Good Friday 2024

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 29, 2024 (Good Friday)

Three crosses. You see them on hillsides, sticking up in farmlands along desolate stretches of highway, on bad religious clipart. You’ve seen the symbol of the three crosses, but maybe haven’t given them much real thought.

The middle one we know. The one that stands a bit taller than the ones on either side. The cross of Christ. The implement of torture that killed our savior. The Roman Empire’s preferred form of execution. A painful and humiliating death reserved for those to be made an example of. Like a man claiming to be a king. A prophet who upset the political status quo. A teacher who exposed the hypocrisy of the religious authorities. Jesus was all of these things. And he was strung up on the hard wood of the cross.

Jesus was put to death because he held up a mirror to the world, and the powers and principalities of the world didn’t like what he reflected back to them. That God’s way is not about power and control, but love and service. As we hear in the prologue to John’s gospel, “He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not. He came unto his own, and his own received him not.” 

When you preach love in a world bent on hate, you end up on a cross. When you teach compassion in a world bent on cruelty, you end up on a cross. When you encourage love of neighbor in a world bent on love of self, you end up on a cross. 

But Jesus also chooses death. Because toning down God’s message, compromising on God’s message of love, was never an option. Jesus can only love wholly and without exception. He simply cannot love with conditions. And he knew that in the end, divine love would overcome death. And so he enters Jerusalem, knowing full well how this would all go down. Knowing full well that he would drink the bitter cup of crucifixion. To prove to us, to demonstrate through his broken body, that love is indeed stronger than death.

But Scripture tells us that Jesus didn’t die alone. In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, we hear that there were two other crosses, that two criminals were crucified, one on either side of him. Hence the image of the three crosses. In Luke’s gospel we hear about the interaction between Jesus and these two men, as life slowly and painfully drains out of their bodies. And the difference between how they approach death is striking. One of them continues to mock Jesus. “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” There’s no remorse for the crimes he committed. With his dying breath, he spews hate and derision. He is literally next to the Messiah, but his heart is hardened. His eyes cannot see, his ears cannot hear, the message of love and peace radiating from Jesus’ very being, even as his breath becomes labored and pain sears his body.

But the other criminal has noticed Jesus. Perhaps he saw something in his eyes. A sense of peace. Perhaps he saw him looking with compassion upon those who mocked him and spat at him. Perhaps he saw the forgiveness he reserved for the soldiers tasked with nailing his hands and feet to the wood of the cross. Perhaps he heard the love in his voice as Jesus quietly prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

And suddenly this man who has lived a life of immorality and crime, feeding off of and exploiting the weakness of others, is transformed. He doesn’t join in the insults of the other criminal. He, who would have nothing to do with Jesus or his teachings as he bullied his way through life, looks over at his fellow criminal and asks, “Do you not fear God? We have been condemned justly, but this man has done nothing wrong.” As the life begins to drain from his body, he defends Jesus. He testifies to his innocence. Despite living a life worthy of condemnation, he turns to Jesus at the very end. He believes in him. He puts his soul into his hands. 

In the end, this man is the only one who speaks up for Jesus. The disciples have fled. Peter, the rock upon whom Christ has built his church, has denied him three times. Fear has overtaken his closest friends. Their silence is deafening. But one man speaks up. One man testifies to the truth. One man, the last person anyone would expect, stands up for Jesus. He is known to us as the penitent thief, by tradition he died to the cross at Jesus’ right side. His last words are, “Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.”

We have two choices when it comes to to our response to the cross. Like the first criminal we can deride it or minimize it or trivialize it. We can ignore its power, its triumph, its pain, and its glory. We can live our lives never experiencing the true peace and joy that only comes from knowing at the very core of our being that we are loved and forgiven.

Or we can make it the defining statement of our lives. We can experience Jesus’ death as an act of love. One that banishes the fear of death that so often defines our interactions with ourselves and others. We can allow our souls to be filled with the peace of God that passes all understanding. That’s what Jesus wants for you. That’s why Jesus was willing to be betrayed into the hands of sinners and put to death on a cross. Because he desperately and irrepressibly loves you and longs for you.

“Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.” May that be our prayer this day and at the hour of our death. When Jesus will lovingly gaze upon you, as he did to the penitent thief, and reply, “Truly I tell you, this day you will be with me in Paradise.”

Palm Sunday 2024

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 24, 2024 (Palm Sunday)

There’s an old blues standard written by the late great T-Bone Walker called Stormy Monday. If you’re a fan of the blues, as I am, you surely know it. It’s been covered by everyone from B.B. King to the Allman Brothers, Etta James to Muddy Waters. Stormy Monday’s been ringing in my ears this week as we begin our journey into Holy Week, and prepare to walk the way of the cross.  Because dark storm clouds are forming on the horizon. As we hear and participate in the story of our Lord’s Passion, a sense of foreboding has arisen in the midst of our Palm Sunday celebration. The events of the coming week have been set in motion. 

