A Few Words For Our Youth

Acts 11:1-18

Psalm 148

Revelation 21:1-6

John 13:31-35

 

©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’s a saying I’ve seen on a bumper sticker before that reads:
“Don’t make me come down there — Love, God.”

 

When seeing this, I imagine God with one eyebrow raised, holy hand scratching his blindingly bright beard, standing on a cloud, looking down at our mess and our mischief. But the truth is — God probably doesn’t look like this and more importantly, God did come down here! And not with a lightning bolt, but with sandals and stories and, above all else… love.

 

And today — on Youth Sunday — I’m convinced that the message God came to give through Jesus could not be clearer. In John’s Gospel account, Jesus reclined at the table with his disciples. And in this story of the last night before the cross, there is no Last Supper. Just this:

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you.”

 

Now, let’s pause for a second. When Jesus says something is a commandment, we should probably write that down. It’s not a suggestion from our incarnate influencer—this isn’t a divine recommendation. He doesn’t say, “Try love when you’re feeling holy” or “Maybe sprinkle in a dash of godliness when you want some zest.” No — he says: Love. One another. As I have loved you.

 

And how did Jesus love them? 

Well, he loved everyone—the bold ones and the shy ones. The fishermen and the tax collectors. He loved the ones who understood what he was saying and the ones who constantly asked, “Wait, what?” He loved Judas. He loved Peter — even after Peter denied knowing him. He loved through challenge, through wisdom, through healing, feeding, and sacrificing. And, his love had no exception clause, no footnotes, no expiration date. 

 

That’s the kind of love we’re talking about.

 

And here are two things I want every youth at Holy Apostles to know — and honestly, what I hope all of us remember:

1.    You are loved. Without limit. Without exception. Without end.

By God. By this church. By the people who make up this fun-loving, table-sharing, music-making, prayer-raising, Holy Apostles family.

 

2.    And — here's the second part — that love is not a souvenir. 

 

It’s not meant to sit on your shelf like your 3rd place ribbon from the science fair (although, well done!). It’s meant to be shared. Worn. Passed on. Like glitter at Vacation Bible School — it sticks to everything and everyone, and you can’t get rid of it.

 

You’re called to live out that love in real ways. In how you treat the new kid. In how you respond to hate or bullying. In how you show up when someone’s having a rough time. In how you include, rather than exclude.

 

Because, as Acts reminds us today — this love of God is for everyone. Peter has that weird picnic-blanket vision — you know, the one where animals come down from the sky like a heavenly food court — and it becomes clear that God's love is for all people. No one is unclean. No one is left out. Love has no border.

 

And Revelation paints the vision even more beautifully: a new heaven, a new earth, a world where every tear is wiped away. That’s where all this is going. And between now and then, our job is to love like that future is already true.

 

So — if you forget everything else from your years at Holy Apostles (even the doughnuts at Sunday School), I hope you remember this:

You are beloved. Always.
And your life’s work — wherever you go — is to love like Jesus. Loudly. Boldly. Graciously.

Not because it’s easy. But because it’s who we are.
And because the world needs it.

 

And remember — when in doubt, just love. You’ll be doing the holiest work of all.

 

Amen.

 

May We Walk This Road Together

 

Today is overloaded with meaning!

 

Acts 9:1-6, (7-20)

Revelation 5:11-14

John 21:1-19

Psalm 30

 

©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’s a strangely fitting kind of beauty in how the Church calendar falls this year. Today is often called Good Shepherd Sunday, which yearly lands on the Fourth Sunday of Easter. It is a day of tenderness and trust—of comfort in the voice of Our Exemplary Shepherd who calls each one of us by name. But this year, Good Shepherd Sunday shares the occasion with Mother’s Day, a holiday that carries its own weight of tenderness and trust—but also grief, and loss, and joy—in short, complexity.

 

So, right here in the mix of these two celebrations, that’s where I want to begin. Because here’s the truth: if you spend enough time hearing people’s life stories, you realize something. Mothering, like shepherding, is not one thing.

