This Also Is What Love Looks Like

God's self-emptying love is on full display in the empty tomb when we realize that nothing—not sin, not suffering, not even death—nothing can separate us from God.

At The Liturgy of the Word

Genesis 1:1-2:4a [The Story of Creation]
Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21 [Israel's deliverance at the Red Sea]
Isaiah 55:1-11 [Salvation offered freely to all]
At The Eucharist

Romans 6:3-11 

Psalm 114

Matthew 28:1-10 

©2026 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was not preached at the Easter Vigil at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL because I left my manuscript in my office. A video of another message that I did preach 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.

We began tonight in the dark.

Not as a gimmick.

Not as a dramatic flourish.

But because the darkness tells the truth.

Because there are places in our lives—and in this world—that feel like tombs.

Places where hope feels buried.
Where meaning feels unclear.
Where God feels absent.

Tonight, after starting the first fire of Easter—thank you, Pierce for your help—we lit the LIGHT OF CHRIST

And into that darkness, the flame proceeded.

A single candle at first.

Not enough to light everything all at once.

But enough to wander to our places.

And then we listened.

To story after story after story.

Creation.
Exodus.
Prophecy.

And if we’re honest, part of us might wonder:

“What do these ancient stories have to do with me?”

Because we know what science says about creation.
We know history is complicated.
We know the world doesn’t always look like Isaiah’s vision.

And yet…

if we stay long enough…
if we sit in the darkness instead of rushing past it…

something begins to happen.

We begin to see.

That God has never been absent.

Not in creation.
Not in chaos.
Not in exile.
Not in suffering.

God has always been on the move.

Always creating.
Always liberating.
Always loving.

And most clearly—yes—in Jesus.

But not only there.

Because tonight reveals something deeper:

God’s love is not limited to one moment in history.

It is woven through all of it.

And that means God’s love is woven into our lives, too.

Even the parts we don’t understand.

For if God is the Great Mystery and we are made in God’s image…
We too are made of mystery, so we’re always learning more about who we are and whose we are.

God’s love is woven into the parts that feel broken.
For God in Christ Jesus did not come to earth in search of the 99, but the 1 lost one…
We know that the liberating salvation Christ brings means that He enters our messiness not to sterilize it, but to call new life into being.

Even in the parts of us that feel like tombs, God’s love comes.

For the Spirit of God continually breathes new life—not as the world sees it—but as God sees resurrected life…

We discover that the whole shape of our lives is life, death, and resurrection—order, disorder, and reorientation. 

And then—after all the stories—comes not only the Gospel meaning Good News, but the Bestspel meaning Best News! 
The stone is rolled away.

The tomb is empty.

Christ is risen.

Alleluia.

And while this truly is the best news, I want you to notice this:

The resurrection is not magic.

It is mystery.

It is not a trick.

It is transformation.

It does not erase what came before.

It reveals that nothing—not sin, not suffering, not even death—
has the final word.

Because this is what love looks like.

Love that creates.
Love that liberates.
Love that suffers.
Love that endures.
Love that rises.

And now…

that love is not just something we observe.

It is something we are invited into.

To become.

To embody.

To live.

So that our lives—
in all their imperfection and all their beauty—
become signs of resurrection.

Places where eternal light breaks in.

Places where earth-shaking hope returns.

Places where self-emptying love refuses to die.

Alleluia.

Christ is risen.

And we are being raised with him.

Amen.

Singing in the Dark

 

What can the Exsultet (an ancient hymn that we sing at the Easter Vigil) teach us about the Resurrection?

At The Eucharist

Genesis 1:1-2:4a [The Story of Creation] 
Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21 [Israel's deliverance at the Red Sea] 
Isaiah 55:1-11 [Salvation offered freely to all] 

At The Eucharist

Romans 6:3-11 
Psalm 114
Luke 24:1-12

 

©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson

This sermon was preached during the Easter Vigil at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles. 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.

Alleluia! Christ is risen! The Lord is risen, indeed! Alleluia! 

 

Friends, there are few things in the Church’s life more haunting—or more hopeful—than the Exsultet. The song, I sang at the beginning of our liturgy.

 

You heard it while still shrouded in shadows, just after the Paschal Candle had found its stand in our darkened church. Everything quietened except the flame and my trembling voice, which sang:

 

“Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels…” and later…
“This is the night.”

 

It’s eerie. And yet—utterly beautiful.