One of the hallmarks of the blues, and certainly Stormy Monday, is the concept of the blue note. Musically speaking, it’s a note that goes lower than what you might expect based on the standard scale. So it stands out. In the hands of an old blues master the blue note is arresting, sounding a note of melancholy even in the midst of an upbeat melody.

On Palm Sunday, the Passion gospel provides a liturgical blue note, as the entire tone of our worship shifts from the euphoria of “Hosanna!” to the agony of “Crucify!” One moment we’re waving our palms and participating in a parade, and the next we’re confronting our complicity in the death of our Lord. 

The thing is, the Christian faith is not ultimately about pomp and circumstance, and public displays. It’s not about big crowds cheering on the arrival of a celebrity. It’s about the transformation of lives. It’s about God’s love moving hearts and changing the world. Faith is not merely performative; it’s personal. And the story of the crucifixion embedded within our worship serves as a stark reminder of this.

The blue note has sounded, storm clouds have gathered, an element of foreboding has been introduced. And we can’t go back. We can’t pretend we didn’t hear it. Because beneath the exuberance and jubilation of the Palm Sunday procession, lies an undercurrent of sorrow and sacrifice, of suffering and sadness. Joy and sorrow coexist on this day, as they so often do in our own lives.

And this blue note sets the tone for all that follows in the week ahead. The emotion, the intensity, the opportunity to walk with Jesus through his last days. Things have shifted. And the events that lead to the redemption of the world will rapidly unfold, both here at Bethesda and throughout the world. 

In music, the blue note also evokes a sense of yearning, a longing to once again be made whole. And for us, Christ’s passion isn’t merely something to push past on the way to our Easter celebration. Hope is embedded within the agony of the cross. For it is through the cross of Jesus that we emerge a people forgiven and loved. Not for anything we’ve done or achieved, but simply because we have been marvelously made in God’s image. 

I encourage you to embrace the fullness of the Christian story this week. Come to the liturgies of Holy Week — especially if you’ve never participated in them before. Allow yourself to be transported and transformed by your relationship with Jesus Christ. We can’t live parade to parade, Palm Sunday to Easter Day, without acknowledging the blue note of our Lord’s passion. And recognizing that only by walking through it, rather than around it, can we fully embrace the meaning of the resurrection celebration that is to come. 

Good Friday 2023

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 7, 2023 (Good Friday)

“Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume breathes a life of gathering gloom; sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, sealed in the stone-cold tomb.” 

And so the words of a familiar hymn, often sung at Christmas pageants announcing the arrival of the three kings, come back to us on Good Friday. The Magi’s gift of “bitter perfume,” this embalming oil, finally makes sense. The foreshadowing of the seemingly odd gift of myrrh is realized on this day when we mark our Lord’s crucifixion. His broken body is taken down from the cross and prepared for burial with myrrh before being “sealed in the stone-cold tomb.”

And just as myrrh itself has a bittersweet aroma, so is this day bittersweet to Christians throughout the world. Bitter in its agony; bitter in its indignity; bitter in its shamefulness. Yet sweet in its necessity for the redemption of the world; sweet in its act of love for all humankind; sweet in its atoning, once-for-all sacrifice. Good Friday is and must be bittersweet. For to minimize the bitterness of the cross is to gloss over its power. And to minimize its sweetness is to neglect its love. 

I’ve always thought the Good Friday symbolism of the Orthodox Church beautifully and poignantly captures this duality. As worshippers enter for the evening liturgy they encounter a rough-hewn wooden cross placed in the middle of the church, surrounded by Easter lilies. A compelling visual manifestation that the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ is both bitter and sweet; that death and resurrection are intertwined and can never be separated. On Good Friday we anticipate our Lord’s resurrection, even as we reflect on the hard wood of the cross.

So amid all the images of crucifixion – the crown of thorns, the nails, the indignities, and the mockery – everything points forward to the resurrection. We know that soon enough, Jesus will be released from his three days’ prison. And to pretend we don’t would delve into the realm of play acting. Come Easter Day, we know the tomb will be empty and we can’t make believe that we don’t. Good Friday is not a “funeral” for Jesus. But even still, the violence of the cross is a bitter pill. The image of our Lord’s broken body hanging on a cross is seared into our consciousness. And we can imagine what those first disciples must have felt – the anguish, the loneliness, the feelings of abandonment, the despair, the heartbreak. 

Because in our own lives we are all familiar with such emotions. We have all experienced loss and pain and grief. Perhaps the whole notion of Good Friday is an apt metaphor for the human experience. Because life itself is often bittersweet. Our dreams are dashed; our expectations don’t meet reality; our hopes are met with disappointment. 

