The Poor, The Perfume, and the Presence of Jesus

Jesus told us we will always have the poor with us—was that an eternal truism or a reflection on our brokenness?

Isaiah 43:16-21

Philippians 3:4b-14

John 12:1-8

Psalm 126

The Rev. Seth Olson © 2025

 

This sermon was preached on April 6, 2025, the Fifth Sunday in Lent, at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. 

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. 

I don’t know about you, but I have occasionally sided with Judas. GASP! Don’t worry—I’m not talking betrayal, silver coins, or anything dramatic. I mean the kind of moment when you… hypothetically… walk into a church meeting and someone suggests spending $300 on an exotic essential oil diffuser, and you instinctively think, “How about we feed someone instead?”

 

It was a reasonable reaction when Judas said, “This perfume could have been sold and the money given to the poor.” I get it. Frankly, his response aligns with things I’ve heard in a Finance or Stewardship Committee meeting—maybe it’s even something I’ve said!

 

However, John’s Gospel account does not let nuance stand unchallenged. The narrator told us right away: Judas didn’t say this because he cared about the poor—he said it because he was a thief. And before we can get too cozy with Judas’ point, Jesus turned the whole thing upside down when he said: “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

 

That line. That verse. It stings. It sounds dismissive—like a brush-off to the world’s suffering. But it wasn’t. It was something else. Something deeper. So, let us dig down:

 

First, let’s wonder, what did Jesus mean? If this statement wasn’t Jesus shrugging off the poor, then what was it? These words were a reference to Deuteronomy 15:11:

 

“There will always be poor people in the land. Therefore, I command you to be openhanded toward your fellow Israelites who are poor and needy in your land.”

 

In other words, Jesus was not denying the need to help the poor. In truth, he was reaffirming the commandment to do so—and simultaneously drawing attention to the sacredness of the present moment.

 

Mary in this sacred moment anointed Jesus for burial. She was the only one in the room not named Jesus who seemed to understand what was about to happen. And in that vulnerable, intimate, beautiful act, Jesus said: This matters. This moment matters. Let her do this.

 

This act mattered so much that here in John’s Gospel account, Jesus himself emulated Mary’s foot anointing by washing his disciples’ feet a few nights later. So, we can see that Jesus’ words were not a dismissal of the poor—they served instead as a re-centering of worship, a call to pay attention, and an invitation to see what God was doing right in front of them. 

 

Most scholars believe that this saying of Jesus—found in Matthew, Mark, and John—goes back to an earlier version of the Good News of Christ Jesus. Whether these were the exact words Jesus said or whether John was shaping them to make a theological point, the meaning holds firm: On the Sabbath evening before what we know as Palm Sunday, Jesus’ presence was precious. His time was short. And, when people loved Jesus, like Mary did here, their love spilled over—not just into acts of worship but into acts of justice.

 

John’s Gospel account has a way of layering meaning: Mary’s act was about love. And, it was also about loss. And, it was about the holy extravagance of giving your best to God, even when it doesn’t make practical sense. 

 

Perhaps this is why Jesus told parables like the one with the pearl of great price or the treasure in the field. The implication of those stories is that when we realize what it is worth to be part of God’s Kingdom, we will liquidate assets and go “all in” to be part of it. 

 

So, is this what Jesus is calling us to do? To sell everything? Maybe. Oh, don’t you love the sweet ambiguity of the Episcopalian Way? The more prevailing consequence of Mary’s actions, Judas’ words, and Jesus’ admonition is that God calls us to live in the tension of both/and.

 

This is to say that as much as we may revert to either/or thinking, that is not the Way of Christ. Sure, there are clear cut moments of good versus evil, but often, like in this moment, it’s an ethical dilemma pitting good choices against one another. Serve neighbor or worship Jesus? 

 

Our calling is truly to worship and to serve, to love Jesus and to love our neighbor, to make room for sacred moments and to mobilize for justice. These were not opposing forces—they were partners, they were siblings of goodness. Thus, Jesus did not push his followers—including us—toward false choices. Instead, he was and still is inviting us to live with holy attention—to see him in worship, and to see him again in the face of the hungry, the sick, the lonely, and the poor.

