Still Wounded, Still Risen

 

The strangeness of Easter Evening gives me hope that even with all our scars God is still resurrecting us.

Acts 5:27-32

Psalm 118:14-29

Revelation 1:4-8

John 20:19-31

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on the Second Sunday of Easter at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles, 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. 

 

In today’s Gospel lesson, it’s the evening of the very first Easter day, and the disciples are hiding behind locked doors. They’ve heard the rumors from Mary. Some have seen the empty tomb. But they’re not shouting alleluias or organizing a celebratory, Paschal potluck just yet.

 

They are afraid. The world remains dangerous. Jesus may be risen, but Rome is still in charge. The pain is fresh. The wounds of crucifixion aren’t just his—they are theirs as well.

 

And then, Jesus shows up. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t scold. He doesn’t wait for them to muster up more faith or get it together.

 

He just… comes. Through locked doors. Through fear. Through confusion. And what does he say? 

 

“Peace be with you.” We love to exchange the peace of Christ at Holy Apostles—it’s long, luxurious, and extensive enough to greet lots of neighbors, but this peace of Christ from today’s Gospel account is on another level of magnitude. 

 

Soon after sharing peace, Jesus does something even stranger. And, if we weren’t so used to hearing this story, every year on the Second Sunday of Easter, this detail would startle us: Jesus shows them his hands and his side. He doesn’t hide the wounds. He doesn’t erase the evidence. He leads with his scars.

 

It’s the wounded Jesus who brings peace. It’s the scarred Savior who breathes new life. And I wonder—if this is what resurrection looks like for Jesus, might it look this way for us too?

 

Because here’s the truth we often miss in our pastel-hued, chocolate-covered, alleluia-infused Easter celebrations: Resurrection doesn’t mean pretending the pain never happened. It simply means that the pain does NOT get the final word.

 

We get another glimpse of this in our reading from Revelation, where from the Island of Patmos, John writes to seven struggling churches. You may recall, John is not writing from a mountaintop retreat, he’s having an often-misinterpreted heavenly vision while being banished for his beliefs. He’s writing in exile, as he endures isolation on this isle, all because he believed in Christ. And yet, from these mystical margins, he gives us this breathtaking proclamation from God:

 

“I am the Alpha and the Omega… who is and who was and who is to come.”

 

In other words:
God was not just in the beginning.
God is not just waiting until the end.
God is right here in the middle with us.

 

Right here in the mess. In the wounds. In the doubts. In the uncertain future.

 

Right here in the lives of people like Thomas, who need to touch the pain in order to believe the promise.

 

Right here in communities like ours, who are trying to figure out what it means to be resurrection people in a Good Friday world. Which may lead us to wonder, where does faith meet practice? Because being a resurrection person doesn’t mean pretending everything’s fine or turning away from grief, fear, or burnout. 

 

In the world of behavioral health, there’s a concept called post-traumatic growth. It’s the idea that while trauma can shake us, it also can open us. That we don’t just bounce back—we bounce forward. With deeper empathy. With clearer priorities. With renewed purpose.

 

Now, this doesn’t happen instantly, and it is in no way guaranteed. But when people reflect, stay connected in community, and let themselves be transformed—not by the trauma itself, but by their response to it—growth becomes possible. As strange as it sounds, our woundings have the power to bless us with new gifts, skills, and perspectives. 

 

Sounds a lot like Easter, doesn’t it?

 

Jesus didn’t rise with a brand-new body. He rose with wounds still visible. And yet, something in him—and in those around him—had changed. We, too, are invited to be people of growth. Not by avoiding our pain, but by abiding in the One who still shows up in the middle of it.

 

The question for us, my beloved, Holy Apostles, is: where do we go from here? Or perhaps, where do we grow from here?

 

Easter is not a one-day celebration. It’s a 50 day season—and more than that, it’s a way of life.

 

But it’s a strange way of life. Because it asks us to trust a God who still bears wounds. The Resurrection invites us to grow—even when we’re afraid. It calls us to serve—even when we feel unqualified. It beckons us to believe—not in certainty, but in God’s presence, for the One who was and is to come… is with us now.

 

So maybe our job this Easter season isn’t to have the answers. Maybe our job is to breathe deeply of the Spirit Jesus gives us. To be honest about our wounds and the wounds of the world. To show up behind locked doors and whisper peace. To walk with each other into a future we can’t see but believe is held by God.

