This Too Is What Love Looks Like

On Good Friday we see the self-emptying love of God fully revealed on the Cross. 

Isaiah 52:13-53:12

Psalm 22

Ephesians 1:3-14

John 18:1-19:42

©2026 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 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.

Today is Good Friday. And if we’re honest… it doesn’t ever feel very “good.” Not just the story we’ve heard, but the way our World so often resembles Good Friday. Because everywhere we turn, there is news.

Breaking news. Urgent news. Endless news. And so much of it is bad news.

Fear. Violence. Division. Suffering. And sometimes it feels like we are being pulled into the quick sand of despair. 

The noted preacher and author Frederick Buechner once said that the Gospel is bad news before it is good news. And maybe that’s why this day matters so much. Because today, we cannot and do not rush to fix anything.

We don’t explain everything away. We don’t jump ahead to Sunday. We stay here. At the cross.

Because the truth is—this isn’t just a story about long ago. It’s a story about what happens when love confronts power. When truth confronts fear. When grace confronts systems that would rather maintain control than be transformed.

And when that happens… things unravel. The disciples run. Peter denies.

The religious leaders compromise. Pilate hesitates. The crowd turns. And Jesus? He stays. He abides. He dwells with us—just like God always does.

For this is what love looks like: Not avoiding suffering. Not explaining it away. But entering it. Remaining in it. Refusing to abandon the world—even when the world abandons him.

And so the question Good Friday asks is not: “Why did this happen?” Not first, anyway. The question is: Where are you, where are we in this story?

Do we run? Do we deny? Do we give in to fear? Do we protect ourselves?

Or…Do we stay?

Because there are some who do. Jesus’ mother stays. The other women stay. The beloved disciple stays. And… they don’t fix anything! They don’t stop the suffering. All they do is stand there, but it is so powerful. For they refuse to look away from the pain of another, the pain of their Teacher, the pain of their Lord.

Sometimes that is the most faithful thing we can do: 

Stay with those who suffer. 

Stay present in a hurting world.
Stay near the places we would rather avoid.

Because when we do… we begin to see something. Not a solution. But a revelation. That even here—God is not absent. God does not save from a distance. God doesn’t free us from afar. No, God in Christ enters into the messy brokenness of our lives and he stays!

God is here:

In the suffering.
In the silence.
On the cross.

And so today, we do not rush.

We pray.

We watch.

We stay.

Because this…
this is what love looks like.

Amen.

This Is What Love Looks Like

In the Triduum, we discover what Love truly looks like.

Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14

Psalm 116:1, 10-17

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

©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.

What Kind of King?

Jesus challenges our assumptions about power, status, and position

The Liturgy of the Palms

Matthew 21:1-11

Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29

The Liturgy of the Word

Isaiah 50:4-9a

Philippians 2:5-11

Matthew 26:14- 27:66

or Matthew 27:11-54

Psalm 31:9-16

©2026 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached on Palm Sunday: The Sunday of the Passion 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 wonder what kind of king they thought they were getting. That question has been rattling around in my brain all week. Because this week begins with excitement. Energy. Movement. A kind of holy parade.

Jesus comes into Jerusalem, and people start throwing their cloaks on the road. They wave branches. They shout, “Hosanna!” which doesn’t mean “praise God,” but something more like, “Save us now!”

And fair enough. If you had lived under the shadow of empire…
if you had known instability, oppression, religious anxiety, political fear…
if you had been longing for God to finally do something…
you might shout too. “Save us now!”

But here’s the curious thing: Jesus does not arrive the way kings normally arrive. No war horse. No army. No chariot. No spectacle of force.

He comes on a donkey. Not exactly the image of domination. 

He comes in humility. 

He comes in vulnerability. 

He comes in peace.

And so I wonder:
Did they really want this king?

Or did they envision a different kind of savior entirely?

A savior who would crush enemies.
A savior who would make things easy.
A savior who would fix the world quickly and on their terms.

And before we get too hard on them, I think that question belongs to us too.

What kind of Christ do we actually want? What sort of Jesus do we seek?

Do we yearn for one who blesses our plans, confirms our assumptions, and defeats the people we don’t like?

Or do we desire the Jesus who comes gently… 

who refuses the way of domination… 

who rides into the center of power without becoming power as the world understands it?

Palm Sunday is strange that way. It begins with praise, but it does not let us stay there in a shallow kind of triumph. In this liturgy, we move from palms to Passion. From “Hosanna!” to the story of suffering and the cross. And maybe that is because the Church, in her wisdom, knows how quickly human beings can change.

How quickly devotion can become disappointment. 

How quickly excitement can sour when Christ does not perform according to our expectations. 

How quickly we can praise a Messiah on Sunday and resist him by Friday.

So maybe Palm Sunday is not just a celebration. Maybe it is also an unveiling. Maybe it reveals the kind of king Jesus is. And maybe it reveals the kind of disciples we still struggle to be. 

Because Jesus does not enter Jerusalem to seize control. 

He enters Jerusalem to give himself away. 

He does not come to reign by fear. 

He comes to reign by love. 

He does not come to save by standing far off from human pain. 

He comes to enter it fully.

And that means this day is not just asking, “Will you wave a branch?”

It is asking, “Will you follow?” 

Will you follow this Jesus into the week ahead? 

Will you follow him to the table on Maundy Thursday, where love kneels down to wash feet? 

Will you follow him to Good Friday, where the love of God refuses to turn away from suffering? 

Will you follow him into the silence of Holy Saturday, where nothing seems resolved and yet God is not absent? 

That, I think, is the invitation of Palm Sunday. Not just to admire Jesus, the Christ. Not just to cheer for Our Lord. But to follow him.

And not the Jesus of our fantasies. 

The real Jesus. 

The humble one. 

The peaceful one. 

The brave one. 

The one who enters the holy city not to destroy, but to redeem.

So perhaps the most faithful thing we can do today is hold our palms with gratitude and honesty. Yes, gratitude — because Christ has come to us. But also humble honesty — because we do not always know what kind of king we are asking for.

And still, he comes.

Still, he comes to us in humility.
Still, he comes to us in mercy.
Still, he comes to us not as a tyrant, but as love in the flesh.

So let us greet him with joy.
And let us follow him with courage.
One day at a time.
Through the whole holy week.

Amen.