YEAR A 2026 easter 5

Easter 5, 2026
Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16
Acts 7:55-60
1 Peter 2:2-10
John 14:1-14

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

There are a lot of time jumps in today’s readings.  While you and I are still in the Easter season, today’s gospel reading takes us back to what we call the Last Supper, before Jesus is put to death.  

And we’ve got another jump in that first reading we heard today.  Stephen, the first Christian martyr, is stoned to death by the religious leaders, which happens long after the resurrection of Jesus.  As far as the flow of the narrative, we’re kind of all over the map.  But there’s a thread running through the readings today.  

The first reading, from Acts, recounts the stoning of Stephen.  Brutal, and horrible, and senseless.  The religious leaders’ reaction to the gospel is unthinkable in our country today, but it still goes on elsewhere in our world.  Plenty of places in fact.  Christianity is still a dangerous road to travel, and we are offered no guarantees of protection.  As Jesus says in today’s gospel, “Trust in God; trust also in me.”  Stephen did exactly that, and his dying words are recorded as, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”

Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.  In today’s Psalm we heard, “Into your hands I commend my spirit, for you have redeemed me, O LORD, O God of truth.”  And, you probably remember, in Luke’s gospel, Jesus says from the cross, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.”  Into your hands, I commend my spirit.  For Stephen, for the Psalmist, and for Jesus.  The connection I want us to see here is the continued unfailing trust in God to receive our spirit.  When it all comes down to it, that is the most important part of our faith journey: trusting that God will indeed receive our spirit when it matters most.

So now, back to this gospel text.  Keep in mind what happened right before this reading we just heard.  Jesus has washed his disciples’ feet, predicted his own death, and told Peter that he will deny him three times.  Then Jesus says, “Do not let your heart be troubled.”  Huh?  After all that crazy information, do not let your heart be troubled?

But the language is important here.  Because “your” is plural, and “heart” is singular.  He’s talking to everyone in the room, but he’s talking as if they have just one heart . . . one collective heart—a heart which is not to be troubled by what he is saying.  Then he gives them the reason not to be troubled: “Trust in God, and trust in me.”  It gets translated into “Believe in God,” in our translation, but the original word, pisteuo, is closer to confidence and trust, than it is to belief.  

And this distinction is important, because there really is a difference between belief and trust.  For example, I believe in democracy; but I trust in gravity.  My belief in democracy might influence my decisions and choices and attitudes, sure.  But my trust in gravity determines how I live my life.  From picking up a glass, to going outside without a rope, gravity is something you trust, and it would not usually occur to you to do otherwise.  Trusting in God and in Jesus is not something you choose to believe intellectually; it is not some preference for one thing over another.  In a sense, we cannot help but trust in Jesus.  It’s just the way we are.  How we see the world, whether we know it or not.

And then Jesus follows up the Trust statement with something that seems puzzling to us, I think.  And it seems puzzling because it has been interpreted certain ways for so long that we automatically think we know what it means.  He says, “In my Father's house there are many dwelling places.”  We have fairly fixed ideas of what a house is.  And, for many people, the best part about that image is that it is plural—placeS, or roomS—meaning we don’t ever have to run into the people we don’t like.

But, as I’ve told you before, there is an interesting connection between the word interpreted as “dwelling places” and a temporary stopping point.  Some scholars say this word monai is something like a place set up to receive visitors traveling through.  Not a private place to kick back and live out your eternal retirement, but a public place, to be welcomed after a long journey, with good food and a place to rest.  When we go where Jesus is waiting, we don’t put out our hand to receive our personal room keys.  Instead, Jesus stretches out his arms to receive us.  A “welcome to the party,” if you will.

And then here’s the part of this little story that I really like.  Jesus ends his flowery speech with, “And you know the way to the place that I am going.”  I imagine the disciples shoving hands in their pockets, kicking the dirt, not wanting to be the one to ask the obvious question that they’re all thinking.  But leave it to Thomas to speak up.  Leave it to Thomas to be the one who wants reliable information and a road map.  Leave it to Thomas to look up and say, “‘Know the way’?  We don’t even know where you’re going!  How can we possibly know ‘the way’?”  