As we gather today, some of these wounds may still be open and raw for you; some, over time, may have built up scar tissue around them. But our very humanity binds us to the anguish of Good Friday. And the cross stands as the great connector that links the suffering of Jesus to our own suffering. Jesus’ humanity touches our own very human hearts.

And the good news embedded in the agony of our Lord’s death, is that we can leave our pain, drop our burdens, release our sorrows, shed our grief right there at the foot of the cross. We don’t have to hold it alone. Jesus, our constant companion, bears it with us and for us. He walks with us through the valley that can indeed feel like the shadow of death. And so even in the depths of our pain and brokenness, hope exists. A deep and abiding and life-giving hope. A hope that transcends even the most seemingly hopeless situation.

And so, even as the Savior of the world hangs upon the cross — bruised and broken, reviled and forsaken — the cross of Christ invites us into a place of hope and meaning. A place where salvation is freely offered and grace is abundantly poured out. Which is what makes this day “Good” Friday or, as the Orthodox call it, “Great” Friday.

“Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume breathes a life of gathering gloom; sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying, sealed in the stone-cold tomb.” Jesus’ death and burial is not the end of the story, merely a piece of it. It is bittersweet, yes, but it is decidedly not yet finished. Our journey continues.

Palm Sunday 2023

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 2, 2023 (Palm Sunday)

This is a day of liturgical whiplash. We rapidly move from palms and shouts of “Hosanna” to the cross and cries of “crucify.” In an instant, we go from triumph to tragedy, from palms to Passion. And it’s a bit jarring, frankly. The swirl of emotions, the wild mood swings, the changing tone of the readings and music. In a single service we get the whole breadth of human emotion: joy, pain, elation, hope, discouragement, compassion, grief. And everything in between.

But this makes sense, when you think about it. Because the Christian life is not an intellectual pursuit. It is about the entirety of our souls. We can’t follow Jesus at a safe, emotionally-detached distance. We can surely admire him that way, and that’s a good first step. But Jesus wants all of us, not just part of us. To follow Jesus takes heart and soul and mind and full immersion. And in order to engage this way, we can’t leave our emotions out of the equation. That’s just not how the life of faith works.

Which is why it’s so painful to join in those cries of “crucify!” We don’t want to. It sticks in our throat. Like Pontius Pilate, we don’t want to take responsibility for Jesus’ death. We want to blame someone else, anyone else, for the crucifixion. The crowds, the chief priests, the Roman authorities. The Church itself has a long and shameful history of blaming the Jews for Jesus’ death — which is a sordid and sinful misinterpretation of Scripture. And anyway, we weren’t even there. This all happened 2,000 years ago, after all. How could we be to blame?

And yet we are indeed complicit. Every time we stay silent in the face of injustice, we crucify Jesus. Every time we fail to lift up the downtrodden, we crucify Jesus. Every time we victimize the marginalized and innocent, whether intentionally or not, we crucify Jesus. And that is a bitter pill to swallow on a day that started with such enthusiastic waving of palms.

The good news is that this doesn’t make us horrible people. It’s just a reminder of our sinful, flawed humanity. And it points us back towards Jesus and our desperate need for a Savior. That’s where the hope of this day comes bursting through, and it sets us up for what is to come.

Because Palm Sunday stands as an entryway, a portal into the holiest week of the Christian year. Holy Week invites us to step into the very heart of the Christian story, the heart of our story. And when we join Jesus and one another on this journey, that’s when true transformation happens. That’s when our relationship with Jesus Christ grows in ways that are beyond what we could ever ask for or imagine. 

And so I invite you to embrace this journey. To walk with this community from the Upper Room at the Last Supper, to the Garden of Gethsemane, to the cross on Calvary, to the empty tomb. Whether this is your first Holy Week or your 80th, you will emerge with new insights and a changed heart. And over the next seven days, I encourage you to immerse yourself in the story, the liturgy, the music, the drama of the Christian faith. This is what it’s all about. This is why this church exists. And I look forward to walking this path with each and every one of you in the days ahead.

Good Friday 2022

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 

St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 15, 2022 (Good Friday)

One of the most moving Good Friday images I have ever witnessed was longtime parishioner Mary Ellen Hatfield coming up to venerate the cross on her last Good Friday on this earth. Her son Steve helped her slowly navigate the chancel steps on the long journey towards the altar. He stayed by her side as she knelt down and kissed the rough wooden cross that is placed just inside the communion rail. And then he helped her slowly and steadily return to her pew.