 

So, what about us now? Should we worship Jesus or feed the hungry? 

 

Well, friends here’s the wild thing: we could do both, particularly we could do both byending world hunger. Like, we as a human species can actually do this.

 

The world produces more than enough food to feed everyone. We even waste around a third of what we grow. And experts estimate it would cost about $40 billion a year to end global hunger by 2030. 

 

For context: humanity spends over $2 trillion a year on military budgets, and I’m not saying that protection isn’t worth it, but we also use billions more dollars on things like luxury handbags, unused streaming subscriptions, and novelty items that no one actually needs (I’m looking at you, glow-in-the-dark toilet paper).

 

So why don’t we end hunger? It’s not because we can’t. It’s because we as humans have chosen not to.

 

The poor are still with us—not because God ordained it as permanent suffering—but because we’ve built systems, economies, and politics that make it so. And yet, Jesus is also still with us—not only in the sacraments and sanctuary, but in the soup kitchens and shelters, the refugee camps and community gardens, in the quiet rooms of grief and in the loud cries for change. It’s often uncomfortable for me to see Jesus in those who are on the margins of our society. 

 

My discomfort stems from a feeling of guilt. I know that Jesus commanded us to care for the hungry, the sick, the lonely, and the poor, but I feel the painful sting that I have continually ignored the needs of these beloved ones. On Wednesday night, the Rev. José Fernandez reminded us that reaching out is good, but exclusively practicing a hand-out style of charity, does not do the same lasting good as forming deep, long-lasting relationships with those in need. 

 

To play around with the old fishing expression: We aren’t to give a man a fish. We aren’t even to teach a man to fish, although that’s better. We are to go fishing together!

 

In conclusion, this passage shows us that to follow Jesus is to be broken open like Mary’s jar of perfume. It is a calling to pour out what we have—not with shame or obligation, but with love and courage.

 

Yes, we are called to worship like Mary. AND, we are also called to see Christ in the hungry, the unhoused, the weary, the mentally burdened, and the spiritually parched.

 

We can feed the hungry. We can heal the hurting. We can lift up the lowly.
And when we do, we’re not just “doing good”—we’re meeting Christ. Because in the end, this story wasn’t about a split between justice and devotion. It was about the presence of Jesus, who said, “Don’t miss this. Don’t miss me. I’m here—in your worship, in your acts of love, in every broken place you’re willing to touch with compassion.”

 

So, when the world offers you an impossible choice—between feeding someone or honoring something holy—remember that God does not limit us to either/or choices.

We are called to both/and.

Worship the Lord.
Feed the poor.
Break the jar.
Spill the perfume.
And trust that Jesus is in the midst of it all.

 

Amen.

On Tables & Reconciliation

  

What's the Parable of the Prodigal Son really about? Surprisingly, it's about tables... and reconciliation!

 

Joshua 5:9-12

Psalm 32

2 Corinthians 5:16-21

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

 

The Rev. Seth Olson © 2025

 

Holy One, you prepare a table in the wilderness and set it before saints and sinners alike. Let your Word meet us in this moment. Let us receive your invitation with open hearts and open minds. Amen.

There’s something sacred about a shared table.

 

Maybe it’s the table in your kitchen, cluttered with mail and homework and a stray crayon or two, but still the place your family returns to, night after night. 

 

Maybe it’s a holiday table, bursting with joy, delicious dishes, and awkward conversation. 

 

Or maybe it’s this table—the altar—where bread and wine become more than bread and wine. Where we meet the mystery of grace. Where heaven and earth kiss one another. Where we take part in a feast, which has been on-going for 2,000 years and will continue on into eternity.