 

Because, friends, Christ is still wounded… but he is also still risen. And so are we.

Amen.

 

 

Ugly Boxes of Resurrection

The Resurrection doesn't wait to we're all pretty!

Acts 10:34-43 

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

1 Corinthians 15:19-26 

John 20:1-18

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was preached during the Feast of the Resurrection on Easter morning 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. 

 

Alleluia, Christ is risen! The Lord is risen, indeed! Alleluia!

 

The unfinished 1x10 and 2x8 boards were an eyesore. Sitting out on the church lawn, they began to catch the eyes of parishioners and passersby alike. “What are those?” one member asked as we began a Vestry meeting. “They look like coffins! Are they for a funeral?” another laughed as she chimed in the conversation. They weren’t coffins, but I could see the confusion, and even though the mission of the wood was noble, I agreed that they weren’t pretty. That wasn’t their purpose. 

 

What were they? Why was there wood on the church lawn? O, I’ll get there, but first… Easter dad jokes!

 

What do you call a rabbit with fleas? Bugs Bunny!

Why did the Easter egg hide? Because it was a little chicken!

Why doesn’t Jesus wear a necklace? Because he breaks every chain! 

 

I tell these terrible jokes on Easter morning because the Resurrection is the greatest prank of all time. Better than Ashton Kutcher on Punk’d or the Impractical Jokers, Jesus bamboozled sin and Satan, death and even his disciples on that blessed morn’ long ago. So, it’s fitting—if a bit painful—to endure some jokes today. 

 

What wasn’t so funny was what was happening at the first church I ever served St. John’s Episcopal Church in Decatur. The congregation had soured over a new initiative that required some coffin-looking things to be constructed in our church yard. Why would a church that prides itself on decorum within a denomination that prides itself on decorum put some ugly boxes out on the lawn? Well, one part of the answer is the correct response to most Sunday School teachers’ inquiries: Jesus! 

 

We put those boxes outside because Jesus told us to. But, more specifically they were there so that something new could grow. You see, at St. John’s Decatur, much like here at Holy Apostles, Hoover, we wanted to be good neighbors. And, instead of telling our neighbors how we were going to love them, we asked them what they needed. Well, we did that after we had almost tarnished the relationships by telling them what they needed to do. Eventually though, they let us know their dreams and we let them know our capacities and together we began to vision. 

 

Specifically, these conversations happened with our neighbors at Banks-Caddell Elementary School. At that time, they had the worst standardized test scores of all the elementary programs in the city. Most of their students came from the literal other side of the railroad tracks in a heavily segregated city. Many were behind grade levels in math and reading. Few had any help at home. The outlook for many of these students was bleak at best. Plus, they didn’t much like our faith community calling us the scary church across the street—things were not looking so great. 

 

However, at the suggestion of St. John’s then Rector, the Rev. Evan Garner, some members of the congregation went to meet with the principal of Banks-Caddell. 

 

They asked what our church could do to help. The head of the school jumped at the offering and wondered, “Do you have any space for a garden? We have a gardening club at the school, but nowhere with enough sunlight to plant a community garden.” 

 

Did we have space? Yes, we had space—in the form of a big ol’ sunny church yard. So, at a workday, we put together four big, raised garden beds. Now these were not the prettiest structures ever crafted, I mean they looked like roughly hewn caskets, but didn’t that just add to the power of what was happening here?

 

Amazing things happen inside a garden. Just ask Mary Magdalene.

 

Y’all in today’s Gospel lesson, she thought she was talking to the gardener. Which is… hilarious, and also maybe the most fitting and theologically accurate case of mistaken identity in all of Holy Scripture. Because of course, Jesus was the gardener.

 

There, in the early morning light, beside an empty tomb, with tears still fresh on her cheeks—Mary met the One who still tends to our grief and breaks the soil of sorrow with new life. She met the Great Gardener of the Entire Cosmos!

 

Think about how crazy this was: she went looking for a body. And instead, she heard her name,“Mary!” That’s when she knew that this wasn’t the end—it was merely the beginning.