Partly it was her determination, that literally nothing in the world would stop her from encountering the cross on Good Friday; partly it was Steve’s love for his mother playing out in such a tangible way; partly it was Mary Ellen’s deep faith as she literally went to the foot of the cross knowing that she would soon be with her Lord in paradise; and partly it was Mary Ellen’s deep and infectious faith. It transcended hardship and physical pain and entered the world of the joyful and mystical.

It’s this spirit of walking with our Lord that feels like a holy thing to reflect upon on Good Friday. For Mary Ellen, that walk through the church to venerate the cross was both literal and theological. It was both an arduous pilgrimage and a mission of conviction. And the point is, that short walk was a journey. A journey with and to her Lord.

And for us, Good Friday is also a journey. A journey with and to our Lord. The crucifixion of Jesus reminds us that this is not always an easy journey. The life of faith is littered with disappointments. We die to all sorts of things in our lives. To sin, hopefully. But how often do our hopes and desires perish before our very eyes? Dreams go unrealized and wither on the vine. Aspirations fail to come to fruition. Relationships fade away and fall apart. Our mortal bodies betray us, and sometimes so do our minds. Death is as much a part of life as breathing. 

Jesus is intimately aware of our suffering, of our broken dreams and broken hearts and broken bodies and broken lives. His own body wasn’t broken in order to make us feel better, but to walk with us in our brokenness. To join us in our struggles. To love us as we wobble our way through our lives — hesitantly, haltingly, helplessly.

On this day we aren’t merely passive observers of Jesus’ death, we are active participants in the journey. Because Good Friday is an integral part of our own journey. The pain is our pain; the death is our death; the grief is our grief. And so, we grow weary right along with Jesus as he makes his way up to Calvary. We stumble right along with Jesus as he falls under the great weight of the cross. We are mocked and reviled right along with Jesus as he faithfully follows the will of his Father. We are in his struggles and he is in ours. Walking with us, comforting us, loving us. Like Mary Ellen, we journey with and to our Lord.

The good news of this day, the “good” in Good Friday, is that we will get to our destination. Our journey leads us directly to the foot of the cross. It leads us to Jesus. And it is in Jesus that we can lay our burdens down. It is in Jesus that we realize we don’t have to bear this heavy load alone. It is in Jesus that we can find rest for our weary souls. 

Jesus says to us, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” It is at the foot of the cross that we find rest and refreshment, even amid the struggles of the journey.

We have made it to the foot of the cross. Our journey has led us to Jesus.

Palm Sunday 2022

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 

St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 10, 2022 (Palm Sunday)

In the aftermath of the famous 1963 March on Washington, 60% of Americans disapproved of the march and only 23% approved of it. Think about that. We all look back on it now and can almost see ourselves in that massive crowd on the mall, cheering on Dr. King and his dream. Nobody thinks they would have been on the wrong side of history. And yet so many were. Either because of their outright opposition to racial equality or simply their apathy. The desire to keep the national boat from getting rocked was often a stronger pull than looking in a mirror of complicity and silence. 

Everyone stood in a crowd during the Civil Rights era. Some were in the crowd on the mall that day, and spent their lives working for racial justice. Some were in the crowds that berated and mocked and beat and spit upon the Freedom Riders. And many were in the crowd on the sidelines, not wanting to get involved, not wanting anything to change, really.

This is also a day about being in crowds. Because on this day, we are part of the crowd. We are part of that mass of humanity who simply went along. Sure, we cried “hosanna” when Jesus made his triumphal entry into Jerusalem. That was exciting. This rockstar of a teacher was rolling into town and people were jazzed to greet him. They had projected all sorts of their own hopes and dreams and desires upon him. He would save us from oppression, he would fight the powers that be, he would lift us up and out of the mire in which we found ourselves. These were heady times, full of anticipation and hope. And it was exhilarating to toss down those palm branches along his path. We were part of something bigger than ourselves.

But then we were also part of the crowd that cried, “crucify him.” When we realized there was a personal cost to our association with this Jesus, we turned. Rapidly and without hesitation, we changed our tune from “hosanna” to “crucify.” This is a day about being in crowds. 

But this transcends mere mob mentality. We cry “crucify” and we become complicit in our Lord’s death. Which is hard to reconcile. Because we are good people. We’re trying our best. And yet our sinfulness makes us complicit, and Palm Sunday is a day to give voice to this in a tangible way. 

Let’s be honest, it’s hard to cry “crucify.” It sticks in our throats like a bitter pill. We say it, but we tell ourselves we don’t really mean it. And yet, we say it anyway. We are compelled to say it, even as it nearly chokes us. As painful as it is. “Crucify.”

Now, we can’t read the Passion narrative and pretend Easter isn’t coming. The Resurrection is the only thing that allows us to stomach that hard-to-say word. “Father,” Jesus prays, “forgive them. For they know not what they do.” That’s us. We know not what we do and we are forgiven. And so even amid our conflicted natures, even amid our sinfulness, even amid our helplessness, Jesus holds out both hope and forgiveness.