And then Jesus says, “Ahem.  People?  I AM the way!  Remember me?  The way, and the truth, and the life?  You don’t have to know where you’re going, because you know the way.”

Now of course, this is contrary to everything we learn about directions.  You get directions as a means to get where you’re going.  Knowing the way is never the point, is it?  Tell me the destination, and then “the way” is just details, because there are many paths.  I might take the 21 or the 77.  Just tell me the destination.  Lots of people view Christianity in exactly this way.  “I want to ‘go to heaven’, so tell me the behavior-modification plan that will get me to the desired destination, and I’ll take it from there, Jesus.”

But Jesus stands this on its head and says, you do not need to know the destination; you just need to know the way.  Trust in God and trust in me.  If you know the way, you’ll end up where you’re supposed to, even though you don’t know the destination.  And you—the collective you—you know the way.  All of us together are on a journey with Jesus: destination, unknown.  But we know the way.

It’s hard to believe we know the way right now, isn’t it?  We look at where we are and where we want to be, and it doesn’t seem like we know how to get there.  Show us the way to being able to have civil conversations with our family and friends again.  Show us the way to feeling safe in a grocery store or a shopping mall, let alone a school.  Show us the way not to wake up panicked in the middle of the night wondering if we’re going to have a job tomorrow.  Show us the way to get people to come back to church again.  Show us the way, Lord!

I can’t help but think this gospel text would be heard so much differently back in the 50s or 60s.  Back when there was a discernible middle.  Back when NASA had a room full of people in short-sleeve button down shirts and matching glasses, using slide rules to land a man on the moon.  Back when vaccines were widespread and trusted and effective.  Back when we knew the way, right?

And now, here we are in 2026, where almost half our citizens don’t trust science or data or medical professionals about anything.  In a world where politicians try their darnedest to clear out the middle and get everyone to yell from the extreme corners.  In a virtual world of AI and deep fakes, and a physical world of ongoing massacres in multiple countries.  This is where we are together right now.  This is the world in which we live, together.  So now you tell me, how do we get out of this together?  We don’t even know where we are going.   HOW CAN WE POSSIBLY KNOW THE WAY?!?

And Jesus says to us, just as he says to Thomas:  I am the way.  We don’t know where we are going, but Jesus is the way.  Trust in God and trust in me.  If you know the way, you’ll end up where you’re supposed to be, even if you don’t know the destination.  And you—people of St. Timothy—you know the way.  You are on a journey with Jesus: destination, unknown.  But you know the way.

We know the way to the Father because Jesus is the way.  With Stephen, and the Psalmist, and Jesus, we pray that God will receive our spirit.  Do not let our heart be troubled.  We do not need to be afraid, because Jesus is the way.  

It’s true:  We do not know where we are going, but we are going there together.  We are going there together.  We disagree, and we stumble, and we walk in darkness, but we are walking together.

And as we walk together, Jesus walks beside us.  And that is why we are going to be okay.  Because we know the way.  And when we have arrived at that unknown destination, God will receive our spirit, and say to us, all of us, “Welcome home, weary travelers!  Do not let your heart be troubled, because you have known the way all along.”

Amen.

YEAR A 2026 easter 3

Easter 3, 2026
Acts 2:14a, 36-41
Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17
1 Peter 1:17-23
Luke 24:13-35

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

There are a few Sundays in the Church year when the best sermon following the Gospel is simply to point at the Altar, and sit down.  This is one of those Sundays.  “He had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.”  Point at the Altar.  Any questions?

But, let’s start with this.  “Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”  What kept them from recognizing him?  I think it might be helpful to think about how anesthesia works here.  Doctors give you anesthesia to dull your sense of pain, so that they can do difficult things.  The anesthesia is what allows them to do what has to be done to, hopefully, make you better.  To heal you.

In a similar way—for our own self-preservation—grief acts like an anesthetic.  The pain of deep loss is sometimes shut out by shutting down.  The process of mourning can make us oblivious to what is around us, so that we might have time to be healed.

In today’s Gospel reading, two disciples are walking down the road, talking about the awful things that have happened in the past few days.  Their friend and beloved Rabbi has been brutally executed and buried in a tomb.  And they have heard rumors of his rising from the dead.  And they are terribly confused and heartbroken as they walk together on the road. 