And, to think the whole Christian story—our story—started in another garden: Eden. Cast your mind back to that Sunday School chestnut: After Adam, Eve, and the serpent started the blame game, which sadly continues to this day, we lost our immediate connection with Our Creator. The Fall, as we call it, was not only something that happened once long ago, but is also something we all endure through the pains of this human life. Don’t follow? Stick with me for a moment.

 

What I mean is that the woundings we undergo thrust us out of the proverbial garden that is our original essence. Even though we always bear the very good image of God, when we experience difficult wounds, especially in childhood, we find ourselves eating the fruit—opening our eyes to see the brokenness of this world. We begin to define life via the lens of good and evil, and we are thrust from Eden. Outside the garden, life is toilsome and broken. So, to deal with the pain, we cultivate egos to protect us from hurt. However, these egoic vessels guard us from more than injury, they also keep us from our true selves. 

 

But, just like with Mary Magdalene, this isn’t the end—it’s the beginning.

 

For our true nature gets reclaimed here in another garden. Where something that looked like death—a tomb, a place of isolation, an ego-centric worldview—becomes the compost of creation. These, let’s just call them “manure situations,” surprisingly have a way of hastening our maturation—as St. Paul put it, “suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” The hard-won progress of moving from suffering to endurance to character to hope also reveals our truest selves. Of course, this path runs counter to the comfort and convenience our culture values so highly. 

 

As much as our society loves the fanfare of an initial public offering or the party of a rebranding effort, it’s funny to think about the Resurrection, which began not with public triumph, but with intimate tenderness.

And, as much as our world (and even the Episcopal Church) loves to understand the reasoning behind why something is the way it is, the Resurrection begins not with understanding, but with presence.

And, as much as our denomination loves pomp and circumstance, the Resurrection begins not in a cathedral, but in a garden.

 

In other words, the Resurrection starts in all the unexpected places—where grief still lingers, where wounds still fester, where the future seems volatile, and life itself looks more like a coffin than a cradle. 

 

That’s where God meets us—calling us each by name. God bids us step away from who we pretend to be to make it through the day, instead we are called to live as our true selves, even when the wounds still haven’t healed, or life looks more like a nightmare than God’s dream. 

 

In a church yard, a classroom, a hospital bed, a broken heart, or a garden bed that looks like a tomb—that’s where God will find us. Wherever, you are today—that’s where God is finding you. Not to shame you. Not to lecture you. But to call you. To whisper, “Follow me into resurrection.” To say, “You thought this was the end… but it’s not. It’s merely the beginning. You thought this was a coffin, but it’s soil.”

 

And speaking of soil, the ground on which we started the community garden at St. John’s is still bearing fruit. Our relationship with Banks-Caddell grew so much over the five-years I was there that it was hard to imagine the church or its yard any other way. What’s more, the students at that elementary school improved their test scores two whole grade levels thanks to a tutoring program we initiated. St. John’s also started providing scholarships to any Fifth Grader who could not afford to attend a class trip to Camp McDowell’s Environmental Center. The students even stopped calling St. John’s the scary church across the street. Instead they called us their friends. As much as any of us would like to take credit for all that happened, it was Our Good Gardener’s doing.

 

So, friends, let this Easter morning remind you that the Risen Christ is still gardening…

Still cultivating hope…
Still turning tombs into nurseries…
Still calling us by name in the most unlikely places…

The wood may look rough,
The ground may seem hard,
But you never know what might grow there until you try.

 

With Our Good Gardener know: this isn’t the end—it’s merely the beginning. 

 

Alleluia. Christ is risen.

 

Amen.

 

 

Singing in the Dark

 

What can the Exsultet (an ancient hymn that we sing at the Easter Vigil) teach us about the Resurrection?

At The Eucharist

Genesis 1:1-2:4a [The Story of Creation] 
Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21 [Israel's deliverance at the Red Sea] 
Isaiah 55:1-11 [Salvation offered freely to all] 

At The Eucharist

Romans 6:3-11 
Psalm 114
Luke 24:1-12

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached during the Easter Vigil at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles. 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.

Alleluia! Christ is risen! The Lord is risen, indeed! Alleluia! 

 

Friends, there are few things in the Church’s life more haunting—or more hopeful—than the Exsultet. The song, I sang at the beginning of our liturgy.

 

You heard it while still shrouded in shadows, just after the Paschal Candle had found its stand in our darkened church. Everything quietened except the flame and my trembling voice, which sang:

 

“Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels…” and later…
“This is the night.”