 

The Exsultet remains one of the oldest pieces of liturgical poetry we still sing. Its roots stretch back to the 5th century. Some scholars trace it to St. Ambrose or St. Augustine—others to the dawn of the Western Church itself.

 

It has been sung through plagues and wars, in hushed cathedrals and rowdy prison chapels, accompanied with trembling and with trumpet. And every year as we return to it, we hear again: This is the night.

 

This is the night when death and life collided.
This is the night when God’s mercy broke like a tidal wave upon our sinful shores.
This is the night when light dared to shine in the darkness—and the darkness comprehended it not (to borrow the King James Bible’s language).

 

We gather tonight not because everything is already bright and beautiful, but precisely because it’s not—because… wouldn’t you know it… resurrection begins in the dark. Sure, our forebears, the disciples did not behold it until Easter morn, but it’s here in the darkened soil of the vigil that resurrection starts blooming! However, truth be told, the history of our salvation weaves way back to the foundation of the Universe.

 

It all began—like our readings tonight—with the story of creation—the voice of God shaping order out of chaos, light called forth from deep darkness, and God called everything not very bad, but very good! 

Then, when God’s People were locked in Pharoh’s Land God’s liberating love provided an Exodus out of Egypt. In our Second Vigil lesson we heard the haunting tale of Moses and Miriam and the sea that split just in time.

Next, in Isaiah, God called the weary, including us to: Come, eat, drink. You don’t even need money. Just return to the Lord, who will abundantly pardon.

And yet, even after these inspiring stories of our salvation history—our voices were not yet fully triumphant, were they? Sure, we have been singing throughout the night, but the Easter acclimation didn’t arrive right at the start. Did you notice that? Perhaps, that’s what makes the Exsultet so provocative and powerful. It is a song of joy sung in the dark. A trembling candlelit cry that grace is greater than grief, that mercy outlasts sin, that God has already rolled the stone away, even if we haven’t seen it yet.

 

Some years, the soaring theological phrases of the Exultet may accurately represent our internal, joy-filled reality. Other years, it takes everything to whisper the words in our hearts alongside the cantor. Regardless of how you are feeling though—the song continues.

 

Like back in 2020 when Holy Week services happened entirely via livestream. It was such a disconcerting time, wasn’t it? At All Saints, where I was serving at the time, I remember pre-recording our services. We filmed them out of sequence. When we recorded the Vigil, the Paschal Candle stood solitary in a silent sanctuary while COVID crept outside our doors, forcing us into a strange isolation.

 

Even then: This is the night.

Even then: Christ broke the chains of death.

Even then: Love rose victorious from the grave.

 

Friends, as beautiful as this song and service are, I know that some of you may have come here tonight stuck in the Good Friday part of your soul. Isolated not by disease like in 2020, but by fear or hurt or failure. And, if you are still in the shadows, still in the sealed-off tomb, or still waiting for the dawn, that’s okay. That’s part of the journey. Sadly, what I just described is an all too real byproduct of our volatile and broken world. 

 

But hear this: Easter does not require your certainty. You don’t have to be happy. This night asks only your presence. Think about it this way: we do not wait to sing the Exsultet until sunrise. It begins while it’s still dark. The Exsultet reverberates in the darkness because God is here too. It’s not unlike the God character Aslan the Lion in C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia. Even in the dark, God is on the move!

 

And that, I believe, is why we still sing this ancient song—why it still matters. Because God is still at work in us. Because the Exsultet reminds us that resurrection does not erase suffering, but it does transform it. Joy is not the absence of pain, but it’s holy companion. And, hope is not naive optimism, but the stubborn song that refuses to go silent, even when the night is long.

 

Now friends, I know not everyone loves crooning. We’re not all Frank Sinatra, Celine Deon, or Michael Bubble. Nor do we have a chanting role in the service or a spot in the choir. But, witnessing the profundity of this night invites us to reply, and I’ve been assured that when we sing, we pray twice! So sing out! Make a joyful noise or at least some noise to the Lord!

 

If you’re here tonight with joy—sing.

If you’re here tonight with grief—sing.

If you’re here tonight with nothing but doubt or exhaustion—sing.

 

Sing because this is the night.
This is the night that shattered sin and separation.
This is the night when heaven eternally embraced earth.
This is the night when Christ Jesus rose from the grave.

 

And even now, though the sun has set; even now, though the world appears as dark as midnight; even now, as we experience our own shadowy challenges, Christ’s light will not be extinguished. Like the beauty of the paschal candle, God’s light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it; it doesn’t even comprehend it! So, this night and always, may we sing of the resurrecting love of Our God who even now is on the move in us, in our community, and in the world!