 

In today’s Gospel, we hear one of Jesus’ most famous parables. But before we get to the story itself though, it’s helpful to notice what triggered it—a table. “Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling, saying this fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

 

Jesus was welcoming the wrong people to the table. The Pharisees—religious leaders not unlike you or I—and scribes—the lawyers of the day—began to mutter their disapproval. And so, Jesus told them this parable—not to shame them, but to show them what the kingdom of God looks like.

You know this story. Even if this morning was the very first time you ever heard it, the Parable of the Prodigal Son is our story—a tale about the human condition and God’s epic love for us. To recap it in brief, a son squandered his inheritance in a far-off land, wound up feeding pigs (not a great look for an Israelite forbidden from even touching swine), and eventually stumbled home with a well-rehearsed apology. His father saw him, ran to him, embraced him before a word was spoken. There was a feast—a raucous party. And then the elder brother, angry and excluded, was invited to the table, too. Did he go in? It’s a cliff-hanger meant for Pharisees, scribes, and us to figure out!

 

But, before you go picking on one son or the other, here’s the truth: both sons were lost. One was lost in rebellion—the other in resentment. One wandered far from home—the other far from grace.

 

And yet—this is what hits me every time—the father went out to meet both sons. The father ran to the younger and pleaded with the elder. No shame. No punishment. Only this: “Come inside. Rejoice. You are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.”

 

A First-Century patriarch would NEVER do this. And, I repeat, never! He would not run out to meet a son who essentially wished him dead in requesting his inheritance early. Nor would he leave a party that he was hosting. But, this is not a story meant to share the exemplary behavior of a father. No, this is a story about what the Kingdom of God looks like, who Our Father in Heaven is, and at least to me, it looks a lot like a family built not on getting it all right, but on having the grace to reconcile when we don’t get it all right.

Saint Paul knew this. Perhaps that is why in his letters to the Church in Corinth which we heard today, he wrote: “God has given us the ministry of reconciliation.” When heard alongside today’s Gospel lesson, we might just realize the Parable of the Prodigal Son isn’t just about God’s mercy—it’s about our call to join in the reconciling work of Christ. To be people who meet one another with grace. To refuse the false binary of “good son” vs. “bad son.” To say, “Come to the table. There's room for you. No matter where you’re from, what you’ve done, or what you have messed up… No matter what, there’s room for you.”

 

That’s especially important right now, in our church and our country—where it’s easy to define ourselves by who we’re not—not like those people, not like that party, not like them. And yes, it is meet and right, and our bounden duty (to borrow words from the Rite I Eucharistic Prayer) to live lives where we uphold Gospel values—to be people committed to unconditional love, service, stewardship, humility, grace, and prayer. But, anytime we put up a barrier separating us from them Christ tears down that dividing wall. Christ continually makes all things new, and we are invited to take part in that. To have the vision of Christ and to see that they are us and we are them. All of us are one.

 

At Holy Apostles, we strive to be a community that lives this out—not just in word but in action. A community where you can come back after you’ve made a mess of things. A community where resentment doesn’t harden into exile. A community where we feast on grace.

 

But, sometimes we don’t even get that right. Sometimes we hold grudges. We experience real hurt and it’s hard then to make amends. When this happens to me, sometimes I dig my feet into stubbornness. If I don’t forgive someone else, I think, I maintain power over them. However, Anne Lamott, the Christian author and pastor, described withholding forgiveness as us drinking rat poison and expecting the rat to die. It’s only hurting us. And, it is not taking seriously who God is calling this community to be. 

 

We can hear echoes of who God yearns for us to be in words we heard from Joshua. God says, “Today I have rolled away from you the disgrace of Egypt.” In this story, the people eat the first Passover in the Promised Land—they take part in a new beginning, a new table in a new place. It echoes the Gospel’s table of return and reconciliation. It foreshadows the Eucharistic table we approach week after week—our own table of new beginnings.

 

In truth, the parable we heard today from Luke isn’t just a story Jesus told. This is a narrative Jesus lived. He was accused of eating with the wrong people. He was betrayed at a table. He gave himself at a table. And he invites us still to join him at table.