And, suddenly, a stranger appears to them, and starts walking with them.  (And this is where the anesthesia comes in.)  “Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”  The very person they are talking about, the resurrected Christ of God is suddenly walking with them, the one they were just talking about, and they do not know it is Jesus because “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”

They’ve been kept from seeing what is obvious to us.  They have been “put under,” in a sense by grief, and they don’t recognize the person who is talking to them.  As they are walking together, the disciples are able to very clearly recite the expectations they had of Jesus.  It’s almost a credal statement when you look at it:

Cleopas says, “Jesus of Nazareth, was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. It is now the third day since these things took place.”

It’s a great opening for a creed, right?  But it’s missing the good parts.  It uses “hope” in a past tense: we had hoped.  And it proclaims the tomb empty, but that does nothing to make hope present tense.  They’re confused, and disappointed, and under the anesthesia of grief.  They are being prevented from seeing that it is Jesus they are telling all this to. 

And it seems kind of unfair that Jesus says to them “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!”  That’s like the doctor taunting you for not noticing that she is performing surgery on you.  Can the disciples be blamed for not knowing that it is Jesus when, “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”?  It’s not their fault they don’t recognize him!

But a closer look reveals that Jesus is not taunting them for not recognizing him on the road.  No, what Jesus is talking about is their inability to connect the dots.  To close the deal.  They’ve got the setup perfectly, they have all the pieces, but they’re missing the main point.  When Cleopas rattles off that narrative creed thing, he stops at the grave, and that is why he uses “hoped” in the past tense, saying, “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”  All the clues are laid out in front of them, but their grief stops them from seeing the crucial connection.  In a sense, they don’t believe the resurrection because they didn’t expect the pain and suffering of the Messiah.

The disciples were under the impression that Jesus cannot be the Messiah because he has suffered and died, rather than ride into Jerusalem on a white stallion.  These disciples, like many, figure that the Messiah cannot suffer and die and then still be the one in whom they had hoped.  And that is why Jesus asks them, “Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?"

And so now, under the anesthesia of not recognizing the resurrected Jesus, Jesus will do what needs to be done.  He begins with Moses and all the prophets, and shows them how the scriptures point to exactly what has happened.  Jesus can explain to them why he is the answer to their hopes.  Why he is the one to redeem Israel.  And, because they do not recognize Jesus, they can take all this in, without the distraction of the resurrection.  Because of the anesthesia, right?

They’re catching on, but they still don’t see Jesus.  They can tell something is happening as he talks to them (they say that their hearts were burning within them), but the one talking is still a stranger in their eyes.  Still the only one in Jerusalem who doesn’t know what has happened these past few days.  And then they come to the place where the disciples are planning to stay the night, Jesus acts like he’s going to walk on.  They plead with him to stay the night and he agrees.

So, they all go inside, and they sit down at a table together.  And then . . .  “When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.”  You’ve heard that around, right?  As in, every Sunday morning, right?  At the table with friends, blessed the bread and broke and gave it to them.  Yes, that’s familiar, because we’ve heard it before.  But this part is different:  

Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.  Isn’t that the strangest thing?  It’s like as long as they just think he’s some stranger who hasn’t heard about what has happened, he is with them physically.  As soon as they recognize him to be Jesus, in the breaking of the bread, he disappears . . . .

Now granted, it sounds a little trippy, but it’s almost as if the bread becomes his body, isn’t it?  They can see Jesus in the breaking of the bread.  They recognize Jesus in the bread.

And when they get back to the other disciples, they tell what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.  But there’s an interesting thing that is left unsaid in this whole story.

When Jesus meets the disciples on the road, they are heartbroken and confused.  At no point in the story does it say the disciples became happy and understood.  At no point does the text say that Jesus made everyone live happily ever after.  It’s not as if the presence of Jesus replaces or ignores our sadness and pain.  

Jesus comes to meet them on their walk, in the midst of their blinding sorrow and pain.  And yet their hearts are burning within them as he opens the scriptures to them.  Meeting them where they are; not judging them in their blindness.  And in the breaking of the bread, they recognize the risen Lord who has been with them all along. In the breaking of the bread, they recognize Jesus, who has been with them all along.