 

Alleluia, alleluia, Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen, indeed! Alleluia, alleluia!

 

Amen. 

Be, Go, Tell, and See

  

What are we to do when the best news dawns upon us?

 

Genesis 1:1-2:4a [The Story of Creation] 
Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21 [Israel's deliverance at the Red Sea] 
Isaiah 55:1-11 [Salvation offered freely to all] 
Romans 6:3-11 
Psalm 114
Matthew 28:1-10
©2024 The Rev. Seth Olson

 

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

 

Early on the first day, Mary Magdalene sat in darkness. Her eyes were bleary, all her tears spent, so she just was. She was not alone though, there in the obscurity, Mary Magdalene sat with the other Mary. They spent yesterday, the Sabbath day, weeping and unable to eat or sleep. Whenever the woman from Magdala stopped sobbing long enough to lay down to sleep, her mind’s eye began replaying the tragic images: the soldiers mocking, the criminals groaning, and Jesus’ body collapsing. She could not stand to watch as he breathed his last on that horrible cross, so she had collapsed in a puddle of humanity before it’s gruesome shadow. There was nothing left for these women, except each other. They had put their hopes, their dreams, and their lives in him. Now he was dead. 

 

As the flood of emotions continued pouring over them, the proverbial vessel keeping them afloat, their faith, felt like it was being tossed and blown. The storm of the last two days raged onward, and they were sinking. Mary Magdalene in desperation suggested they go to the tomb. The other Mary thought, “Why? There’s nothing we can do. He’s dead. Are we going to stare at a sealed tomb?” 

 

Yet, she was too exhausted to disagree. Plus, maybe this would give them closure. Still in her depression and cynicism, the other Mary believed, “Nothing will deliver us from this hopelessness.” Early in the morning Mary and Mary floated on not buoyed by hope but drawn in by love for their teacher. They went to visit his grave, they went to be with him, they went to repay his love.

 

In the bleakest darkness, Mary and Mary passed the place of the skull, slowly nearing his tomb. As they grew closer, they heard the snoring and snickering of the guards whom the high priest had dispatched. As they began worrying about what they would do when the soldiers saw them, suddenly an earthquake startled the placid night. The entire area rumbled in the darkness. Just then, an angel blazed across the sky forcefully flinging wide the entrance to the tomb and landing gracefully on the large rock. The messenger’s appearance blinded those nearby like a lightning bolt. Mary and Mary hid their faces. Instead of a tremendous thunder clap, they heard the toppling of the guards. 

 

Trembling out of fear and exhaustion Mary and Mary lay prostrate on the ground. A sweet voice rang out in the dawning light, “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for him who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples.” 

 

The women slowly rose. They timidly approached the gapping entrance. Mary Magdalene stepped inside to see the linens that once enveloped his body. The other Mary touched the massive stone, which had stood sentinel sealing in the Savior. “Where is he?” she thought, but before they could say anything, the messenger spoke once more. “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” The shock of this news puzzled and paralyzed the women for a moment, but as the joyful truth of the angel’s words dawned on Mary and Mary, they sprinted away from the surroundings of death.

 

They had never known such conflicting emotion. Fear, like a linen funeral wrapping was unraveling its grip on them, in its place was an all-enveloping joy. It was this overwhelming gladness that urged the women onward with reckless abandon through the darkened streets of Jerusalem. In the pre-dawn haziness, Mary Magdalene nearly ran into a figure. His outline, his aura, his presence were so familiar. Before the women could catch their collective breath, the mysteriously recognizable one spoke, “Greetings!” Immediately they knew.

 

He was alive. “Jesus is risen,” Mary Magdalene thought. He was living, breathing, and speaking to these most courageous disciples. They slowly approached him, took his feet, and worshipped him. The messenger had told the truth, then Jesus echoed the angel’s words, “Do not be afraid, go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.” 

 

Be, go, tell, and see. These were the simple commands of Our Risen Lord to these faithful ones. And, through their journey we now discover the fullness of this Good News—not just for them, but for all!

 

This Good News was first bad news though. And, on this most holy night, when earth and heaven are one, you may still be struggling. You might feel hopelessness like these women felt walking to the tomb. The storms of this life may still be shaking you. The wounds—the ones you have inflicted and the ones inflicted upon you—may not be fully healed. Tonight, everything is not magically erased. And yet, like Mary and Mary, tonight you came to the tomb with them. Remember that before they arrived, before the angel, before the encounter with Jesus, it seemed like everything had been lost—it was as though all they had was buried in the grave. 