 

So, wherever you are today—whether you feel like the younger son, broken and unsure if you belong, or the elder son, righteous and quietly bitter—the invitation is the same:

 

Come to the table.

 

Not because you deserve it. Not because you’ve got it all figured out. But because this is what grace looks like. A father running. A feast beginning. And, a love that refuses to let anyone stay lost. 

 

Amen.

Under the Wings of Love

When given the chance to compare himself to anything Jesus chose a mother hen!

 

Deuteronomy 26:1-11

Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16

Romans 10:8b-13

Luke 4:1-13

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was inspired by the above readings and was preached on the Second Sunday in Lent at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL.

 

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.

 

Speaking of words, words are clumsy things.

 

Each week, I try to use them to describe the indescribable, to frame the infinite, to map the contours of a mystery far beyond us, yet infinitely near. 

 

One of my favorite comedians, states that priests and preachers weekly (or is it weakly—W-E-A-K-L-Y) get up to give a book report they’ve had 2,000 years to prepare. He’s not wrong. The words we have, and I use, for God—Lord, Rock, Shepherd, King, Redeemer, etc.—are like arrows launched toward something greater, but often they never quite land where I was aiming. Still, I try… we try… to wrap words around the Great Mystery that is the Divine intermingling with us humans. Like how we see the sacred and the mundane interweaving in today’s readings: 

 

Abram sees a vision in the night, and God speaks of descendants as countless as the stars. But have you ever tried counting the stars, really? It’s nearly impossible! So, how does one measure a promise that vast?

 

The Psalmist declares, The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear? But fear so often pervades our lives—lurking in shadows, whispering lies. What does it mean to trust in a God we cannot see, to believe in safety beneath wings we cannot touch with our hands?

 

Paul invites us to citizenship in heaven, but our feet are planted on earth. Do we get a dual passport—one from the nations of earth and one from the Kingdom of God?

 

And then there’s Jesus standing in the streets of Jerusalem, lamenting over the city, reaching for an image—something, anything—that might convey his longing, his love. And so, the Son of God reaches into his bag of analogies and calls himself… a mother hen.

 

A hen. Not a lion or an eagle or a mighty warrior, but a small, vulnerable creature with open wings, yearning to gather her children home.

 

If ever there were proof that we need poetry to speak of God, here it is.

So today, instead of my ordinary attempts at explanation—my grasping at theological coherence, my striving to box the Word of God into something neat and orderly, like Peter wanting to build booths on the Mount of the Transfiguration to house Jesus, Moses, and Elijah—instead of this, let us lean into the poetic.

 

Let us take these scriptures, these visions, these laments, and listen for something deeper.

 

Let us set aside our need to explain God, and instead simple experience God in the beauty of metaphor. 

 

“Under The Wings Of Love”

 

The night sky swells with promise,
a sea of stars stretching beyond Abram’s weary sight.
He stands, old and childless,
heart aching with unanswered prayers,
palms empty with waiting.

And yet, God whispers—
Look up.

Count the stars, if you can.
Count the impossibilities I make possible.
Count the barren places I fill with life.
Count the moments when you thought I was absent,
but I was nearer than your own breath.

 

Beloved of God,
do you trust this promise?
Can you see the light when the night is deep?
Can you hold fast when all around you shakes?

 

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem—
the city of holy longing,
the city of prophets and blood,
the city that cannot recognize Love
even when LOVE stands before them, arms wide.

How often I have wanted to gather you,
like a mother hen, wings outstretched,
a fierce, sheltering love.
Yet you would not come.

Would you?

 

Would you?
Would you let yourself be gathered?
Would you nestle beneath the shadow of holy wings?
Would you let go of all the ways you’ve tried to save yourself—
your striving, your sorrow, your self-sufficiency—
and simply be held?

 

There is a road that leads to Jerusalem,
a road that winds through wilderness and weeping,
through betrayal and brokenness,
to a cross upon which Love will hang.

But this is not a road of defeat.
This is the road of love unfurling,
of a mother’s wings opening wider,
of a Love so vast, so wild, so tender,
that not even death can suppress it.