Jesus does not take away pain and sadness.  Jesus introduces hope and comfort.  The promise of the resurrection brings hope.  The presence of Jesus, made known to us in the bread, brings comfort.  Can we have hope while still being sad?  Certainly!  Can we experience comfort while still being in pain?  Most assuredly.  And in the bread and wine, the resurrected Christ is made known to us, no matter our present circumstances.

As we heard, the disciples were confused and grieving on their journey.  Maybe you have that today as well: some sadness, or worry, or bitterness that acts like an anesthesia, keeping you from hearing clearly the resurrection story.  For those disciples, breaking bread with Jesus opened their eyes to see that he was with them, had been completely present with them on their walk, and has indeed been raised from the dead.  You and I share their recognition of the Risen One, here today.

I would like you to listen to today’s Collect one more time:
O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. 

Amen.

YEAR A 2026 easter 2

Easter 2, 2026
Acts 2:14a,22-32
1 Peter 1:3-9
John 20:19-31
Psalm 16

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Today is the second Sunday of Easter.  And every year on this day we get the same gospel reading.  The story of Thomas and Jesus and the other disciples.  Every year.  So why is that?  I think the answer might be that it is the best follow-up to the resurrection of Jesus.  Like, last Sunday, Jesus rose from the dead.  And the first question we should ask ourselves is, “What now?”  Jesus has risen from the grave, and this good news should be shouted from the rooftops, and the disciples are doing what?  Hiding behind a locked door.

And Thomas—who notably was not hiding behind a locked door that first Sunday—missed the whole thing.  We don’t know where Thomas was, but we know that he was not there hiding with the others.  And when Thomas sees the other disciples, they exclaim to him, “We have seen the Lord!”  So . . . why are they still hiding?  Everyone heard Jesus had been raised, and now the hiding disciples have had a personal encounter with Jesus, and . . . they’re still hiding.  There’s a part of me that totally understands why Thomas couldn’t believe unless he saw Jesus with his own eyes.  Because seeing Jesus sure doesn’t seem to have made a difference to the other disciples.  “We have seen the Lord!”  So . . . why are you still hiding?

And so Thomas lays out the terms of what it will take for him to believe.  "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”  I don’t take this as defiance or doubt.  I take it as a simple statement of reality.  Not “I refuse to believe,” but more like, “Given the lack of change in all of you, I cannot believe.”  And after this statement from Thomas, we move to the next Sunday and the disciples are—surprise!—hiding in a locked room.  And what does Jesus do?

He comes to them anyway.  And he gives Thomas exactly what he says he needs.  He meets Thomas where he is, and provides him with the very things he says he needs to have faith.  To see the mark of the nails and put his hand in his side.  It’s as if Thomas had prayed for the gift of faith, and Jesus shows up in person to give it to him.  And Thomas makes a decisive statement of faith: My Lord and my God.  Jesus gives him what he personally needs in order to believe.

But let’s go back to what the disciples say to Thomas when he arrives in the locked room.  “We have seen the Lord!”  And, again . . . why are you still hiding?  You have experienced the resurrected Jesus in person.  He spoke to you and said “Peace be with you.”  Twice.  He breathed on you and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”  He specifically said, "I send you," so why are you still hiding a week later?  And I think it’s a question we can ask ourselves after Easter as well.

We too have seen the risen Lord.  We too have received the gift of the Holy Spirit.  Everything has changed for us.  So why are we still hiding in ways that suggests nothing has changed?  And I don’t mean you; I mean all of us.  We continue on with our petty squabbles and imagined slights.  We nurture our political divides and partisan sensitivities.  We keep forming our little clubs and cliques that exclude others.   We increase our attachment to lifeless traditions and an aging building.  We give in to the fear of scarcity and put ourselves ahead of others.  We too have seen the Lord, and everything has changed.  So . . . why are we still hiding.  

Thomas says aloud what he needs in order to be changed by Jesus.  He knows what he lacks and he speaks it in front of the assembly.  Unless I can see what I need to see, to experience what I need to experience, without Jesus coming to me, I will not believe.