 

Inside the tomb lay their broken dreams, hopes, and lives. Mysteriously on this holy night, time collapses, and with the women, all of our brokenness rests within that cavernous grave too. Our broken dreams, hopes, and lives—all we have done and left undone to wound or be wounded—all of it lay inside with the still body of Jesus. To approach the place of our brokenness requires revisiting our darkest moments, those actions we pray will never see the light of day, and those times when we did not do what we could have done. As we approach this shadowy space, it at first seems that Our Savior is dead, that hopelessness wins, and that our brokenness persists.

 

Yet, in the predawn we encounter not only a messenger, but our Savior. The angel from God brings light into the darkness and opens wide the place where all that we fear was buried. The tomb though is empty. All that may be keeping us feeling stuck or paralyzed—all of our woundedness, hopelessness, sinfulness, shame, and death—all these things are transformed. God transforms these things not by magic, but by us stepping into the shadow parts of ourselves. As our eyes adjust to the darkness of the deadliest places within us, we find that even here, especially here God’s love and light bring healing, restoration, and resurrection. Like those brave women, we are to walk into the tomb to see that our old ways no longer sustain us, then we must go onward to Galilee. On the way, we meet the Risen Lord who implores us to be, go, tell, and see.

 

First, we must be. More fully, we must be not afraid, like both the messenger and Jesus instructed. Being without fear requires us to practice courage as we encounter our shadow selves. This could be through therapy, confession (we call it the Rite of Reconciliation), a small group of trusted beloveds, or any other number of ways. When we realize though that nothing—and I mean absolutely nothing—will prevent God from loving us, we will have new courage to confront the tombs of our lives. 

 

We must go. Once we experience this transformation through God’s saving love, we cannot keep this good news to ourselves. We cannot keep Jesus in the Church, just like nothing can keep Jesus in the ground. We must leave here and tell others!

 

We must tell. We must share the good news with all whom we meet. Jesus is not in the grave, and neither is all that stuff that we keep locked away in our tombs of shame. Everything that we find wrong with our lives is not somehow magically fixed by the Resurrection, but once and for all we are certain that nothing can keep us from God. This is the good news. Nothing, not shame, not sin, not death, not a single thing keeps God from loving us.

 

We must see. Mary and Mary almost ran into him. They recognized him though, and they knelt down, touched his feet, and worshipped him. We too might almost run into Christ Jesus. We will meet the Risen One on the way to our own Galilee—to wherever it is in our lives that needs to know not the Good News but the Best News that God loves us without exception and without limit. He is in every stranger we meet and every friend too. He is in all of us for he has redeemed all of us. So, I encourage you to look for Christ everywhere!

 

The tomb is empty… empty of our sin, our shame, and our death. The tomb is empty of Our Lord. Christ is not here. Christ is risen. Be not afraid, go and tell the good news, and see the Risen Lord! Alleluia, alleluia Christ is Risen! The Lord is risen indeed! Amen.

 

Why Do You Look For The Living Among The Dead?

 

A Coptic Icon of the Resurrection

Genesis 1:1-2:4a [The Story of Creation]
Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21 [Israel's deliverance at the Red Sea]
Isaiah 55:1-11 [Salvation offered freely to all]
Proverbs 8:1-8, 19-21; 9:4b-6 [Learn wisdom and live]
 Ezekiel 37:1-14 [The valley of dry bones]

Romans 6:3-11
Psalm 114
Luke 24:1-12
 

The Rev. Seth Olson © 2022

Note: This sermon was preached before the Great Alleluia of Easter after the Vigil lessons were read. 

All-loving God, let my words be your words and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

It’s dark in here, isn’t it? So dark! It is dark, but certainly it has been darker.

“In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep.” Before God said anything, Genesis tells us, it was dark—darkness covered the face of the deep. So, it is dark, but certainly it has been darker.

During the Exodus God’s cloud by day was dark coverage—enough even to enshroud the People of Israel as they escaped Pharaoh. At night that cloud became a pillar of fire lighting up a path on dry ground through the Red Sea. Still, it had to be dark walking between the walls of waves on either side. It is dark, but certainly it has been darker.