It’s true that we rotate in and out of crowds throughout our lives. Some are admirable, others are deplorable; some are meaningful, others are meaningless. In this crowd that has gathered before Pontius Pilate, we stand together with every Christian who has ever lived. By virtue of our human nature, we find ourselves on the wrong side of history. Father, forgive us. For we know not what we do.

Good Friday 2021

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of  St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts Preached by the Rev. Timothy Schenck on April 2, 2021 (Good Friday)

I’ve always loved the term “rubbernecking.” It’s a wonderfully illustrative, even cartoonish description of turning to watch something that really isn’t our business. I don’t love what people normally see when they rubberneck. I mean, it’s easy enough to feel a sense of schadenfreude when the guy who just raced passed you on the highway gets pulled over for speeding a mile or two down the road. But slowing down to stare at a grisly accident is hard to see, even as it is nearly impossible to look away.

I get the sense there was a lot of rubbernecking during that first Holy Week. With all the drama surrounding Jesus’ arrest, trial, and crucifixion, there were ample peak rubbernecking opportunities. The forces of empire and the seeds of rebellion, the mix of religious conviction and charges of heresy, the passions aroused on all sides — all of this came together to create a highly-charged environment with an intoxicating swirl of emotion. It must have been hard for even the most causal observer to turn away.

And, regardless of where they stood on the question of this particular religious movement — whether they viewed Jesus as a misguided zealot, a dangerous heretic, or the Messiah — people couldn’t help but be drawn into the drama of what was unfolding before their very eyes. They simply could not avert their gazes.

But for people of faith, the crucifixion of our Lord, isn’t merely interesting or captivating from a detached, observational point of view. Just as it was for Jesus’ closest friends, Good Friday is an integral part of our story. The pain is our pain; the death is our death; the grief is our grief.

In some ways we’ve gotten desensitized to the full violence of the cross. You can buy sweet little silver crosses at Kay Jewelers, you can spot crosses on bumper stickers, they’re seen on the steeples of picturesque white clapboard New England churches. They’ve become so ubiquitous  as emblems of personal and communal faith, that the shock value has worn off. But it’s not just the violence, it’s the symbolism and meaning behind crucifixion itself that demands our attention.

We forget that crucifixion was not the normal means of capital punishment in the ancient Roman world. It was typically reserved for a certain class of criminal.  The crucified class included those deemed especially worthless by the powers that be, which is why Roman citizens themselves were exempt from such a fate. 

Crucifixion was used exclusively for outsiders — for slaves; for enemy combatants; for insurrectionists. Victims were stripped naked and put on public display. Besides excruciating pain, crucifixion carried with it the stigma of dishonor and humiliation. And so to be crucified, was to be dehumanized, shamed, and literally lifted up as an example of all that was wrong with the world. 

So in a very real sense, for Jesus, crucifixion was his final earthly act of allegiance with the poor, the marginalized, the hopeless, the devalued, and the scorned. After casting in his lot with tax collectors and sinners, bringing good news to the poor and downtrodden, pushing back against the hypocrisy, privilege, and abuse of authority, it’s not surprising, really, that he ends up dying among those he so lovingly and compassionately served. Jesus lived among the outcasts, and Jesus died among the outcasts.

I’m reminded of the story of Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, the young white Union officer who commanded the all-black 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, made famous in the 1989 film Glory. In 1863, Shaw was killed leading a fierce but ultimately unsuccessful charge on Fort Wagner near Charleston, South Carolina. The Confederates dumped his body in a mass grave with the rest of his unit’s dead soldiers, figuring that would be the utmost insult, burying a white man with a bunch of black bodies. 

As word of the regiment’s bravery started to spread, a movement to return Shaw’s body for a proper burial in Boston with full honors was initiated. But Shaw’s parents, avowed abolitionists, would not have it. Shaw’s father wrote to Union officials, “We would not have his body removed from where it lies surrounded by his brave and devoted soldiers.” 

This isn’t a perfect parallel to Jesus being crucified among those he sought to lift up. There’s danger in viewing Colonel Shaw as a white savior, as many even well-intentioned people initially did. But that’s not how Shaw viewed his role, nor is it how his parents saw it. They objected to the design of the famous bronze relief that stands on Beacon Street showing Shaw on horseback, elevated above his soldiers. The true memorial, however, is Shaw’s unmarked final resting place, lying among those he loved and respected.