 

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?
Not the foxes of this world, scheming in the shadows.
Not the doubts that creep in when the night stretches long.
Not the wounds of rejection,
nor the ache of longing unanswered.

For we are citizens of another kingdom,
children of a greater promise,
nestled beneath wings that will not fail us.

 

So come, beloved.
Come beneath the wings of Christ.
Come with your weary bones,
your unanswered prayers,
your faltering faith.

 

Come and be gathered.
Come and be held.
Come and trust the Love that will not let you go.

 

And when the morning comes,
when the third day dawns,
when the tomb stands alone—
then you will know,
here you’ve always been home. 

Amen.

 

The Devil Went Down to Judea

Before he went to Georgia, the Devil made a stop in Judea

 

Deuteronomy 26:1-11

Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16

Romans 10:8b-13

Luke 4:1-13

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

This sermon was inspired by the above readings and was preached on the First Sunday in Lent 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.

 

I have a question for you: If you had just been baptized, had heaven open up above you, had the Spirit descend on you like a dove, and had God Almighty declare you to be “beloved” with whom he was “well pleased”—what’s the thing you’d expect to happen next?

 

Maybe a nice meal? A reception? A solid nap?

 

NOPE! Jesus doesn’t even get a festive potluck before the Spirit sends him into the wilderness for forty days with nothing but his hunger and a very persistent tempter. That’s right, before he went to Georgia the Devil went down to Judea, and you thought your Lenten discipline was tough. 

 

This is the kind of story that reminds us—if the Son of God himself wasn’t spared a wilderness experience, what makes us think we will be? This is like a twist on the famous Alabama highway sign: “Go to Church and the Devil Still Gets You.” Right? If it happened to the most faithful Jesus, what makes us think it won’t happen to us?

 

Jesus’ temptations took place in a literal desert, but for most of us, our wilderness is a little less sandy and a lot more psychological. Maybe your wilderness looks like anxiety. Or grief. Or fear of the unknown. Maybe your desert is full of distractions, empty promises, and the seductive pull of “just one more episode” on Netflix.

 

But no matter what your particular wilderness looks like, one thing is for sure: at some point, the tempter, the great Spiritual stumbling block personified will shows up, ready to make you an offer. So, what might that look like? Probably not a guy with a goatee, red spandex, and a pitchfork. Instead of envisioning a modern day devil, let’s wonder: what would the Tempter’s offers look like if he made them to Jesus today?

 

The first temptation? Bread. “If you are the Son of God, turn this stone into bread.” In modern terms, this is the “you deserve this” temptation. It’s instant gratification. It’s the little voice whispering, 

“Go ahead, buy it—you’ve had a hard week.”

“Eating this, drinking that, or doing _______ will make everything right.”

“You don’t need to rest; just push through, you’ll be fine.”

 

Here the devil isn’t tempting Jesus with something bad. He’s tempting him with something good (sustenance)—but at the wrong time, in the wrong way. Indeed, Jesus would go on to feed thousands, but not by turning stones into bread for himself. Jesus’ “no” came in the desert and his “yes” will come in multiplying loaves and fishes, in breaking bread at a table where all are welcome.

 

The second temptation? Power, control, authority. “Bow down, and I’ll give you all the kingdoms of the world."

This is the temptation of shortcuts. The “just do what it takes to get ahead or to get power” lie. It’s the devil whispering:

“Just this once, tell them what they want to hear.”
“A little bending of your principles won’t hurt.”
“You can make a difference if you play their game.”

 

Jesus indeed had power and would be called the King of Kings—but not because he took a deal from the devil. He said “no” in the desert so that he could say “yes” to following the will of the Father and beginning a ministry to upend worldly power itself. In doing so, Jesus created a reign where the humble are exalted and the exalted are humbled, where the first become last and the last become first.

 

And the third temptation? Spectacle. “Throw yourself down from the Temple; let God prove he’s with you.” This is the social media temptation: “Let people see how special you are.”