 

For some, this day is filled with brunches, flowers, hugs from children and calls from grandkids. For others, it’s the ache of absence. The hollow space where a mother once stood. The sting of a child never born. The silence of estrangement. The weariness of single parenting. The beauty of chosen families. The burden of watching a parent slowly fade. The pain of not being mothered well. To be blunt, real life.

 

So, it seems only fitting that on this particular Sunday, we get these particular readings.

 

In Acts, we meet Tabitha, also known as Dorcas—a woman so beloved by her community that when she died, the widows gathered, held up the garments she made, and wept. These were not just clothes. They were stitched memories. They were turns of care and service. They were acts of mothering, in the deepest sense of the word.

 

And when Peter raised her from death, it was not just about resurrection in a physical sense. This was a proclamation that the work of love—especially the quiet, ordinary love of tending to others—matters. It lives on. It is resurrected, too.

 

In Revelation, we heard of a great multitude, from every nation, every tribe, every people, gathered before God’s throne. And in this vision, they cry out—not in despair, but in worship. They have come through “the great ordeal,” we’re told. They have suffered. They have known hunger and thirst and grief. And yet—they are there. They are seen. They are held.

 

And finally in John’s Gospel account, Jesus speaks to the skeptical crowd and says: “My sheep hear my voice. I know them. I give them eternal life. No one will snatch them out of my hand.”

 

Cutting to the heart of this message, we discover: Jesus knows us. The shepherd knows the sheep—not as a faceless flock, but one by one, voice by voice, story by story. Jesus doesn’t love us in general. Jesus loves you. And me. Even on days when we feel lost, or ashamed, or invisible. Even when we don’t feel very “resurrected.”

 

The Good Shepherd’s love does not demand that we be unbroken. In truth, it assumes our brokenness. Like in the Psalm we know by heart—The Lord is my Shepherd, which the choir beautifully led us in today. In that beautiful piece of spiritual poetry we hear, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” God is with us in our brokenness and when we walk through pitch black valleys because friends, there’s no if about it. We will face challenges. We will experience fearful things. And yet—we will not go through themalone. Our Shepherd never leaves us.

 

So, what does this constellation of readings and occasions mean for us?

It means we can hold our grief and our gratitude in the same hands.
It means we can be honest about the mess and still trust in God’s mercy.
It means we don’t have to be whole to be worthy of Love.
It means we can stop pretending to be who we think the world wants us to be and start listening for the voice that calls us by name—the Shepherd’s voice who says: You are mine. You are not forgotten. You are beloved.

 

And as we gather at this altar, at the Good Shepherd’s Table, at Our Holy Parent’s Feast, I want to share a prayer for all of us, and especially for those holding grief or complexity this Mother’s Day. These words are inspired by the Rev. Heidi Carrington Heath, former Young Clergy Women International’s chaplain, and the Rev. Katie Kirk-Costas, Associate Rector at St. Thomas in Huntsville. 

 

A Prayer for Mother’s Day
(adapted with gratitude from the Rev. Heidi Carrington Heath)

I want you to know I’m praying for you—
if you are like Tamar, facing infertility or grieving a miscarriage.
I’m praying for you—
if you are like Rachel, surrounded by pregnancies while you wait with empty arms.
I’m praying for you—
if you are like Naomi, and have known the bitter sting of a child’s death.
I’m praying for you—
if you are like Joseph or Benjamin, and your mother is no longer with you.
I’m praying for you—
if your relationship with your mom is strained, marked by pain or absence.
I’m praying for you—
if you have given a child up in love, entrusting their life to another’s care.
I’m praying for you—
if you have taken in a child not born of your body but born of your heart.
I’m praying for you—
if you sit beside a mother whose memory is slipping slowly away.
I’m praying for you—
if you are expecting, anxious and full of wonder at the life growing within.
I’m praying for you—
if you have watched your beloved child suffer injustice or violence, and still you grieve and rage.
I’m praying for you—
if your children have turned away, and you carry their absence like a stone in your chest.
I’m praying for you—
if mothering is your greatest joy and your hardest calling.
I’m praying for you—
if you are watching your child walk a path of struggle, and all you can do is love them from the sidelines.
I’m praying for you—
if motherhood is not your path, or not your desire, and you feel out of place in today’s celebration.
I’m praying for you—
if you are someone who mothers through mentoring, teaching, caregiving, or simply by showing up with love—though you have no children of your own.
I’m praying for you—
if you see yourself in these stories, or if yours remains unwritten, unnamed, or unknown.