 

It’s eerie. And yet—utterly beautiful.

 

The Exsultet remains one of the oldest pieces of liturgical poetry we still sing. Its roots stretch back to the 5th century. Some scholars trace it to St. Ambrose or St. Augustine—others to the dawn of the Western Church itself.

 

It has been sung through plagues and wars, in hushed cathedrals and rowdy prison chapels, accompanied with trembling and with trumpet. And every year as we return to it, we hear again: This is the night.

 

This is the night when death and life collided.
This is the night when God’s mercy broke like a tidal wave upon our sinful shores.
This is the night when light dared to shine in the darkness—and the darkness comprehended it not (to borrow the King James Bible’s language).

 

We gather tonight not because everything is already bright and beautiful, but precisely because it’s not—because… wouldn’t you know it… resurrection begins in the dark. Sure, our forebears, the disciples did not behold it until Easter morn, but it’s here in the darkened soil of the vigil that resurrection starts blooming! However, truth be told, the history of our salvation weaves way back to the foundation of the Universe.

 

It all began—like our readings tonight—with the story of creation—the voice of God shaping order out of chaos, light called forth from deep darkness, and God called everything not very bad, but very good! 

Then, when God’s People were locked in Pharoh’s Land God’s liberating love provided an Exodus out of Egypt. In our Second Vigil lesson we heard the haunting tale of Moses and Miriam and the sea that split just in time.

Next, in Isaiah, God called the weary, including us to: Come, eat, drink. You don’t even need money. Just return to the Lord, who will abundantly pardon.

And yet, even after these inspiring stories of our salvation history—our voices were not yet fully triumphant, were they? Sure, we have been singing throughout the night, but the Easter acclimation didn’t arrive right at the start. Did you notice that? Perhaps, that’s what makes the Exsultet so provocative and powerful. It is a song of joy sung in the dark. A trembling candlelit cry that grace is greater than grief, that mercy outlasts sin, that God has already rolled the stone away, even if we haven’t seen it yet.

 

Some years, the soaring theological phrases of the Exultet may accurately represent our internal, joy-filled reality. Other years, it takes everything to whisper the words in our hearts alongside the cantor. Regardless of how you are feeling though—the song continues.

 

Like back in 2020 when Holy Week services happened entirely via livestream. It was such a disconcerting time, wasn’t it? At All Saints, where I was serving at the time, I remember pre-recording our services. We filmed them out of sequence. When we recorded the Vigil, the Paschal Candle stood solitary in a silent sanctuary while COVID crept outside our doors, forcing us into a strange isolation.

 

Even then: This is the night.

Even then: Christ broke the chains of death.

Even then: Love rose victorious from the grave.

 

Friends, as beautiful as this song and service are, I know that some of you may have come here tonight stuck in the Good Friday part of your soul. Isolated not by disease like in 2020, but by fear or hurt or failure. And, if you are still in the shadows, still in the sealed-off tomb, or still waiting for the dawn, that’s okay. That’s part of the journey. Sadly, what I just described is an all too real byproduct of our volatile and broken world. 

 

But hear this: Easter does not require your certainty. You don’t have to be happy. This night asks only your presence. Think about it this way: we do not wait to sing the Exsultet until sunrise. It begins while it’s still dark. The Exsultet reverberates in the darkness because God is here too. It’s not unlike the God character Aslan the Lion in C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia. Even in the dark, God is on the move!

 

And that, I believe, is why we still sing this ancient song—why it still matters. Because God is still at work in us. Because the Exsultet reminds us that resurrection does not erase suffering, but it does transform it. Joy is not the absence of pain, but it’s holy companion. And, hope is not naive optimism, but the stubborn song that refuses to go silent, even when the night is long.

 

Now friends, I know not everyone loves crooning. We’re not all Frank Sinatra, Celine Deon, or Michael Bubble. Nor do we have a chanting role in the service or a spot in the choir. But, witnessing the profundity of this night invites us to reply, and I’ve been assured that when we sing, we pray twice! So sing out! Make a joyful noise or at least some noise to the Lord!

 

If you’re here tonight with joy—sing.

If you’re here tonight with grief—sing.

If you’re here tonight with nothing but doubt or exhaustion—sing.

