change—pointing to God’s grace instead of the law of man. When the elders heard what he said, they were livid. Stephen though did not back down, instead calling to mind the prophetic voices of the past.

Stephen pointed to the work of the Spirit, which has always been moving over God’s children. He also signified that those in this synagogue had their ears stopped up, such that they could not hear God speaking something new in their lives. Even as Stephen’s appearance was transfigured, like that of Jesus during the Transfiguration, the angry people around him could not see the Truth. When Stephen saw a vision of heaven opening up that was the last straw for his persecutors. Their response was to cover their ears, yelling, as they attacked the innocent deacon.

As I turn back to thinking of Evan’s TonT question, I wonder whose voice—whose prophetic voice—am I not hearing? Ones pointing to environmental crises? Transgender people who are persecuted for using the restroom? Female colleagues who say even the hiring processes in the Church are rigged against them? People of color who still cry out about police brutality? The elderly who have no one to advocate for them? Who is it? Who are the prophets of our age? How will we uncover our ears? Will we hear their voices or will we choose to stone them not with stones or violence, but with our silence and inaction?