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| In the Triduum, we discover what Love truly looks like. |
©2026 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 message may be found by clicking 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.
Earlier this week—Palm Sunday evening, actually—I was helping get my kids ready for bed.
Bath time, pajamas, the usual rhythm.
And Teddy said something simple.
He said, “My feet are dry… and they hurt.”
So I grabbed some lotion, sat down, and started taking care of his feet while Kim read a story from Lucy’s storybook Bible.
In the middle of this moment, I realized, “Oh, this is a lot like Maundy Thursday.”
But, let me be clear—I was not doing the same thing that Jesus does for us tonight.
Jesus is washing feet that have walked through dirty streets…
streets filled with grim and dust…
and these feet would be inches away from your face as you reclined at table to eat.
It was not a sweet moment.
It was a humbling one.
Still somewhere in the middle of rubbing lotion into my son’s feet, I slowed down.
And I realized—I wasn’t just helping him.
I was loving him.
Not efficiently.
Not abstractly.
Not from a distance.
But right there.
On his level.
In a way that cost me something—time, attention, presence, and money (for the lotion).
And that’s when something deeper hit me.
I may not be doing exactly what Jesus did, but this…
This is the direction Jesus is pointing us tonight.
Because on this night, Jesus does something extraordinary.
He kneels.
The Teacher.
The Lord.
The one who—just days before—was welcomed like a king…
The one through whom all things were made…
The Light of the World…
The Way, the Truth, and the Life…
John tells us
The Resurrection and the Life kneels.
And he washes their feet.
Even Peter’s.
Even Judas’s.
And then he says something that should stop us in our tracks.
He doesn’t say on this night, “Love your neighbor as yourself”—as beautiful and important as that is.
But: “Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”
That is a different standard.
That is not: love in proportion to your own comfort.
That is not: love as long as it feels mutual.
That is not: love in a way that preserves your status.
Instead it is: love like this.
Love that kneels.
Love that serves.
Love that moves toward the lowest place.
This is what love looks like—not just any love—agape love, self-giving love, self-emptying love, even.
And if we’re honest, this is the kind of love that does not get rewarded nearly enough in our day and age.
Because it doesn’t climb ladders.
It doesn’t build platforms.
It doesn’t impress crowds.
But it does something far more important.
It makes Christ visible.
Because when we love like this—quietly, humbly, concretely—
we are not putting a spotlight on ourselves.
We are reflecting the light of Christ.
A warm glow.
Not a blinding glare.
A presence that says:
“You are not alone.”
“God is with you—even here.”
And beyond here…
Even in the garden when we cannot stay awake.
Even in the moment of betrayal when we cannot stay faithful.
Even in the courtyard when we cannot stay truthful.
So, maybe this is the invitation tonight.
Not just to admire what Jesus did.
But to receive it… and then to become it.
To love our families like this.
Washing their feet or putting lotion on them, at least…
Yes.
But also the ones we overlook.
The ones we avoid.
The ones who don’t make it easy.
Even the ones who might betray us.
Because Judas is still at the table tonight.
And Jesus still kneels.
Which means this:
There is no one beyond the reach of this love.
So as we wash and are washed…
as we offer our selves, our souls and bodies at this table…
as we are fed by Christ’s life given for us…
may we be changed.
Not into people who simply believe the right things.
But into people who live this love.
Kneeling.
Serving.
Giving.
This is what love looks like.
Amen.
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