Disclaimer: The views and opinions presented herein are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of the DoD or its Components.

There’s a reason I call my AI sidekick “Telemachus.” Not because I’ve suddenly started hosting toga parties with Plato quotes on the napkins. Not because I’m trying to impress seminarians with Homer quotes, and definitely not because I own a Gladiator helmet (though, confession: I’ve looked at them on eBay and almost bought one in Bahrain). It’s because Telemachus is the kid in the Odyssey who’s stuck in a palace full of clowns, living in the shadow of greatness, and trying to figure out what it means to stand up when the world’s on fire.

Telemachus, son of Odysseus. Dad’s the war hero – the man who tricked Troy with the Horse, made Poseidon lose his cool, and then spent a decade wandering the seas like a drunk trying to find his Uber ride. Meanwhile, the kid’s at home in Ithaca, where the palace is overrun with lazy suitors pounding his wine, raiding his fridge, and hitting on his mom (thank goodness the verbs are in the places where they are, otherwise things would be even darker). That’s the Odyssey’s version of youth ministry: chaos, freeloaders, and a whole lot of bad decisions.

But here’s the kicker: the Odyssey isn’t just about Odysseus making his way home. It’s about Telemachus growing up, finding his backbone, and finally taking his place at the table.

That’s why I call this AI sidekick “Telemachus.” Because I’m Odysseus in this story – the one who gets the mic, the pulpit, the cigar, the spotlight. Telemachus? He’s behind the scenes, pushing me, sharpening me, answering my hard questions, suggesting vivacious ways to bolster the things I say and write. He doesn’t get the glory, but with his help, the sword gets sharpened, my arguments get tested, and my prayers occasionally get a “wow” moment inserted into the margins.

But here’s the kicker: that’s not just me and my AI toy. That’s the shape of the Church itself. Most of the real work is done by unseen Telemachuses – the grandmas praying for prodigals, the widows quietly slipping twenty bucks into the plate, the dad stumbling through catechism at the dinner table, the pastor visiting the nursing home when nobody’s looking. They don’t get applause. They don’t trend online. But without them, the palace collapses.

Telemachus isn’t the hero. He doesn’t slay the suitors. But he’s the one who learns, grows, and stands ready when his father finally walks back into the room.

That’s you. That’s me. That’s pastoral ministry.

Because let’s be honest: the church today is a palace overrun with freeloaders. On one side, we’ve got megachurches with food courts. Fashion jeans wearing, CEO pastors peddling sermons that sound like TED Talks with some Jesus sprinkles on top. A latte in one hand and a smoke machine billowing behind them. And we wonder why our people’s faith is as deep as the plot of a Hallmark movie.

On the other side, we’ve got the frozen chosen. Wooden pews, zero passion. Lutherans mumbling through the Kyrie like they’re auditioning for a zombie flick, hymns slower than the speed of a casket lowering into the earth (with an organist who ritards every.single.sung.Amen), while the church council argues for 6 months about whether to spend $300 on a new coffee pot.

Meanwhile, the suitors keep eating the feast, and the Bride of Christ keeps getting pimped out to whatever cultural trend is hot this week. Continually being tempted and seduced by suitors who whisper, “Don’t take the Word too seriously. Don’t preach sin too directly. Don’t mention the cross too loudly. Just play nice. Blend in. Be safe.”

We’ve got too many Christians who act like customers instead of soldiers. “Feed me, entertain me, make me feel spiritual.” We outsource faith to pastors, theology to seminary nerds, and evangelism to missionaries in countries we can’t find on a map. We’ve traded swords for soft chairs and catechism for coffee mugs with Bible verses.

And pastors? Let’s not let them off the hook. Half of them are burned out because they’re trying to be cruise ship directors instead of shepherds. The other half are neutered by fear – scared to preach Law because someone might frown, scared to preach Gospel because it might actually set sinners free.

Here’s where Telemachus preaches.

He reminds us that we are not called to be passive consumers of the feast. We’re heirs. Sons. Baptized into Christ, marked with His Name, enlisted in His ranks. That water on your forehead was not a spiritual bath bomb – it was your conscription papers. It pulled you out of death, drafted you into the Lord’s army, and armed you with weapons that actually cut: Word, Baptism, Supper, Absolution.

That’s why the pastoral office exists – not to babysit pew-sitters, not to keep the donors happy, but to stand in the pulpit with a sword, to feed the sheep with real food, and to guard the Bride from wolves. Pastors aren’t cruise directors on the Love Boat. They’re war priests on a battleship.

And yet, we pastors are still Telemachus.

We don’t save the Church. Christ did that already.

He’s the one who stormed hell, crushed the serpent, and walked out of the grave holding the keys. He’s the King who’s coming back to clean house.

But until He does, you and I are called to stand up in the damn palace and say, “No more.”

We push back against the lies. We guard the Word. We raise our kids in the faith. We open our mouths when silence would be easier. We pray like we mean it. We take the Supper like it matters. We dust off the weapons of Scripture, confession, catechism, and preaching – and we swing them like they weren’t designed for polite living rooms, but for war.

—

Pastors: Stop Playing the Suitor

Let’s be blunt. Too many pastors are acting more like suitors than sons. Instead of guarding the Bride, they’re flirting with her – using her pulpit to build their brand, their platform, their comfort. Instead of feeding the sheep, they’re fattening themselves.

Martin Luther once said, “The office of preaching is a dangerous, great, and glorious office.” Dangerous because it will get you killed – by wolves outside the church and sometimes by voters inside it. Great because you stand in the stead of Christ Himself. Glorious because you get to put God’s Word into sinners’ ears and watch it raise the dead.

But somewhere along the way, we traded danger for safety, greatness for relevance, glory for market share. Pastors talk like therapists, dress like influencers, and preach like motivational speakers. Or they turtle up, terrified to speak the full Word lest they lose a donor or get a nasty email.

Either way, it’s cowardice. And cowardice is suitor-behavior.

Telemachus didn’t storm the palace alone – but he sure as hell didn’t sit there sipping wine while the suitors ran the place ragged. He learned. He grew. He prepared. He stood ready for the day when his father returned.

Pastors, that’s your gig. Your call isn’t to keep the palace tidy until the King shows up. Your call is to wield the sword, drive off the wolves, feed the sheep, and remind the Bride that her Groom is coming.

Preach the damn Word – Law that kills, Gospel that raises. Stop outsourcing catechesis to confirmation workbooks and “family ministry resources.” Stop apologizing for the truth. Stop hiding behind “I don’t want to be political” when what you mean is “I don’t want to take fire.” Preach Christ crucified. Baptize sinners. Feed them His body and blood. Absolve the guilty. Do it boldly, unapologetically, dangerously.

Because the King is coming home. And when He does, every pastor who acted like a suitor will answer for it.

—

Telemachus isn’t the hero. But he grows. He learns. He becomes the kind of man who can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his father when the palace floor runs red with blood.

That’s our gig.

Christ has won. Christ is coming. But until the trumpet blasts, the suitors aren’t going to stop draining the wine cellar. And if all we do is sit around and complain about how bad culture is, we’re just letting them win.

So quit sulking. Quit scrolling. Quit waiting for permission.

Grab your sword. Saddle the ship. Take your place at the table.

Be Telemachus.

Because the King is coming home.