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.

Belonging and Being Sent

Belonging to God means both being rooted in something other than yourself and serving something other than your self!

2 Kings 5:1-14
Psalm 30
Galatians 6:(1-6)7-16
Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

 

©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. 

 

Hello, my name is Seth, and I am your rector. It’s been 4 Sundays, 28 days since I have preached in this pulpit. I’ve missed this AND… I have a lot to say! So, let’s go!

 

Last week at Camp McDowell, I was reminded again how desperately young people want to know that they belong. 

That they are seen…

That they are accepted… 

That they matter… 

And, honestly it’s not just true for young people—we all want that, don’t we?

 

The theme for my program all week at Junior High 2 Session was “You Belong Here.” You belong here not just in the superficial way of fitting in or being included in a group photo, but in the deeper, sacred way that says you belong to God. And if you belong to God, then you also belong to this world that God loves, which means you belong to others. You belong to community. And, in this community that means you belong to the mission.

 

Which brings us to today’s Gospel.

 

Jesus sends seventy followers—seventy everyday disciples—ahead of him to the places he himself intends to go. That’s a beautiful paradox latent in this passage: the sent ones are not separated from Christ. They are not lone rangers on a mission of their own design. They’re sent with power, yes, but also with vulnerability. “Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals… eat what is set before you.” They go with their whole lives—messy, uncertain, unfinished—as their testimony. 

 

They go ahead of Jesus, which seems counter-intuitive. However, when I was a camp counselor, I would often walk at the tail end of my campers, as they traveled from activity to activity. More often than not, they already knew the way, but what they needed was encouragement. They yearned for someone not to bark orders, but to shout direction or to start a cheer that would unite us as one! Of course, these disciples didn’t go as one—not as individual beings I mean. 

 

They were sent two by two—because belonging is never a solo endeavor.

This is a text about being sent. But it’s also a text about being rooted—grounded in God’s peace, in the life of the community, and in the assurance that we belong to the one who sends us. We are apostles—which means sent ones—not because we are perfect, but because we are known and loved by Christ.

 

And as the Church of the Holy Apostles, that ought to sound familiar. In this year when we are recognizing 30 years of this community, we can remember that at our church’s genesis we were sent from other Episcopal churches, from other denominations, from other places to be here. And, I believe God will continue to send us. 

 

The seventy from today’s Gospel lesson were not just sent to deliver information. They were sent to create connection. “Whatever house you enter, say first, ‘Peace to this house.’” Not debate. Not judgment. Not even persuasion. Peace. Do I need to repeat that? They were sent to create connection. Not debate. Not judgment. Not even persuasion. Peace. The world is desperately craving this. We are built to be united, but…

 

In a world where people feel increasingly fragmented—where algorithms divide us, politics harden us, and busyness isolates us—Jesus sends us as ministers of peace, to show others that they belong to God, and to one another.

 

But here’s the part I don’t want you to miss: in order to proclaim belonging, we have to believe we belong ourselves. And that is harder than you think.

 

For we have to know deep in our bones that we are not imposters or outsiders in God’s household. That’s why during this past week at camp I began the spiritual program not with service projects or grand tasks, but with grounding the campers and staff in this truth: “You belong here.” Belonging isn’t something you earn by good behavior or high performance. It’s something you receive—like the gift of grace, which shares a connection with the fascinating story from our First Lesson.

 

In our Old Testament reading, we meet Naaman, a great military commander who carried an invisible wound—a skin condition that set him apart, that made him feel unclean, unwhole. He wanted to be healed, but on his terms. He came with money, status, and expectations., but God didn’t meet him in power. God met him in humility. The prophet Elisha did not even come to the door. Instead, he sent a messenger with a simple prescription: “Go wash in the Jordan seven times, and you shall be clean.”

 

At first, Naaman resisted—thinking how could it be so easy?! But then, thanks to the quiet courage of his servants—people he likely overlooked—Naaman surrendered. He dipped in the muddy waters of the Jordan, and he was made new. He found healing not through power or prestige, but through belonging to a God who met him in humility.

 

That’s our God. A God who uses the ordinary to do the extraordinary. A God who meets us in the places we are tempted to feel ashamed, and says, “You belong. You are not beyond my reach.”

 

Psalm 30 put it this way:
“You brought me up, O Lord, from the dead;
you restored my life as I was going down to the grave.”

 

This is the voice of someone who has known alienation, who has felt disoriented, who has been cut off. But they are brought back. Restored. Reclaimed. As Richard Rohr puts it so succinctly, the pattern of this life is order, disorder, reordering or life, death, and resurrection!

 

Which brings us to Paul’s words in Galatians.

He ends this beautiful, complicated, passionate letter with a call to community:
“Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

 

This is what belonging looks like in action. Not just warm feelings or inclusion for inclusion’s sake, but mutuality. Vulnerability. Bearing burdens. Carrying each other. Making space at the table not out of pity, but out of shared humanity. Witnessing one another’s life, death, and resurrection, as we share our own struggles of order, disorder, reordering. 

 

Saint Paul inspires us in this holy work writing:
“Let us not grow weary in doing what is right.”

 

Of course, if we are honest: the work of proclaiming peace, building community, and practicing belonging is exhausting sometimes. We grow weary of hard conversations. Of cultural divisions. Of our own inner doubts and wounds.

 

But God through Paul encourages: we sow now so that others may reap later. We love now so that others may heal later. We show up in Jesus’ name so that others might realize they are not alone.

 

So, beloved friends, holy apostles, here is what I want you to hear this morning:

You belong here.
Not just because your name is in the directory.
Not just because you serve or give or sing in the choir.
You belong here because Jesus has called you, sent you, and is with you.

You belong to God.
You belong to this world that God loves.
You belong to the mission of healing and reconciliation.
You belong to the household of peace.

And because you belong, you are sent.

Just like the seventy.
Just like Naaman’s servants.
Just like Paul.
Just like those campers and staff who learned this week that belonging isn’t just something you feel—it’s something you offer to others.

So go.

Go as apostles—not perfect, but faithful.
Go two by two, bearing burdens and good news.
Go with no sandals if you have to.
Go to declare peace.
Go knowing that Jesus is already ahead of you.

You belong here. So go to help others know that they too belong to God.

Amen.

 

 

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.

 

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.