 

It’s the pull to curate a perfect image proving our worth and ensuring people recognize our value. But Jesus refuses. He did indeed show the world who he was, who he is—not by throwing himself from the Temple, but by walking from the Temple down the road carrying his cross to Calvary.

 

So often we think of Lent as a time where we are supposed to prove ourselves, to win our own battles, to white-knuckle our way through the wilderness. But here’s the good news: Jesus already won.

His “nos” to the devil were not just rejections of the tempter’s false promises, they were also affirmations of something better.

 

Instead of turning stones into bread, he became the Bread of Life.
Instead of grasping at earthly power, he ushered in the Kingdom of God.
Instead of demanding God prove himself, he walked all the way to the cross to show us who God really is.

 

And here’s the best part: When we face temptations we never have to face them alone. We might be under the illusion that we do, but the same Spirit that led Jesus into the wilderness is with us right now leading us onward. The same Spirit that sustained him through temptations strengthens us through ours, too. And the same Jesus who refused the devil’s offers is the one who walks alongside us, helping us to say no to the false promises of sin, so that we can say yes to something sustaining, powerful, and real—Life in Christ!

 

So as we walk this Lenten journey, let us not be afraid of the wilderness. Let’s walk out into it boldly, knowing that we do not walk alone. You’ll never walk alone! 

 

And let’s be ready—because out of every “no” we say to temptation, there is a greater, divine “yes” waiting on the other side. Amen.

 

Loving Beyond Limits: Embracing the Platinum Rule

You probably know of the Golden Rule, but have you heard of the Platinum Rule?

 

Genesis 45:3-11, 15

Psalm 37:1-12, 41-42

1 Corinthians 15:35-38,42-50

Luke 6:27-38

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was inspired by the above readings and was preached on the 7^th Sunday after the Epiphany 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.

If we’re honest, the words of Jesus in today’s Gospel lesson from Luke are some of the most challenging in all of Holy Scripture: “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.” This is a tall ask from Jesus—one that seems almost impossible, especially when the world feels more fractured and polarized than ever.

Jesus doesn’t leave much room for loopholes here either. He doesn’t say, “Love your enemies if they apologize first.” Nor does he command, “Do good to those who hate you if they meet you halfway.” No, his commandments are direct and uncompromising. And it’s not just for the sake of moral superiority—it’s about transformation. Loving our enemies is about participating in the redemptive work of God, both in the world and within ourselves.

But how do we live into that love, especially when the wounds are fresh or the divisions are deep? It might help to begin by revisiting a rule we know well—the Golden Rule: “Do to others as you would have them do to you.” It’s foundational to our faith and to many cultures worldwide. Treat others with the dignity and respect you wish for yourself.

Yet, in our increasingly complex world, some ethicists and theologians suggest we move beyond the Golden Rule to something even more radical—the Platinum Rule: Love others as they wish to be loved. It's not just about treating neighbors how I would want to be treated but about recognizing the unique needs, desires, and dignity of another person—even when that person appears to be an enemy.

To love an enemy in this way requires humility. It means setting aside our egos and listening deeply—not to agree, necessarily, but to understand. It means recognizing that each person, no matter how much we struggle to see it, is beloved by God. That’s the heart of this Gospel message—God’s love isn’t transactional. It’s not earned. It flows freely, even to those who oppose us.

Think of Joseph in our reading from Genesis. His brothers betrayed him, sold him into slavery, and left him for dead. Yet, when he stood in a position of power, able to exact revenge, Joseph chose mercy. “Do not be afraid,” he said, “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good.” Joseph didn’t just tolerate his brothers—he actively chose reconciliation, seeing them not through the lens of past hurt but through the lens of God’s redemptive love.

This is also the challenge and the hope of Christian love—not just to love those who are easy to love but to love as God loves—without condition, without boundary, without exception. It doesn’t mean allowing abuse or ignoring injustice—Jesus’ command is not a call to passivity. Rather, it’s a call to respond to hate with love so radical that it breaks cycles of harm.