Through the shame and scandal of the cross, Jesus placed his broken body between God’s vision of a beloved community where all are equally valued and loved, and the sinful reality of the human condition where some are loved and elevated, and others are derided and rejected and treated as less than.Which is why you can’t fully face and embrace the power of the cross without confronting and condemning racism and sexism and every other human construct that stands between God’s vision and our reality.

In the end, the cross stands as the ultimate act of love. The attempt to strip Jesus of everything — his dignity, his power, his beliefs, his life — only reveals that God’s love is everything. In one way or another, we are all outcasts and sinners. And God loves us anyway. God casts his lot in with us, despite all that we do or fail to do. And God loves us anyway. Through belief in Jesus Christ, God forgives us and lifts us up and loves us anyway.

All of which is why, when it comes to the crucifixion, we can’t just rubberneck. As people of faith, we are not merely interested bystanders. The cross isn’t something to casually gaze upon, but to venerate with all of our being. That’s what Good Friday is all about. A reminder that hope and joy and love sprout forth even from the hard wood of the cross.

Don’t avert your eyes from the pain of this day. Stare intently and intentionally into it. And know that this act of love is not just for all of humanity, but also very specifically for you.

Palm Sunday 2021

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 

St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on March 28, 2021 (Palm Sunday)

If I’m honest, Palm Sunday is one of those days when I particularly miss being with all of you. At St. John’s, we seem to channel a bit of the excitement that must have marked that original, long ago day. There’s always a buzz in the air as we gather outside before the service. Often there’s a chill in the air as well. But we’re hardy New Englanders, so we bundle up and congregate in front of the church to bless the palms, listen to the choir, and then process in with branches held high, as we belt out “All Glory, Laud, and Honor.”

Once inside, the liturgy pivots and we rapidly move from shouts of “Hosanna” to cries of “Crucify;” we go from triumph to tragedy; from palms to Passion. This year, however, we’re going to pause, and sit a little bit longer with Jesus’ entrance into the great city of Jerusalem. We often move so quickly past it, that the palm portion of the service ends up feeling like little more than a preamble to the Passion, an overture before the crucifixion. 

Now, we’ll get to the Passion reading; in fact we’ll end with it, offering it up as a stark entrance into Holy Week. And I’m pleased that this year we’re partnering with St. Mary’s in Dorchester to share Mark’s Passion gospel over Zoom. So there’s at least one benefit of doing Palm Sunday online.

But first, we’re going to wade into the crowd that gathered to welcome Jesus. We’ll grab some virtual palm branches, crane our necks to catch a glimpse of this man we’ve heard so much about, and surround ourselves with the pent-up joy that comes bursting forth with shouts of Hosanna and palm branches spread along his path.

The deep sense of longing is so palpable among our friends and neighbors here in the so-called City of David. This Jesus is, after all, a descendent of King David himself. And as such, his royal lineage makes him an heir to the throne. Which is why we’re all shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord — the King of Israel!” The long-awaited Messiah is coming, finally, to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the heavy yoke, to let the oppressed go free, to shake off the shackles of Roman imperial occupation. 

And those chains have been so heavy for so long. The Roman occupation was fraught with cruelty — economic, cultural, religious, and psychological oppression. It’s no wonder such profound hope was placed in the person of their perceived savior. The word “Hosanna” literally means “save us!” These shouts were hopeful, desperate cries for salvation. To be saved from the painful circumstances of the present time, to overthrow the cruel oppression under which they lived each moment of their lives.

And as Jesus approached, as the cries reached a fevered pitch, the only remaining question, was how? How would this long-anticipated salvation take place? Would this Jesus come with a mighty army, brandishing a sword? Would he come from on high with clouds descending in a supernatural show of force? I mean, those are the only two options here, right?

So it must have been at least a bit disconcerting to see their long-awaited hero riding in on a donkey rather than something a bit more…regal. Maybe not six white horses exactly, but at least a beast with some bearing. And instead of a well-equipped militia, he’s followed by a rag-tag group of peaceniks. While the hopes and expectations surrounding the Messiah’s entrance into Jerusalem may have felt triumphant, Jesus’ entrance itself left a little something to be desired. 

After the initial euphoria, you can almost hear the crowd muttering in disappointment as they dispersed. Some must have been utterly devastated by the dawning realization that nothing would ever actually change in their lives. Others must have left angry, feeling duped and disappointed. And you begin to see how, just a few days later, Hosanna, “save us,” could have easily morphed into Crucify, “kill him.”

But rather than anti-climactic, as it must have felt to many in that crowd, this triumphal entry is actually quite revealing. Jesus’ ministry isn’t about pomp and circumstance. Excitement, sure. A new way of being, yes. Hopeful anticipation, absolutely. But, much to our own chagrin at times, it’s never been about the expectations of others. Or our own expectations. 

