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. 

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.

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.

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.

Palm Sunday 2017

A Sermon from the Episcopal Parish of
St. John the Evangelist in Hingham, Massachusetts
Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on April 9, 2017 (Palm Sunday)

Well, that all turned rather abruptly. From Hosanna to Crucify in the blink of an eye. This crowd that had greeted Jesus with such enthusiasm, now calls for his very life.

And while we often skip over the parade of palms that marks Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, it’s worth pausing for just a moment to reflect upon the euphoria of that day. The sheer joy and jubilation of those welcoming Jesus. There were high hopes for this man, hailed as a savior, welcomed as a king. People had heard the stories, they had witnessed his acts, his words of wisdom were well-known.

And the palms spread along his path were symbols of admiration and adulation. There’s something we love about this image because we think, “Finally, they get it. Finally, Jesus is getting his due. Finally, they recognize Jesus for who he is.” We equate large enthusiastic crowds with validation for his message. And that pleases us.

But here’s the problem with this model: Jesus didn’t come into the world to attract admirers. He didn’t seek to build up his base by drawing large crowds. He wasn’t concerned with the optics of success.

No, Jesus didn’t seek admirers but followers. He sought people who would follow him not just when things were going well, but when things didn’t go according to plan; not just when things were joyful and euphoric but when things turned dark and tragic. And they do.

This coming week we must ask ourselves whether we will be admirers of Jesus or followers of Jesus. Holy Week brings us face-to-face with the question of whether we are content to call ourselves people of faith when it’s on our terms or whether we are disciples of Jesus willing to follow him when it’s inconvenient or difficult or painful. Are we fair-weather Christians who love to wave palms around and proclaim “Hosanna” or are we disciples of Jesus who recognize our complicity by crying, “Crucify?”

It’s easy enough to follow Jesus when things are going well. When life is smooth. When the parade is heading down the street and we’re surrounded and buoyed by the support of others. It’s harder when life takes a turn. And there’s a health crisis or a relationship fades or we’re confronted with conflict at work or home. Jesus knew full well about life taking a turn. That’s what this day is all about as we move from Hosanna to Crucify.

Yes, we can and should admire Jesus. But if we stop there, we’re missing the invitation to truly transform our lives. Soren Kierkegaard, the 19th century Danish philosopher, writes about the difference between being an admirer and a follower of Jesus: “A follower strives to be what he admires. An admirer, however, keeps himself personally detached. He fails to see that what is admired involves a claim upon him, and thus he fails to be or strive to be what he admires.”

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.

So, the invitation has been extended. How will you respond? That’s the question we live with every single moment of our lives. Will you keep your distance or fully engage with Jesus? Will you be willing to make sacrifices or will you play it safe? The possibility of radical transformation awaits as we prepare to walk the way of the cross. As we prepare to follow Jesus.

© The Rev. Tim Schenck 2017

Palm Sunday 2002

Palm Sunday
March 24, 2002
Old St. Paul’s, Baltimore
The Rev. Timothy E. Schenck

Listening to the story of Christ’s passion always frustrates me. The ending never changes. And there are various points where I want to jump into the story and shake some sense into the characters so that the outcome will be more to my liking. Every year I wait for a different conclusion – Jesus escapes or his divinity is recognized before the crucifixion or he invokes God to take him down from the cross. But the ending is always the same: Jesus is left hanging on the cross to die. And we’re left helplessly and hopelessly watching from the sidelines.

The following are some places in the passion narrative that I find especially frustrating. I’ll bet I’m not alone. First, we enter the Garden of Gethsemane. “Stay awake! What’s wrong with you? I don’t really care how tired you are, don’t you have any idea what’s about to happen here? Rest some other time.” Peter, James, and John are human, they’re weak, they also don’t know what’s about to take place. We do. 

The arrest of Jesus. The disciples start to fight with the chief priests and the crowd. Jesus stops them and tells them to put their swords away. “Jesus, please call on those twelve legions of angels you say God would provide if only you asked. You could subdue this mob and get away.” Like the disciples, our first instinct is anger. We want to put up a fight because we know Jesus is falsely accused. But Jesus knows that the unveiling of God’s plan doesn’t always match our own wants and desires.

The encounter with the high priest. Jesus stands silent before his accusers. He is mocked, spit upon, and beaten. “OK, Jesus. You didn’t run away when you had the chance, but speak! Tell them who you really are. Show them who you really are. Do a sign, perform a miracle. Maybe then they’ll realize they’ve made a terrible mistake and let you go.” We know who Jesus is, his accusers do not. Jesus knows what must be done to fulfill the Scriptures and redeem humanity. No one else can know what the Son of God knows.

Pilate’s offer to release Jesus or Barabbas. The crowd wants blood. More specifically, they want Jesus’ blood. “Release Jesus! He’s innocent. Come to your senses and let him go. You have the power to set God’s son free.” But the choice is made and Barabbas walks away. Another opportunity to change the ending of the story is lost. 

Jesus on the cross. The crowd mockingly shouts, “If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross.” Jesus cries out to God but remains nailed to the wood. “Jesus, come down, please. Wouldn’t this be a great chance to show everyone who you really are. Come down off that cross and live.” Why doesn’t Jesus save himself? Is it possible that he couldn’t? Doubt begins to creep in.

My notion of a proper ending never does transpires. Jesus Christ, my Lord, our Lord, is mocked derided and crucified. We know how the story goes. It barrels ahead in all its gruesome familiarity. And as frustrating as it is, we can’t do anything to change it. The spirit will be willing but the flesh will be weak, Peter will deny Christ three times, Barabbas will be released, Pilate will wash his hands, and Jesus will be crucified.