One powerful way to break these cycles is through what psychologists call "non-complementary behavior." Typically, human interactions follow a predictable pattern: kindness is met with kindness, hostility with hostility. But non-complementary behavior flips the script—responding to aggression with warmth, to contempt with compassion. It’s disarming because it defies expectations. It short-circuits a worldview built on “us vs. them.”

There’s a remarkable story shared on an old episode of the NPR podcast Invisibilia about a dinner party when the guests faced down an armed robber. Instead of reacting with fear or anger, they offered the man a glass of wine. This simple act of hospitality broke the cycle of aggression. While it was a disturbing encounter that left the guests in shock, the intruder, caught off guard by this unexpected kindness, put down his weapon, sat down to talk, and even asked for a group hug at the end of the encounter. The situation de-escalated, not through force, but through love extended in the face of threat.

This is precisely what Jesus calls us to do—not to match hostility with hostility but to respond in a way that transforms the encounter altogether. It’s hard. It feels unnatural. And, it can sometimes be dangerous, and I usually do not advocate us stepping into harms way, but sometimes that radical hospitality is the way love gains ground in a world bent on division.

So how might we live into this Platinum Rule, especially when love feels like the last thing we want to offer?

First, we can start with prayer—not just for those we love but for those who challenge us, oppose us, or are otherwise our enemies. It’s hard to hate someone you’re genuinely praying for. In prayer, we invite God to soften our hearts and to remind us of our shared humanity.

Second, we can choose curiosity over judgment. Y’all know I love the series Ted Lasso and in one of my favorite scenes of the whole show, the titular character quotes Walt Whitman while playing darts. “Be curious, not judgmental.” This sort of wondering has the power to completely transform our world or at least us. For when we are faced with someone who seems like an enemy, we can bypass our normal assumptions and stereotyping by pondering: What pain might they be carrying? What story haven’t I heard? How does God see this beloved one? This doesn’t excuse harmful behavior, but it opens the door to compassion.

And finally, we can act—small, deliberate acts of love that defy expectations. A kind word. An invitation to conversation. A willingness to see beyond labels and ideologies to the beloved child of God standing before us. At the same time, it is important not to deny our own belovedness. In the abundant kingdom of God, one does not have to be diminished for another to be enlarged. My Theology Professor in seminary called this non-competitive transcendence when we all rise together. 

So, these are three ways to begin practicing this Platinum Rule in your own life: prayer, curiosity, and small acts of kindness. 

In conclusion, this kind of love—enemy-love, Platinum Rule love—is not easy. But it is the way of Christ. It’s the love that led him to the cross and the love that broke the power of evil, sin, and even death. It’s the love that has the power to transform not just individual hearts but entire communities. It’s the love that changes this world from the nightmare it often is to the dream God has for it.

So, as we approach the altar today—as we receive Christ's Body and Blood, given for all—may we be strengthened to love not just as we wish to be loved, but as our neighbors, our enemies, and all God’s children wish to be loved. And, in this love we will glimpse the very heart of God. 

Amen.

Blessings and Woes: The Sermon on the Plain for Our Time

 

Unlike the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus' Sermon on the Plain contains both blessings and woes.

Jeremiah 17:5-10

Psalm 1

1 Corinthians 15:12-20

Luke 6:17-26

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was inspired by the above readings and was preached on the 6^th Sunday after the Epiphany 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.

Jesus stood on a level place. Not high above, like Moses on Mount Sinai, nor like how Matthew depicted Jesus preaching the Sermon on the Mount. No, here in Luke’s account of the Good News, Jesus came down to the plain and dwelt among the people. He stood where they stood, looked them in the eyes, and spoke words that were both a comfort and a challenge: words of blessing and words of woe.

“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.”

Luke’s recollection of this sermon is more direct than the one in Matthew. There is no “poor in spirit” here—just the poor. The physically, financially, socially poor. Those who struggle to put food on the table, who lie awake at night worrying about their children, or who live paycheck to paycheck. Jesus did not say they will be blessed in some distant future; he said they are blessed now. Why? Because the kingdom of God is not just some far-off promise—through Christ, it has already entered the world, confronting the systems of power, and revealing God’s abundant grace. As unlikely as it sometimes seems, God’s in-breaking presence never stops, though we often miss it, which is probably why here in Luke, it’s not only about blessings.