What is it that we need in order to be transformed?  What are our doubts?  What are the obstacles to our faith?  What stands in the way of each of us saying, “My Lord and my God?”  Or, put another way, how would we finish Thomas’ statement, “I will not believe unless I see . . . ”

We too have seen the Lord.  We too have received the gift of the Holy Spirit.  Everything has changed for us.  So why are we still hiding in ways that suggest nothing has changed?   Jesus met Thomas where he was and gave him exactly what he needed in order to be transformed.  I ask you to pray that Jesus will meet us where we are and give us exactly what we need in order to be transformed.  Jesus is risen, and this changes everything.  May this good news change us as well, so that we might change the world in his name.  We have seen the Lord, so let’s unlock the door, together.

Amen

YEAR A 2026 easter sunday

Easter, 2026
Acts 10:34-43
Colossians 3:1-4
Matthew 28:1-10
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Happy Easter!  The Lord is risen!  The Lord is risen indeed.  And . . . so what?  Well, we’re all certainly very excited about it.  We got all dressed up and came to church.  We put up with the priest’s insistence on using incense on the high holy days.  The Lord is risen indeed, and . . . so what?  Why does it matter?  Is it like, score one for Team Christian?  What difference does it make?

Well, I think context is important here.  But first, Easter is the pinnacle of the Church year.  You might think that would be Christmas, based on how our society treats the two holy days.  But Christmas is just a way to get the story started.  The peak, the climax, the reason we even have Christmas is because of Easter.  Easter is the third of what we call the Three Days.  Maybe you’ve heard the word “triduum” before.  It’s a Latin word that means “three days,” and those days would be Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter (which started last night with the Vigil).  The three days are considered one long service in three parts.  If you missed Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, you’re just in time for the final act!

Let me catch you up on what you might have missed this week.  We heard different descriptions of the betrayal, arrest, beating, mocking, and humiliating death of Jesus.  We also heard that story on Palm Sunday.  So if you’ve been to church at all in the past week, you know how we got here today.  And even if you weren’t in church, you probably know how the story goes.

Judas Iscariot offers to betray Jesus for 30 pieces of silver.  He leads the authorities to the garden, and one of the disciples draws his sword.  Jesus says to put the sword back in its place.  Then they take Jesus to the religious authorities, and then to Pilate, who supposedly does his best to release Jesus, but the crowd shouts over and over that they want Pilate to crucify him.  He has Jesus beaten, whipped, and mocked, and sends him off to be crucified.  Jesus’ guy friends all run away in fear, and he is nailed to a cross between two thieves, where he suffers an agonizing death.  Two secret followers bury his body in a tomb.

All along the way in that horrible story, nobody says, “stop.”  Nobody says “enough.”  Everyone just went along with the people in charge.  The religious leaders can’t be wrong.  The government knows what it’s doing.  The soldiers are just following orders.  And nobody says, “But this is wrong.  Enough!”  It’s easy to see how that can happen.  We naturally trust that those in charge must know what they’re doing.  It sure feels wrong to arrest an innocent man, accuse him of treason with no evidence, and execute him in the most brutal way imaginable.  But nobody said, “This is wrong.  Enough!”  When you live in a culture that glorifies death, and spends all its money on the military, this is what you get.  Death rules.  Death wins.  Death has the last word.

And then we come to today.  Act three in our three-day triduum.  And—it turns out—death and violence and cruelty do not have the last word!  The resurrection of Jesus decisively cries out ENOUGH!  In rising from the dead Jesus has overcome death, has destroyed death, has declared that death does not have the last word.  The resurrection of Jesus from the dead is God standing atop all creation and screaming ENOUGH!  

Easter is a declaration of war . . . on death.  Killing innocent civilians can no longer be just “collateral damage.”  Destroying entire neighborhoods is not “mowing the lawn.”  Invading countries just because you can is not the way of Jesus.  Easter is subversive, and it stands against the culture of death.  Jesus has destroyed death.  

And Easter says, ENOUGH!

When bombs are aimed at a school filled with children, and a second bomb is dropped on their parents who come to rescue them, Easter says ENOUGH!  When leaders smile as they brag about epic lethality against civilians, Easter says ENOUGH.  When countries intentionally starve citizens, or cut off electricity to hospitals, or drop bombs on apartment buildings, Easter says ENOUGH!  Easter is a declaration of war on death.  And you cannot embrace the power of the resurrection while glorifying death and destruction.  