The script can’t be sent back for a rewrite. And no one knows this better than Jesus himself. Regarding the unfolding drama he prays, “Yet not what I want but what you want.” This is exactly how we must approach the Passion narrative. Christ offers himself to God for us and we must accept this offer – we may not understand exactly why Christ has to die in order for humanity to be redeemed but we must allow God’s purposes to be fulfilled whether or not we fully comprehend or agree with what takes place. In the context of the resurrection, Christ’s death takes on so much more meaning. This day we don’t hear the joyful part of the story. We’ll need to wait a week. And so often in our own lives we make judgments about why certain things happen to us without fully knowing the breadth of the plan God has laid out for us. So this is a day of offering to God our own desires and wants and sending them up the cross with Jesus. As we listen to the Passion and prepare to walk the way of the cross this week, there can be no better starting point than to pray with Jesus, “Yet not what I want but what you want.”

© The Rev. Tim Schenck 2002

Palm Sunday 2001

Palm Sunday, Year C
April 8, 2001
Old St. Paul’s, Baltimore
The Rev. Timothy E. Schenck

Wait a minute. How exactly did we get from “hosanna” to “crucify?” How did we go from praise and jubilation, palms and the singing of sweet hosannas to condemnation and accusation, a cross and the violent call for death? Things have changed around here this morning. And they’ve changed quite dramatically and suddenly. From hosanna to crucify, from palms to cross.

This morning we enter into an important part of our collective story. We wave our palms in jubilation to hail our king, our savior. We cheer Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem, but it is in Jerusalem that Jesus will be condemned to death and hang on a cross to die. So, we let the bittersweet hosannas ring. The dark wooden cross looms large behind the green leafy palms.

Just as we processed through the church this morning, we too, as a parish community, are part of a procession from exaltation to denunciation, from “hosanna” to “crucify”. The final destination, of course, is resurrection. But today we merely begin this journey. A journey that draws us closer to God, a journey that exposes our human weaknesses, a journey that demonstrates above all the power of God’s love for us. Palm Sunday marks the beginning of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem, to the cross, to the tomb, to glory. And as a community of gathered Christians standing on the precipice of Holy Week, we are much more than mere observers of this journey. Our charge, our necessary response is to walk this road with Christ and one another. We cannot be passive observers, we must be active participants. We cannot afford to let this journey simply unfold before our eyes. Unlike watching a movie, we cannot allow ourselves to sit quietly and passively in a dark and isolated theater (or church for that matter). We must actively participate in this journey with all our heart and with all our soul and with all our mind. 

A good movie might tug on our emotions and draw us ever more deeply into the story, but only from a distance. We don’t really know the characters (they’re not real after all), and once the credits dance across the screen and the final curtain is drawn, our lives move on. We leave the theater, walk down the street, and get into our cars. We may think about the film on the drive home, or even discuss it with a friend or a spouse, but eventually it recedes into a seldom-used section of our brain and life goes on.

The Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ is not a movie – despite the numerous attempts that Hollywood has made. It may be dramatic, but it’s not merely a drama. It may be good theater, but it’s not merely theatrical. We can’t just sit back and watch the death of Jesus from a safe distance. It is an event that grabs hold of each one of us and pulls us in. It’s not just a good story, it is our very own story. The pain is our pain, the humiliation is our humiliation, the agony is our agony.  Over the next seven days we will retell and relive the heart of the Christian story: the death and resurrection of Christ our Redeemer. We are offered an invitation to walk this journey with Christ and one another, not as passive observers but as full participants. Jesus tells us to “pick up your cross and follow me.” That means that we must enter into the story, our own story, and walk with Jesus on this journey. There will be highs and lows, opportunities and temptations, tears of joy and tears of sorrow. Through this upcoming week we will learn even more about ourselves and the God that is revealed to us through Jesus Christ. It’s not an easy journey, but we don’t travel it alone. We walk with Christ and one another.

And we begin this walk, this journey today. When we let sweet hosannas ring we are not simply remembering Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, we are indeed part of the crowd. When we cry “crucify him” we are not simply playing a role in a liturgical drama, we are indeed part of the crowd. We’re not just remembering and reminiscing about an event that took place 2,000 years ago, we are actively engaging in an ongoing, living, breathing journey with the living God. The Christian Gospel is not about the past but about the present, the here and now of our relationship with God.

On this day we hear two refrains: “hosanna” and “crucify.” So, how does the cry turn so quickly from “hosanna” to “crucify?” It’s human weakness and fear that cause us to move from the first exclamation to the second. We are both drawn to the truth and repelled by it. The mirror of truth reveals our sinfulness and we turn away from it.  But what we fail to see is that Christ Jesus came into the world not to condemn us but to love us. And that frightens us because it means that in response we must love God and one another.

But “crucify” isn’t the final refrain, it’s not the end of our story. Thanks be to God. We must pass through death to get to resurrection but Christ’s death is not the last word. We must wait and watch and journey with Jesus this week before we can cry out with that final refrain – the refrain that only comes with the triumph of the resurrection. I’ll give you a hint: it begins with an “A” and it’s a shout of praise and joy. It’s also something that we symbolically give up saying throughout the forty days of Lent. But before we can proclaim the joy of the resurrection with authenticity and the assurance of our own salvation, we must first cry out “crucify.” Resurrection can only come when it’s preceded by death. And before we can join our voices with angels and archangels and with all the company of heaven to proclaim the resurrection, we must first join our voices with those calling out for Christ’s death.

So, in the midst of the activities and worries and responsibilities of this life, the Church bids you to focus on the cross this week. Through prayer and worship at home and in this place, we can all stand before the cross and acknowledge the very source of life and hope. For in the cross is our hope; in the cross is our salvation; in the cross is our life.

 © The Rev Tim Schenck 2001