And that’s hard for us. So often we tend to project our own images of what we seek in a Savior onto Jesus. We seek to form the Messiah in our own image — theologically, politically, racially — which is little more than an attempt to control and domesticate God. And that never ends well.

Which is why, when it comes to the nature of God, time and time again, our own desires and expectations are overturned. It begins with the Son of God being born in a barn and ends with him strung up on a tree. That’s not how we would have written it up. That’s not the script we would have come up with if we were imagining the story of God living among us. Let’s face it, we wouldn’t have stuck him on a donkey.

And yet, as he’s riding on that slow and humble animal with the crowds cheering, Jesus’ focus remains on what is to come. It’s not to revel in the moment or to enjoy the adulation, but to steel himself for what will soon be at hand. He travels this road with his eyes wide open to what awaits him in the coming days. For he knows where his unconditional love for humanity will take him. He knows that crossing the powers of tradition, hierarchy, and privilege will leave him hanging on a cross. He knows that breaking the barriers that divide people one from another will lead to the breaking of his own body. 

He also knows that, despite all worldly evidence to the contrary, human weakness is no match for divine love. Oh, it will triumph in the short term. The powers that be will execute an innocent man. We know how that turns out. But it’s not the end of the story.

And so the entrance into Jerusalem, with all the shouts and all the exaltation, serves only to highlight this disparity between our desires and God’s reality; between our hopes for a Savior and God’s saving grace. That’s what the week to come is really all about. And I encourage you to embrace it heartily, to walk it fully, and to enter into it with all your heart, and with all your mind, and with all your soul.

Maundy Thursday 2020

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 9, 2020 (Maundy Thursday)

Well, this is one way to get out of having your feet washed on Maundy Thursday. Or at least avoiding that inner struggle about whether or not you should embrace the discomfort of taking your shoes and socks off in church, because you know that’s kind of the point, or whether you should just stay in your pew because, well, you’re pretty sure you forgot to clip your toenails. 

So that’s one “advantage” of attending this service virtually, I guess. And, of course, you’re welcome to go soak your feet after you log off.

You may know that the word “maundy,” in Maundy Thursday, comes from the Latin mandatum, meaning commandment. It’s where we get the English word “mandate.” And we call this day Maundy Thursday because after washing the disciples’ feet, Jesus says, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

That’s quite a charge, and it’s significant that Jesus calls this a “commandment.” This was a word dripping with meaning for the disciples — the Ten Commandments, after all, stood at the very heart of the Law of Moses. So the fact that Jesus points to the call to love one another as a commandment highlights its importance. For Jesus, love is not optional. Maundy Thursday isn’t Suggestion Thursday; it’s New Commandment Thursday, and that commandment is abundantly clear: “love one another as I have loved you.”

Over the next several days, love will be embodied in Jesus Christ. Love will be betrayed; love will be mocked; love will be crucified; love will be buried; love will conquer death. That’s the power of love. That’s the power of this faith which was entrusted to the disciples at the Last Supper, the same faith that has been entrusted to you and me.

This evening we join with Jesus and the disciples in that Upper Room. We come bearing and sharing all of the burdens of uncertainty and fear, of hesitation and trepidation. And we listen for the voice of the one who calmed the storm, the one who healed the sick, the one who raised the dead. Above the din of our anxiety and all that rages around us, we listen for this voice. The voice of Jesus. And this voice speaks of hope. This voice speaks of life. This voice speaks of love.

Like many of you, I have been taking walks around town the last few weeks. Most days, Bryna and I try to get outside after yet another Zoom call and more attempts to find toilet paper and dog food online. And one of the things I love is running into fellow parishioners and waving or having a brief chat from a safe distance or watching their kids ride by on bikes. And what truly gladdens my heart in these brief conversations is hearing about how people in this community are taking care of one another. Of making phone calls and checking in on those who live alone and running errands and writing notes. Over the past weeks, I have seen and heard so many examples, both big and small, of people loving one another as Jesus loves us. 

By demonstrating our love for one another in seemingly ordinary ways during these extraordinary times, we have an opportunity to let the world know — and to remind ourselves — that we are disciples of Jesus Christ.

The thing is, we need this new commandment, this mandatum, now more than ever. When the impulse is to hoard, Jesus says give it away; when the impulse is to tribalism, Jesus says build beloved community; when the impulse is to fear, Jesus says love.

We are living in a moment when the world is crying out for a new commandment, a new way of being, a new way of loving. And all we have to do to look for a path forward is to gaze upon the actions in an Upper Room in Jerusalem on the last night of our Lord’s earthly life. That’s where we see love enacted and embodied. The question for all of us on this night is how will we practice mandatum in the weeks and months ahead? How will we take the spirit of the Upper Room out into the world? Because that’s our charge, that’s our commandment.