 

Sing because this is the night.
This is the night that shattered sin and separation.
This is the night when heaven eternally embraced earth.
This is the night when Christ Jesus rose from the grave.

 

And even now, though the sun has set; even now, though the world appears as dark as midnight; even now, as we experience our own shadowy challenges, Christ’s light will not be extinguished. Like the beauty of the paschal candle, God’s light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it; it doesn’t even comprehend it! So, this night and always, may we sing of the resurrecting love of Our God who even now is on the move in us, in our community, and in the world!

 

Alleluia, alleluia, Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen, indeed! Alleluia, alleluia!

 

Amen. 

God All-Vulnerable

 

So often we describe God as Almighty, but today we see God All-Vulnerable.

Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14 

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Psalm 116:1, 10-17

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was preached on Good Friday at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of it 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.

---

We call this day Good, but truthfully… it feels anything but good.

 

On this day, we read the Passion of Our Lord. We hear the betrayal, the violence, the abandonment, and the silence. We stare into the mystery of a God who chose not to escape suffering, but to enter it. Not to crush evil with a sword, but to expose it on a cross.

 

Even though I have heard this story so many times, still I feel the tension. I know the story, and yet… my heart protests. At the first church I served, a group of children heard the Passion story on Palm Sunday. One of them replied, “Wait, what? Jesus died?!” Like that little one, I too am in disbelief. Couldn’t it have gone another way?

 

Why this way? Why the flogging, the nails and the borrowed tomb?

 

Why this kind of love?

 

The short answer? Because this is the world we live in.

 

We live in a world where the innocent suffer—not only back then, but also now. We live on a planet where people are mocked, manipulated, and murdered. Where powerful systems silence truth. Where even the faithful are tempted to look away when things get too painful. 

 

Jesus didn’t die in spite of our world. He died in it. Because of it. He died for it and for us, but he died because all too often that’s what we do to truth tellers.

Good Friday is not the story of God demanding suffering—it is the story of God choosing solidarity with the suffering of this world.

 

The crucifixion shows us something no throne ever could: the full extent of God’s love. Not a sanitized, distant, picture-perfect kind of love. But a love that bleeds. A love that absorbs rejection. A love that stays—even beyond the barriers and breaking points.

 

Some in our society scoff at this love—calling it weak, sentimental, idealistic. In response, I find myself wrestling with the following question: What does this life-giving love—this love that may lead to my death—what does this love have to do with me, with us?

 

To answer I could theologize—atonement theories, historical layers, and political intrigue. I could stay up in my head trying to explain it away, but the truth is simpler, and harder: Jesus died because this is what love looks like when it refuses to give up. When it costs something. When it stays beyond the bitter end. When love bears the weight of the entire cosmos within a mortal body nailed to a tree. 

 

This truth of the Cross can’t make sense up here (in the brain), certainly not in the survival mind, which remains hell-bent on supremacy, control, esteem, and a host of other markers deemed virtuous by the world’s systems. Instead, the truth of the Cross is venerated, is made real so to speak, when we align ourselves not with the power-tripping principalities of this fallen world, but when we seek solidarity with the least, the lost, and the unloved—when we align ourselves with Christ Jesus who hides in plain sight, in family, neighbor, and yes, even enemy. 

 

Through the Cross we experience a holy camaraderie not just with those we like or think of fondly, but with every human being. In a few minutes, we will experience this kinship by praying for the needs of the entire world. And, specifically you will notice a new section has been added to our solemn collects in which we lift up our Jewish siblings. We specifically will pray for them because all too often during this holy week Christians have harmed Jewish neighbors. For Jesus, a faithful Jewish man, was not ascending the Cross to start an exclusive religion—Jesus endured the Cross to draw the whole cosmos near to express there is no separation from the Divine—pain, power, or persecution won’t stop God from inviting us close, to embrace us—all of us. 

 

And, before Jesus was crucified, before the Cross was even erected, soldiers forced Our Lord to carry his own torture device. I bet somewhere in your life you too are carrying a cross.

 

It might be grief. Or shame. Or exhaustion. Or loneliness so deep it aches.

 

This day says: God knows that burden.
This day says: Jesus has walked your road.
This day says: You are not alone. You’ll never walk alone!

 

We so often speak of God as Almighty. But today, we also see God as All-Vulnerable. God does not dominate from on high. God hangs low from a tree. And yet—this is not the end. 