Enter the woes: 

“Woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation.”

Woe. Not a curse, but a warning. A call to pay attention, like when a lifeguard blows her whistle causing a running child to stop and look around. Jesus blows the whistle. Woe to those who have everything they need but fail to see the needs of others. Woe to those who are comfortable while their neighbors suffer. Woe to those who mistake wealth and security for divine favor. Woe.

This message echoes in Jeremiah’s prophecy, where we hear: “Cursed are those who trust in mere mortals and make mere flesh their strength, whose hearts turn away from the Lord.” And the prophet had his own beatitude, “Blessed are those who trust in the Lord, whose trust is the Lord. They shall be like a tree planted by water.” Through Jeremiah we discover the difference between blessing and woe is not about external circumstances. Instead, this difference stems from trust—where we root ourselves, or perhaps more pointedly, in whom we put our trust—the one with the Living Water.

Paul, too, in 1 Corinthians, reminds us of where our trust should rest: “If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.” In other words, the hope we hold, the kingdom we seek, is not merely about earthly success. It is also about resurrection, about the long arch of God’s redemption, about life beyond the immediate concerns that often preoccupy us. Of course, shifting our vision away from the urgent issues screaming for our attention is abnormally difficult in this age of constant notifications, ubiquitous screens, and ever-present distractions. But, I have a surprising practice that may be of some assistance in seeing things differently.

Last Sunday I shared that on Saturday, March 8^th we’ll have an end-of-life planning workshop with experts from various fields: financial, legal, spiritual, and even within the funeral home industry. It’s not easy to think about such things, but it can truly be a gift to your family—and even to you! 

As strange as it sounds, research affirms what our faith has long taught: that contemplating our mortality leads to a better life. Psychological studies suggest that reflecting on death—whether through meditation or mindful awareness—can reduce fear, increase gratitude, and encourage meaningful living. A 2018 study found that those who regularly engage in mortality awareness tend to prioritize deeper relationships, healthier lifestyles, and compassionate choices. There is even evidence that these meditations cultivate peace and clarity, reinforcing the idea that acknowledging our limits frees us to live more fully in the present. 

By placing our trust in something beyond the temporary concerns of this world, we are invited into a deeper sense of purpose and hope. And, paradoxically, when we trust that in the end God will have the final word, we are able to be more fully present now in this moment. 

Speaking of the now, what would Jesus’ sermon sound like if he preached it here, among us at Holy Apostles? What are the blessings and woes he might proclaim in our midst today? Perhaps it would sound something like this:

Blessed are you who are exhausted from caregiving, for God sees your labor of love and will sustain you.

Blessed are you who struggle with addiction and keep showing up, for God's grace is enough and is working even now.

Blessed are you who feel like outsiders in the Church, for God has made a place for you at the table.

Blessed are you who work for justice, even when no one listens, for you are doing the work of the kingdom.

And the woes:

Woe to you who find security in wealth but ignore the suffering of others, for your riches cannot save you.

Woe to you who silence the voices of the marginalized, for the kingdom belongs to them.

Woe to you who believe faith is about comfort and not about transformation, for God is always calling you deeper.

Woe to you who mistake privilege for righteousness, for the last will be first and the first will be last.

Jesus’ words are not easy. And, they are not meant to be. Jesus’ words call us to examine ourselves honestly, to ask where we find ourselves in his sermon. Are we the blessed or the woeful? If we are honest, we are probably both. And that is why Jesus speaks these words to us in love—not to condemn, but to invite us into a different way of being.

Jesus stood on a level place—among the people, among folks like us. And he still does. Our Savior calls us to see with new eyes, to beware of our limitations, and to root our lives in the God who loves us, for that is what will truly bless us—life in Christ.

Amen.