Although we are worshipping virtually right now, there is nothing “virtual” about our faith. This world needs the love of Jesus more than ever in this moment. It needs us all to demonstrate the love of Jesus. It needs you to share the love of Jesus with your neighbor. Not with hugs or washing feet or even, and this pains me more than you know, by sharing the Eucharist. But by praying for one another, by protecting the most vulnerable among us, by sharing our resources with those in need, by reaching out to those who are isolated and alone, by supporting those who are on the front lines of this pandemic by caring for the sick or packing groceries or seeking a vaccine. 

The world needs the love of Jesus right now and you, my friends, you have been entrusted with the new commandment, issued on this very night, to love one another as Jesus loves us. And make no mistake, it is the love of Jesus, as made known on the night before he died for us, that will see us through. 

© The Rev. Tim Schenck 2020

Good Friday 2019

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of 
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 19, 2019 (Good Friday)

A few years ago a modern sculpture suddenly appeared at World’s End. To see it, you had to enter the park, go over a footbridge, walk through a tree-lined path, come down a big hill, past what I consider one of the greatest views of the Boston skyline, and onto what’s known as “the bar,” that thin strip of trail with water on either side that connects the inner part of the nature preserve to the outermost section, the area that truly does feel like the end of the world.

I remember setting out for a walk with Bryna on a beautiful, crisp fall day to revel in the beauty of World’s End, one of the great gifts of living on the South Shore. And I admit it was a bit jarring to encounter modern art amid the natural beauty of God’s creation. The shiny, reflective, mirrored steel panels were arranged in a spiral, large enough to walk through and in and around. 

The art installation, by a Danish artist named Jeppe Hein, was provocative and controversial — I’m pretty sure letters to the editor of the Hingham Journal were involved. And I think that was precisely the point. It certainly got me talking as we descended the hill and the sculpture first came into view. I think my initial words to Bryna were something along the lines of, “What is that monstrosity?” 

But after visiting World’s End several more times that fall and intentionally spending some time with the sculpture, it started to grow on me. Or if not grow on me, I came to at least appreciate what the artist was trying to do.

The sculpture reflected back the natural beauty, allowing you to take in the trees and water and changing light in new ways. Depending on the time of day and the tides and the weather, the sculpture offered a shifting, ever-changing perspective. Engaging with the art and walking through it as a labyrinth, allowed me to experience World’s End as if for the first time. And that was a gift. 

It also didn’t hurt to learn that it was not a permanent installation, and would only be on display for one year.

As we gather to gaze upon the hard wood of the cross on Good Friday, I invite you to envision the cross as a mirror. Allow it to reflect back the pain of the world; the brokenness of the human condition, the fear and violence of war, the tragedies of natural disaster, and the abuse we inflict upon one another. Allow it to reflect back your own pain; the hurts and suffering of your life, the setbacks of health and age, the crippling anxiety that threatens to tear you down, the isolation and loneliness that keeps you from experiencing joy and the fullness of life.

Like the mirrored sculpture at World’s End, we experience the cross in a kaleidoscope of shifting perspectives over the course of our lifetimes. Depending on what’s happening in our lives, the cross is a symbol of suffering or hope or grief or joy. The once-and-for-all act of salvation accomplished upon the cross is experienced by us in different ways, even as it remains constant as the source of God’s love and grace.

And in the mirrored cross of Christ, we see ourselves. For better, for worse. In all our pain, in all our joy. There are times when we want to avert our eyes, but those are the times we must gaze upon it even more intently and with greater focus. 

Because when we do, what is reflected back is the very hope of the world. The love that God has not just for all of creation, but for you. In all your brokenness. In all your unworthiness. In all your sinfulness. Jesus stretches out his arms of love on the hard wood of the cross to usher you into his loving embrace. That is what is revealed in the mirrored cross of Christ: God’s undying love for humanity; God’s undying love for you.

Hein’s mirrored sculpture was titled “A New End.” And in many ways, that’s what Good Friday is: a “new end.” Jesus’ last words before he bows his head and gives up his spirit are “It is finished.” And at one level, it is finished. Jesus has been strung up on a tree to die, murdered by the Roman authorities, another minor rebellion crushed, and that’s that. 

But it is finished only in one sense. Because Good Friday is also a “new end.” And so what is finished in Jesus’ dying breath is merely his earthly ministry. The new end of the Christian faith brings this movement of the Messiah to a higher plane. One that will only be fully revealed to the scattered disciples on the day of resurrection.

On Good Friday, the light of hope stands in stark relief to the darkness of despair. Our suffering is reflected back in Christ’s suffering. But our glory is reflected back in Christ’s glory. That’s the “new end” of the Christian faith. That’s the joy of our salvation. That’s the good news of the mirrored cross.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck 2019