Because the Cross is not God's final word. It was not the proverbial period that the authorities thought they were placing at the end of the sentence that was Jesus’ life. For where the world tried to place an exclamation point of death, God instead placed an ellipses, a "to be continued," a mysterious pause that stretches onward. Because Jesus’ outstretched arms nailed to a tree are still reaching toward you and me and this whole broken world… and the entirety of the cosmos… offering not answers, but embrace. As a beloved prayer from our Tradition puts it: “Jesus stretched out his arms of love on the hard wood of the cross, that everyone might come within the reach of his saving embrace" (The Book of Common Prayer, 101).

 

So come close, beloved apostles. Not to understand, but to behold. Not to explain, but to weep. Not to solve, but to be held.

 

This is the day when the whole world falls apart. And somehow, in the shadow of the Cross, we find not despair… but truth. We find not condemnation… but compassion. We find not the absence of God… but the fullness of love.

 

That’s what makes this Friday Good.

Because even here—especially here—nothing can separate us from the love of God…

Not sin…
Not death…
Not even a cross!

Love Lays Everything Aside: Jesus Loves Us To The End

Maundy Thursday is a peculiar service with a strange name—what are we even doing here?

Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14 

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Psalm 116:1, 10-17

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on Maundy Thursday 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.

The first memory I have of Maundy Thursday dates back to when I was 6 years old—and I missed the point entirely. 

That night, my mom and sister attended this solemn liturgy at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, while my dad and I went to… Boutwell Auditorium! Why? Because there was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles live-action show, of course.

It was everything a kid could hope for: lights, action, smoke machines, and even pizza references. “COWABUNGA,” to quote the turtles! I walked out of that show with my feet barely touching the ground. Then, my dad and I swung back by church to pick up the rest of our family. 

I ran up to the wide-open, red, front doors, and froze… Because inside that darkened, cavernous sanctuary, I witnessed something unexpected: a barely-lit nave, tear-streaked faces, silence so thick it hummed, and people who looked like they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. It was holy. And, I couldn’t make sense of it.

I remember trying to comfort my mom. “Don’t worry,” I said, “the Ninja Turtles will come back someday—and you can go with us next time.” She gave me a very kind look that said, “You don’t get it—not yet, at least.” And I didn’t.

Honestly, I still don’t get it all. For Maundy Thursday asks something deeper than comprehension. It asks for presence. For courage. For love. So what are we doing here tonight?

We’re here to hear the commandment—the mandatum—that gives this day its name: “Love one another. Just as I have loved you.” And Jesus did not just say it. He showed it.

No parables. No dramatic healings. No water into wine. No multiplying loaves. Just a towel, a basin, and probably a whole lot of awkward silence as Jesus stooped down to scrub the feet of his friends…

Even Judas. Let’s not skip over that. Jesus knelt at the feet of the one who was actively planning to betray him. And still, he washed. Still, he loved.

This truth is what makes what happened on Maundy Thursday so powerful. Jesus didn’t just love his friends when they were loveable. He didn’t serve only when it was convenient or inspiring. He did not abandon others when things got tense or painful or confusing. Jesus laid everything aside—his robe, his reputation, and his rightful place as teacher—and showed us what love looks like when it costs something.

That’s not an easy lesson. And the assignment we’re given to help us learn this truth is weird, if I am being honest. Yes, foot washing is as challenging as it is strange.

It’s intimate. Vulnerable. Humbling. You’re all too aware of where your feet have been, and suddenly someone is kneeling in front of you like a servant. It feels backward.

And that’s the point. In a world that idolizes status, ego, and keeping up appearances, Jesus flips over the whole thing, like a money-changer’s table. The one through whom all things were made—the one who robed Creation in majesty took off his robe, knelt, and served. The spotless Son of God got his hands dirty.

And then he said: This is how you’re to love one another too. Not just in theory. Not just when it’s easy. Not just when they deserve it. But continually with tenderness, humility, and an open heart. And, Jesus is still saying this, as he calls us to love friend, neighbor, and yes even enemy. That’s why we do what we do tonight. You may also be wondering, how will this ritual work? 

