The Whiplash of Holy Week

March 27, 2026

The Whiplash of Holy Week

The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday | March 29, 2026

Opening Thought

After forty long days and nights wandering through the quiet, austere wilderness of Lent, we desperately need a moment to celebrate. And Palm Sunday gives us exactly that.

We begin our liturgy outside in the Cloister Garden, bathed in the morning light, holding palm branches in our hands. As we process into the church singing "Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna to our King!", we aren't just going through the motions—we are actively lifting up the palpable, electric energy of Christ's triumphant entry into Jerusalem. After a brief pause at the Baptismal Font for the opening collect, the great procession continues down the Nave, and every voice in the room swells together with the majestic hymn "All glory, laud, and honor." We let the music, the movement, and our raised voices fill the space with an undeniable, necessary joy. It is a moment of pure, unadulterated triumph, and we should embrace every single second of it.

We need to hold tightly to that joy, even as we know where the story is heading. There is a profound emotional whiplash to this Sunday. By the time we reach the Gospel reading, the palms have been lowered, the triumphant music has faded, and the narrative shifts toward the cross. Because of the sheer weight and length of this text, we have intentionally chosen not to have a sermon today. No sermon could possibly say more than the Passion itself. Instead, we invite you to fully engage in the narrative of our Lord's suffering and death, listening to the story and walking through the liturgy as if you were truly there.

As we cross the threshold into the heavy reality of Holy Week, do not discount the joy of our procession. The praise we offer in the garden and down the Nave is real. We need to experience the bright, hopeful light of Palm Sunday to give us the strength to walk through the shadows of the days to come.

Engaging the Word

Our readings today carry us from the Mount of Olives straight to the shadow of Golgotha.

The Liturgy of the Palms (Matthew 21:1-11) sets the stage with Jesus instructing his disciples to find a donkey and a colt so he can enter Jerusalem. The city is in turmoil, asking, "Who is this?" as the crowds proclaim him the prophet from Nazareth.

Isaiah (50:4-9a) gives us the prophetic image of the suffering servant. It is a resolute, unflinching text where the speaker says, "I gave my back to those who struck me... I have set my face like flint". It is a portrait of determined obedience in the face of deep humiliation.

Psalm 31 is the desperate cry of someone consumed by sorrow and grief. The psalmist is forgotten "like a dead man, out of mind," yet still manages to declare, "My times are in your hand".

Philippians (2:5-11) is an ancient, beautiful Christian hymn about the humility of Christ. Paul reminds us that Jesus did not exploit his equality with God, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave and becoming obedient to the point of death on a cross.

The Passion Gospel (Matthew 26:14-27:66) is the longest and most devastating reading of the year. We hear of Judas's betrayal for thirty pieces of silver, the Last Supper, the agony in Gethsemane, Peter's bitter denial, the trial before Pilate, and finally, the crucifixion and burial in Joseph of Arimathea's tomb.

A Journey in Song: Our Musical Guides

The music for this Sunday tracks the agonizing shift from royal procession to utter desolation.

The Procession: We begin outside in the Cloister Garden and process into the church with the joyful, rhythmic singing of "Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna to our King!" After gathering at the Baptismal Font, the procession continues down the Nave as every voice present joins in the majestic hymn "All glory, laud, and honor" (#154).

Sequence Hymn: As we transition to the Passion, we sing "My song is Love unknown" (#458), a text that marvels at the profound, incomprehensible love of a Savior willing to suffer for His people.

Offertory Anthem: The choir offers Austin Lovelace's "Let this mind be in you." Lovelace masterfully uses musical imagery to emphasize the profound weight of our Philippians text. When the anthem reaches the pivotal moment describing how Christ "humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross," the texture shifts. The altos alone carry this melodic line, their naturally rich, darker timbre perfectly capturing the stark solemnity and depth of Christ's descent into human suffering and ultimate sacrifice.

Communion Hymn: We draw near to the altar with the somber, haunting chorale "O sacred head, sore wounded" (#168), placing us squarely at the foot of the cross.

Post-Communion Hymn: We sing the great English hymn "When I survey the wondrous cross" (#474), a final reflection on the sacrifice that demands "my soul, my life, my all".

Closing Voluntary: We conclude with the monumental Fantasia in G Minor (BWV 542) by J. S. Bach. Its massive, dissonant chords and dramatic tension perfectly encapsulate the cosmic weight of the crucifixion, sending us out into Holy Week in awed silence.

A Closing Note on our Journey

During the reading of the Passion Gospel today, you will notice a terrifying liturgical shift. When Pilate asks the crowd what he should do with Jesus, the congregation is instructed to read the response aloud: "Let him be crucified!".

It is a deeply unsettling thing to hear your own voice, joined with the voices of your friends and neighbors in the pews, shouting for the death of the Son of God. We don't do this to induce unnecessary guilt; we do it because it is the truth. The liturgy strips away the comfortable distance of two thousand years and forces us to admit that we are no better than the people of Jerusalem. We, too, choose our own comfort, our own politics, and our own pride over the radical, self-emptying love of God. We, too, would have yelled for Barabbas.

But as we hold our palms today, take a moment to imagine what must have been going through Jesus's mind as he rode into the city. He sat on the back of a borrowed donkey, listening to the deafening cheers of a crowd he knew would soon demand his execution. He saw the cloaks laid on the road, knowing he would soon be stripped of his own garments. He absorbed their joyful praises, fully aware of the unimaginable agony awaiting him just days away. And yet, knowing exactly how it would end, he didn't turn around. He rode forward into Jerusalem anyway, out of a profound, unstoppable love for the very people who would betray him.

As you leave the church today, the palms you carry shouldn't just be souvenirs of a parade. They are reminders of how quickly our praise can turn to betrayal, and of the staggering depth of a Savior's love. Let that sober reality sink in as we move toward Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. We have to walk through the devastating darkness of this week before we can ever hope to understand the blinding light of Easter morning.

A Prayer for the Week Ahead

This week, as we forgo a standard sermon to immerse ourselves in the Passion, let us offer our quiet prayers for a broken world in need of a Savior.

For the Church, that as we enter this Holy Week, we may have the courage to walk the way of the cross, embracing the humility and sacrificial love of Christ.