The Lord is risen indeed, and that changes everything.  Everything.  You and I can choose daily whether we follow the resurrection way of life, or follow the way of death.  In rising from the grave, Jesus shows us that God chooses life.  Death does not have the last word.  Death has been defeated.  The Church stands with God and says ENOUGH!  Let us also choose life.  Because the Lord is risen.  The Lord is risen indeed.  Alleluia!

Amen

YEAR A 2026 good friday

Good Friday, 2026
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
Hebrews 4:14-16; 5:7-9
John 18:1-19:42
Psalm 22

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

One of the risks of hearing this story so often is that we think of it as a tale from another time.  Something ancient and distant.  A thing that could never happen today because people are not like that, and faithful religious people are not like that, and governments are not like that, and we are not like that.  We might think, “That could never happen here!”

But everything everyone does in this story is happening all around us, right now.  The names and characters change, but this is not a story from another time.  It is a story for all time, in every time.

Judas decides that making a profit is more important than human lives.  Peter tries to solve a crisis by shedding the blood of an innocent bystander.  The police who come to arrest an innocent man are just “doing their jobs.”  Peter makes boastful claims about fidelity before abandoning the one he promises to be faithful to.  A police officer becomes violent and beats up the defendant for insolence.  The authorities accuse an innocent man of treason and call for him to be executed.  The governor decides to give into the demands of a mob rather than upholding the law.  The mob itself uses religion as a tool to persecute and eliminate their enemies.  The religious leaders deny their own faith, and claim allegiance to a faithless king.  The soldiers take an innocent man up a hill to kill him, after beating and mocking him, because they are just following orders.  The women stay to watch the death of the one they love, while the men have all run away in fear to save their own skins.

This is not a story from another time.  It is a story for all time, in every time.  Every single one of us could step into this story and play any of the parts, except for one.  At the center of this story is Jesus, the innocent lamb who is led away to the slaughter.  And Jesus is where our attention needs to be on this day.  Because as soon as we focus on any other characters in this story, we naturally start to think, “Well I would never . . .”

But yes, you would.  And so would I.  And so would everyone around us.  Because all of this is happening right now, all across the world.  And that is why we need to keep our focus on Jesus, the only answer to everyone else in this story.  This is not a story from another time.  It is happening today.

YEAR A 2026 maundy thursday

Maundy Thursday, 2026
Exodus 12:1-14
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Psalm 116:1, 10-17

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Maundy Thursday.  We get the word Maundy from the Latin word, maundatum, which is also where we get the words mandatory and mandate.  It’s related to command, and commandment.  All these words give us the notion of being told what to to.  What is required of us.  And in the gospel reading we just heard, Jesus gives us a commandment.  He says it’s a new commandment.  

What is that commandment?  Is it to wash one another’s feet?  No.  Is it not to eat pork?  No.  Is it to kill people who don’t believe like we do in a righteous holt war?  No.  The new commandment from Jesus—the maundatum of Maundy Thursday—is to love one another.  Just love one another.  And a necessary part of that commandment is the “one another” part.  Because you cannot do what Jesus commands without other people.  It requires community.  There is no “me and Jesus” in this commandment.  It requires us.  Together.

On Palm Sunday, we once again ended the 10 o’clock service singing “O Sacred Head Sore Wounded.”  Here’s the final verse of that hymn:

My days are few, O fail not,
With thine immortal pow'r,
To hold me that I quail not
In death's most fearful hour:
That I may fight befriended,
And see in my last strife
To me thine arms extended
Upon the cross of life.

And—as has happened to me before—I was so overwhelmed by that text, my eyes teared up, and I had to stop singing.  I just couldn’t do it.  And even though I could not sing, the song didn’t stop.  Because of the community.  Congregational hymns are not solos, thank God.  We sing them together.  And if the priest or anyone else has to stop singing, the song goes on.  When you cannot sing, the community sings for you.  When you cannot pray, the community prays for you.  When you cannot believe, the community believes for you.