This Mother’s Day, wherever you find yourself—
in joy, in sorrow, in longing, in gratitude—
know this:

We walk with you.
You are not alone.
You are loved.
You are seen.
You are worthy.

 

And may you come to know—more deeply today than yesterday—
the fierce and tender love of God,
whose care for us is stronger than death,
and whose embrace is wide enough to hold every story.

Amen.

 

These prayers are pastoral, prophetic, and profoundly true. They speak what too often goes unnamed. They dignify those whose stories don’t get Hallmark cards.

 

On this day, may we walk this road together—sheep and shepherds, mothers and children, the grieving and the rejoicing, all wrapped up in one Body. And may we trust that the voice of Love, the voice of Our Good Shepherd, Our All-Loving Parent is still calling our names. Still leading us forward. Still making all things new. 

 

So, borrowing words from Saint Clare: Live without fear: your Creator has made you holy, has always protected you, and loves you as a mother. Go in peace to follow the good road, and may God’s blessing be with you always. Amen.

 

Bonus Good News: A Feast for the Heart

Today's Gospel lesson comes after the original ending of John, so what do we do with this bonus good news?

 

Acts 9:1-6, (7-20)

Revelation 5:11-14

John 21:1-19

Psalm 30

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was preached at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL on the Third Sunday of Easter. A video of the message may be found here. 

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

 

At the end of last week’s Gospel lesson — right before today’s story — we heard the following: “But these [things] are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” Boom! Resurrection, belief, and new life. End of story. Roll the credits.

 

Except… not quite. It’s like in an infomercial: But wait! There’s more!

 

Today we hear a bonus, post-Resurrection encounter — it almost feels like a surprise scene after the credits of a movie or a hidden track at the end of an album. In this Gospel lesson, John sneaks in one last story about the Risen Christ, it’s a secret epilogue of grace. As though, God is saying: You thought I was finished? I'm just getting started.

 

And what is in this bonus good news? What is it that God is just getting started?

 

It’s a beach breakfast, a miraculous catch of fish, a conversation about love and forgiveness, and—surprisingly—a challenge… to not just “believe,” but to live differently because you believe. 

 

Now y’all, I know that change is challenging. Even when that change comes from experiencing the Resurrection. For in the new light of Easter, we experience newfound freedom—knowing that death doesn’t have the last word—but, this new way of being is impossible. At least it is on our own. 

 

So, friends if you hold on to nothing more from these lessons, remember that if you are going to live “life in Christ,” you will need the risen Christ feeding you and transforming you. But, what does this sustaining presence look like? Well, let’s start by looking at a failed fishing expedition.

 

After everything—the empty tomb, the Easter appearances, and the imparting of the Holy Spirit (according to John)—what do the disciples do? Go on a mission to share the Good News? No! Serve the needy of Jerusalem? Nope! Pray unceasingly worshipping God? Nah! Instead, the disciples go fishing. 

 

It's an odd thing. After everything that happened, they just went back to what they were doing before. And, who could blame them? There is not empirical data measuring the stress levels of these 1^st Century disciples, but imagine the mental and emotional load that was upon them. The leader of their movement had been viciously killed and mysteriously raised. It would make sense to blow off some steam by doing something fulfilling and familiar. It’s what we do too, right? 

 

Perhaps we do this by going fishing, but it could also be when we’re golfing, hiking, running, cooking, traveling, or any other number of other productive ways to cope with stress. So, the disciples head to some well-known surroundings to recenter and recognize what had taken place, but…

 

They were terrible at it—at least the fishing. You would have thought none of them had fished before. How did they survive by doing this? Because they fished all night long and caught nothing. Not a single fish! 

 

Then, at dawn, just as the sun rose (or was it the S-o-n that rose?), a stranger on the shore shouted: “Children, you have no fish, have you?” (Ouch! Who is this mean heckler on the shore?)