After this sermon, you’ll hear an invitation—echoing Jesus’ own. It reminds us that strength in God's kingdom doesn’t come from miracles or might, but from lowly service. That’s why we’ll begin washing feet in a kind of holy chain reaction: I will wash the feet of the first to come forward. And then those who’ve had their feet washed will wash the feet of the next people in line. One by one, those who desire it will be washed, then wash the next person’s feet. 

We do this not to reenact the Gospel, but to embody it—to become a living testimony to the kind of love Jesus shows us because… beloved, this love God invites us into is not theoretical. It is one of practicality, of action, of humility. Others will not recognize we follow Jesus as our Teacher because of well-articulated platitude or nobly held aspiration. They’ll know we are Christians by our love—a love that is participatory, practical, and poured out—not unlike a foot-washing. Of course, there’s more meaning to tonight than simply this ritualized act of service. 

Tonight, we also break bread and share the cup. We remember the Last Supper and the mystery of Jesus giving himself to us in bread and wine. In the Holy Eucharist, like in the foot washing, it is not our own thoughts, words, or deeds that saves us. Rather, we are redeemed by experiencing and partaking in the love of God. 

What do we learn by taking part in humble service and simple feasting? We discover anew that God’s love is not distant or sanitized or abstract. It’s embodied. It’s kneeling. It’s breaking. It’s poured out. It touches feet and forgives failures and looks even Judas in the eye.

That’s the kind of love we are called into, that’s the love we’re called to imitate. Lord knows that we don’t love perfectly. So, before setting off at the task of emulating God’s love, first receive. Let the love of Christ wash over you, like water on some weary feet. Let it nourish you like bread and wine. We can accept the Love of God, and in that love we begin to change.

So, that is why we’re here tonight—not to figure it all out. We’re here to feel the water. To sit in the silence. To be knelt before and to kneel. To remember what Jesus has done. To taste the bread and wine, His Body and His Blood. And, to prepare ourselves to walk with him—to stay with him—through what comes next.

Because the darkness will fall, the garden will grow quiet, the disciples will disperse, and the cross will rise. But first, this night.

This humble, awkward, and sacred night when Jesus lays everything aside, and loves us to the end.

Love Lays Everything Aside

 

This week, Love lays everything else aside, will we do the same?

The Liturgy of the Palms

Luke 19:28-40

Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29

The Liturgy of the Word

Isaiah 50:4-9a

Philippians 2:5-11

Luke 22:14-23:56

or Luke 23:1-49

Psalm 31:9-16

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on Palm Sunday 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.

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.

Today, Palm Sunday, is a rollercoaster of a day. We begin with shouts of Hosanna—palm branches waving, children smiling, we are giving parade vibes, for sure! And we end in silence, with Jesus taken down from the cross. Joy and devastation in the same hour. Triumph and tragedy, held together.

With such a wide array of the human experience, perhaps what this Sunday most invites is not understanding, but presence—a willingness to stay with Jesus, even as the story devolves into tragedy.

When the disciples first followed Jesus into Jerusalem, they were hopeful. The crowd was energized. Jesus looked like the kind of leader they had been praying for. But not long after, things got confusing. Jesus washed their feet instead of raising a sword. He offered his body and blood instead of battle plans. He knelt in a garden and wept.

And slowly, one by one, his friends disappeared. One betrayed him. Another denied him. Most simply vanished into the shadows.

The story of this week—this Holy Week—isn’t just the story of what Jesus did for us. It’s also the story of how easily we leave when love starts to cost us something.

But here’s the good news: Jesus doesn’t abandon us, even when we abandon him.

In Philippians, we’re told to “let the same mind be in us that was in Christ Jesus.” That’s not just a call to think like Jesus—it’s a call to live like him. To take on the posture of humility. To empty ourselves. To make room for others. To choose love over pride, vulnerability over power, presence over comfort.

It’s not an easy way. But it’s the way of Christ.

So, as we begin this holiest of weeks, I offer you this invitation:

Don’t rush ahead to Easter. Stay with the story.
Stay when the crowd turns angry.
Stay when the silence grows heavy.
Stay when your heart breaks.
Because it’s in the staying that resurrection takes root.

Let this week shape you—not just as a memory of what happened long ago, but as a living call to walk the way of love. Because this world still needs the peace that rides in on a donkey. This world still needs people who choose mercy over vengeance, courage over fear, presence over escape.

So stay with Jesus. And, let God’s story unfold in you.

Amen.