Liturgy of the Palms, rcl yr a, 2023
Matthew 21:1-11
Liturgy of the Passion, rcl yr a, 2023
Isaiah 50:4-9a; Psalm 31:9-16; Philippians 2:5-11; Matthew 27:11-54
This does feel like an odd Sunday in the church year. A weird mashup of two very different stories: the triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, in the Liturgy of the Palms, and the story of the crucifixion in the Liturgy of the Passion.
It’s not just the mashup of two different stories, but of two different ways of celebrating Easter, two different calendars: one calendar that kicks off Holy Week, a calendar that begins with the Palms, moves to Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and then the Great Vigil of Easter; and another calendar that begins today with Passion Sunday, and moves to Easter Sunday next week. So that’s the historical reason—one calendar revives an ancient tradition from Jerusalem, another preserves a late Roman tradition.
Almost by mistake, or perhaps providentially, this layering of Holy Week on top of itself preserves something important though about the nature of liturgy, and helps us avoid one of the potential dangers of Holy Week: the danger of seeing just one part of the story, when we ought to be bringing the whole of the story to each part. We are witnesses to the whole of this story already: the pain and the glory, the love and the life. And thus we are witnesses all of the time to the fullness of the pouring out of God’s love: we are witness to both a cross that brings life, and a resurrection that transforms real pain.
When I first injured my back in 1993, there was at first a great sense of desolation. It was not a pleasant experience to be 19 years old and have to face an entirely uncertain future. All the ways I imagined my life was going to turn out were gone in an instant. It’s like when someone close to us dies—when they die, our whole imagined future with them is all of a sudden robbed from us, no longer there. That’s what it was like for me. A whole imagined future, one I took entirely for granted, disappeared.
But around me, in that moment of desolation, of abandonment, of loss, there was a whole community that gathered around me, a community of faith, of hope, and of inclusion. And so even if on a personal level I was awash in grief, by the presence of that community of people, my hopelessness and fear had to live alongside hopefulness and love—whether I liked it or not. Both of these things, even in their difference, stood together and alongside one another—loss and faith; insecurity and trust; hopelessness and hopefulness; there was a simultaneity to all these things, and I couldn’t have one without the other even if I tried.
I tell this story because that simultaneity of desolation and consolation, and of hopelessness and hopefulness, is the way I would encourage you to approach Holy Week. We can’t really approach the triumphal entry into Jerusalem as though we don’t know where it is headed—the entry into Jerusalem, surrounded by the jubilation of the palms, will be quickly followed by an exit from Jerusalem under the weight of the cross.
We hold these two things, the palms and the cross; the jubilation and the crucifixion; we hold these two things in our hearts at once, because we already know. Making the jubilation of the palms a tragic showing of just how fickle the fickle human heart can be; and making the crucifixion of Jesus but one station on the road of glory.
The point is, we can’t go back and pretend—we know the whole story. And this will be true all through Holy Week. We will know that at Jesus’s last supper with his friends, that he will be betrayed, but that the fruit of this betrayal isn’t just the cross, but the empty tomb; and on Good Friday,
as we bear witness to the cost of love, we will know that the cost of love is repaid again, and again, and again, with life; and when it comes to Easter, we will know not just the glory of Jesus’s resurrected body, but the glory also of the wounds that he will carry into God’s own future. We hold all these things in our hearts: the triumph, the tragedy, the desolation and the hope, all at once.
What this makes us is witnesses through Holy Week. Witnesses to one thing, stretched out over days: witnesses to the glorious work of God, wrought in Christ. for our sake. It will take what we say together in the eucharistic prayer—we remember his death, we proclaim his resurrection—we take the fullness of that memory and that proclamation, and we stretch it out over the space of days without forgetting either, as we become witnesses, once again, to the fulness of God’s work in Christ for us: the fulness of our own redemption.
This is why we we will take a different approach to Good Friday this year. We will hear the passion, but as a congregation we will not participate in it the same way. We will not all yell together “crucify him,” as if we were guilty and responsible for the death of Jesus; that would be to concentrate far too much on one little piece of the story, and one that I wouldn’t want you concentrating on too much anyway. What we will do, rather than becoming the guilty, we will bear witness to the love of God, and we will sing together an antiphon: “glory be to you, O God, for your love poured out for us.” Because this is the heart of the Passion, not our guilt, but a victory of love through desolation, a victory over death through death.
And so this is my encouragement for you this Holy Week. Come to Maundy Thursday, and bear witness, through the washing of feet, and the eucharist, and the stripping of the altar—bear witness to the love that is service, the love that is betrayed, but a love that cannot be overcome by betrayal; come to Good Friday, and bear witness to the love that is poured out on the cross, the cross of glory that is not the last word on death; come on Saturday to the Vigil, and bear witness to the whole of salvation history, a history that culminates with God’s victory over death and sin, a victory that is not without blood and desolation, but a victory nonetheless: the victory of the empty tomb, the victory of the one who tramples down death by death.
But begin today—bear witness to the triumph of the palms that leads to the desolation of the cross, the desolation of the cross that is its own triumph, its own glory; but a cross that is not yet the end, but another station on the road that leads to life.
Angus Sinclair was appointed Director of Music of St. John the Evangelist on February 1, 2023. Having graduated in 1981 (Honours B.Mus.) in organ performance from Wilfrid Laurier University, he went on to distinguish himself as a church musician, recitalist and accompanist touring in both Canada and the UK. For over 40 years Angus has served parishes and congregations throughout Southwestern Ontario as director of music. He experiences his present appointment to St. John’s as a welcome homecoming, both spiritually and musically.
As our parish musician, he provides both support and leadership so that a variety of parish programs can find musical expression and attract participation. When our handbell choir is in season, he is one of our ringers. At parish dinners, he provides popular piano music for the guests to dine by. For both worship services and concerts, he will rehearse and accompany vocal and instrumental soloists from our congregation on piano, organ, or even accordion.
Angus Sinclair was appointed Director of Music of St. John the Evangelist on February 1, 2023. Having graduated in 1981 (Honours B.Mus.) in organ performance from Wilfrid Laurier University, he went on to distinguish himself as a church musician, recitalist and accompanist touring in both Canada and the UK. For over 40 years Angus has served parishes and congregations throughout Southwestern Ontario as director of music. He experiences his present appointment to St. John’s as a welcome homecoming, both spiritually and musically.