“No,” they sighed in reply.

“Cast the net on the right side,” he offered. It is not in any translation, I’ve ever read, but I imagine the disciples rolling their lives and retorting: “Don’t you think we tried that!” But, eventually, they did cast their nets on the other side. And, bam! They hauled in 153 fish. More than they could haul into the boat.

 

It’s in this moment of abundance that the proverbial scales fell from their eyes. John recognized: “It is the Lord!” Simon Peter, never one for half-measures, went all-in, throwing on his clothes and diving into the sea. (Only Peter would get dressed before swimming… I mean, was he worried about Jesus seeing him shirt-less?)

 

When the disciples reached shore, what did they find? Jesus. Already there. Already preparing a meal for them. Already sustaining them! Before he sent them out to feed others, he fed them first. But, we do not live by bread (or fish) alone. For then, came the deeper work of spiritual sustenance.

 

After breakfast, Jesus turned to Peter—remember he was the one who had denied Jesus three times—and in a series of questions that were as tender as they were cutting, Jesus asked Peter three times: “Do you love me?”

Each time Peter said yes, and each time Jesus responded not with “That's nice” or “I love you, too,” but with a commission: “Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep.” 

 

In this moment, we see more clearly that love to Jesus is not just a warm feeling. Instead, it is a choice, an action. And, in the three-fold affirmation of Peter’s love for Christ, we also discover that God’s love is about restoration. The denials of Good Friday morning are undone here at this brunch on the beach. And though we know that Peter still didn’t get it all right, his later mission and martyrdom exemplify a life turned toward the service of others. And here’s where this bonus scene of Good News challenges us. Jesus’ unbinding Peter and his denials is inextricably linked with a transformation—a difference in being and behavior.

 

The priest and author Barbara Brown Taylor once told a story about a seminary classmate from Lebanon who was curious why his classmates did not want this for themselves. He grew frustrated with the other students, saying: “All you Americans care about is justification! You love sinning and being forgiven, sinning and being forgiven. Has anyone ever heard of sanctification? Is anyone interested in learning to sin a little less?” These are hard questions, but appropriate ones. Don’t we want to be transformed? Don’t we want to live in integrity when it comes to the relationships of our lives?

 

The truth is the Risen Christ forgives us endlessly, like we saw in Christ Jesus’ repeated forgiveness of Peter. However, Christ also calls us beyond the hamster wheel of sinning and being forgiven. Christ calls us to be transformed. How do we know this? Well, look no further than our lesson from the Acts of the Apostles this morning. 

 

Saul, the bloodthirsty persecutor, became Paul the Apostle. The adamant victimizer who held the cloaks of those who martyred Saint Stephen, became the evangelist who helped spread the Christian message to the Gentiles. Or, look again at Peter, the denier, who became the rock on which Christ built the Church. 

 

Both were fed by the grace of God, but neither stayed the same. Their lives became acts of penance in the best sense — not as punishment, but as repair. They did not change because they feared God’s wrath (although I think Saul’s blindness certainly put the awe of God in him), instead they changed knowing the freedom of serving in Christ’s ministry. Their faith was not just a listless “I’m sorry.” It was a moving, new way of living: loving, feeding, tending, and serving.

 

This is what sanctification looks like. This is Life in Christ. This is Resurrection! So, what about us? Do we want this?

 

You may feel tired. Maybe your nets have been empty. Perhaps even returning to old sources of sustenance isn’t as fruitful. Maybe you’ve been stuck on that hamster wheel or out in lifeless waters. Perhaps you cannot break the old sinful ways. If any of this sounds like you, look to the shore. See the Risen Christ. He’s already readying a meal for you and for all. Let him feed you. Let him love you first. Yes, here at Christ’s Table, but also in prayer, in the study of scripture, in giving to others, in being loved on by this community, or countless other ways that God is yearning to meet you.

 

And then—because you are loved beyond measure, because no matter what you have done you have been forgiven—get up. Feed his lambs. Tend his sheep. And, love his flock (all his flock). Because the bonus good news isn’t just that Christ is risen. The bonus good news is that you are rising too. Amen.