Darkness got no mention in what we heard from Isaiah, but it certainly lurked in the background. Not darkness, like poor vision from lack of light, but something much more disturbing. The prophet extended God’s invitation—a good thing. However, the prophet offered welcome because God’s People had been without. They had been hungry. They had been thirsty. They had been yearning for God. They had been held captive by enemies, by themselves, by a spiritual darkness. It is dark, but certainly it has been darker.

Like Isaiah, our Fourth Lesson shed light upon the darkness of ignorance that comes from a lack of knowing God’s Wisdom. This Wisdom cried out, she yearned to be heard—to be sought after more than gold and silver. For with her comes justice and flourishing relationship with God, with neighbor, and with self. Without her, life is lacking—it’s like living without the light. It is dark, but certainly it has been darker.

Wisdom though is not vital for living—enlightening yes, essential no—but we must have breath! Without it, we perish—we become like the beginning of Ezekiel’s lesson from this night. What a dark and dry time it was in that valley of the bones without God’s breath! It is dark, but certainly it has been darker.

These lessons speak to us about darkness. Funny, right? It’s amusing because so often we associate the Christian Faith with the brightness of the noonday sun. It’s like my favorite Easter dad-joke: Tomorrow’s forecast is a 100% chance of Son rise—S-O-N rise. The popular perception of Christianity is that it is about this noontime walk with God—some say Church and our Christian Faith is about all our shiny bits, the put-together parts of us, our Easter-Sunday-morning-best selves, and yet, so much of these stories and so much of our growth happens in the dark.

Yes, it has been said, we are Easter people, but you specifically are an Easter Vigil person. You and me, we are people who sit in the dark. Whatever brought you to church on this most holy night, you are here sitting in the dark. And, it makes me wonder, if you are willing to not only sit in this darkness, but also to be in moments of spiritual darkness. Challenging moments within yourself—tough times with your family, friends, neighbors, strangers, and even God.

Often it is in dark moments, these moments before the in-breaking light, that we experience the greatest gifts that come from our relationship with God. This is not always easy to see, but our walk with God is strengthened in deep darkness. There we find courage, compassion, community, curiosity, creativity—gifts we would not realize if we always stayed in the perceived safety of the light.

It really is so dark in here, which reminds me of an Easter service several years ago when I was serving at St. John’s in Decatur. There we had a morning Easter Vigil and in the predawn half-glow on that new day, the Organist, a man named Foster Bailey, missed the stairs that led into the side of the church. Instead, he nearly walked into the columbarium. It was funny because he was so disoriented at that time of day, but I think Foster had it right.

Walking into our dark church on this night is so startling. With only the light of the Paschal Candle it feels as though we are walking into a tomb precisely because that is what we are doing—we are walking into the grave of Christ Jesus. Now, the thought of being stuck in a tomb makes my skin crawl.

The closest experience I have had to being buried alive is going caving. Those trips beneath the earth were riveting. Especially, when everyone in the group would turn out their headlamps and stop speaking for a moment or two. It was disorienting down there—like in here.

On those trips, a worry would wash over me, “What if I get trapped here? What if some rocks fall at this precise moment? What if stones collapse over me, like the Red Sea washing over Pharoah’s army?” Worse still is the thought of getting trapped not in a cave, but in a place of deeper darkness—a place without the true light, like where God’s people were when the Prophets issued God’s call. That is a place where many of us have been, maybe some of us feel like that’s where we are now. A place with hunger, thirst and yearning, but without wisdom, breath, and life. This place of darkness is where we wait.

We await a moment so passionately longed for by us and by all. A time when the darkness not outside of us, but inside of us will be no more. A second when any semblance of separation is smashed. An era when evil ceases to exist. A day when death is vanquished. An age bathed in radiant light. That is what we await, sitting in the shadows.

And, how remarkable it is during this service, coming into this completely dark place with only the light of Christ leading us! Slowly that light spreads, but even just that one true light is enough to keep the darkness away, enough that the darkness cannot overcome it, enough that the darkness comprehendeth it not.

But, for a moment more it is dark—in this church—in this tomb. And, if we were to blow out all our candles, and maybe you need to if you are holding a puddle of wax at this point, then it might be almost as dark as it ever has been. As dark as it was on Maundy Thursday when the disciples betrayed, denied, and abandoned Jesus. As dark as it was on Good Friday when at noon Jesus hung on the cross and the light of the sun failed to shine. As dark as it was when Joseph and Nicodemus laid Jesus down and the tomb was sealed.

It is dark, but certainly it has been darker. And, in this dark silence, if we listen closely, we will hear the footsteps of the women approaching. And, messengers of the true light await, wondering, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”