On Palm Sunday, I couldn’t sing, but the song didn’t stop.  When one voice stops, the song is changed, but it still goes on.  In our community, in our worship, in our singing, you add a part that only you can add.  A certain flavor, a certain tone, a certain shakiness, a certain wrong note even!  The song is different because you are there.  When you can’t sing, or when you stop singing, the song changes . . . and it keeps going.  The song goes on, and whether you’re singing or not, it was made different because you were there.

At the close of this service, after we have set aside the reserved Sacrament for tomorrow, we will adjourn for a time into the parish hall for an Agape’ meal.  The word “agape’” means love.  Unconditional love, actually.  And the reason churches have this meal on this Maundy Thursday night is to remind ourselves of the commandment we have received.  That we love one another.  As Jesus said, “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.”

There will come a day when each and every one of us stops singing.  But the song will go on, because we love one another, just as Jesus loves us.  The song goes on through eternity, and you are a voice in this unending hymn.  Even if you have never sung a note in your life, you are a voice in the eternal choir, and your voice matters.

Amen.

YEAR A 2026 palm sunday

Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday, 2026
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Philippians 2:5-11
Matthew 26:14- 27:66
Psalm 31:9-16

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

That was a very long and difficult reading, which took us through several dark days.  It is especially jarring that we began this day by celebrating Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem with the crowd, waving our palms and shouting hosanna.  Only to watch another crowd turn and yell “crucify him!”  And, of course, we mentally separate ourselves from that crowd.  We were part of the first crowd . . . not the second.  So we want to know why this happened.  How did we get here?

And I think the explanation is tucked away in a small comment Jesus makes in the Garden of Gethsemane.  He says, “Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.”  We usually hear this phrase in our day-to-day life as “Those who live by the sword will die by the sword,” or something like that.  Which really changes the meaning.  It puts us in mind of Genghis Khan or someone.  Killers are gonna get killed.

Or worse, it puts it in the realm of some sort of karma mindset.  Like what goes around comes around.  Or, the country that threatens another country might get bombed, kind of thing.  And we can even think of the reverse as a hedge against violent death.  Like, I’m not going to draw a sword, so that means I’m protected from dying by the sword. 

But I think we need to pull back the lens a bit to get the true meaning here.  Because it’s more systemic than that.  The warning from Jesus is about introducing violence into the system.  Once it is unleashed it only grows.  All who take the sword will perish by the sword, along with everybody else.  It’s like once the swords are out, this doesn’t end well for anyone.

We think we want peace talks and de-escalation and cease fires, and stuff like that.  But what we really want is to inflict overwhelming violence so unspeakable that our enemies cannot strike back.  Obliterate their weapons and declare victory.  But that rarely happens.  More often than not, violence begets violence.  Martyrdom creates martyrs.  Once the swords are out, everyone is in danger.  Or, in the words of Jesus, all who take the sword will perish by the sword.  The solution is not to use a bigger sword and cause greater casualties than our enemies do; the solution is to put away the sword.

But we naturally approach confrontation by just trying to escalate the violence faster than our enemies can.  Be the first one to draw the sword.  Be the first country to have enough weapons to destroy the entire planet 10 times over.  We even see this escalation in our local police departments, when they buy up used military gear and act like they’re going into Fallujah when they’re heading to a domestic dispute in downtown Canton.

Which brings us back to the crowd.  One minute shouting Hosanna, the next minute shouting crucify him.  Somebody took up the sword; and we’re sure it wasn’t us.  But, clearly, violence got into the system.  And all who take the sword will perish by the sword . . . and everybody else with them.

What we see happen each year on this day is that our Palm Sunday celebration gives way to this Passion Sunday tragedy.  Everything was going great.  And then, well . . all who take the sword will perish by the sword.  We cannot hide from the violence once it gets started.  Whether that violence is started by drunk fans at a sporting event, or the leaders of nations drunk on power.  There can be no bystanders once the sword is unleashed.  And the only solution in the midst of violence is to follow the command of Jesus and “Put your sword back into its place.”

My hope is that we will each seek to follow this command, and put our own swords back into their place.  Our swords are not likely to be literal weapons.  They might be the words we speak, or the posts we make online, or the hate we carry in our hearts.  But they are swords nonetheless.  And all who take the sword will perish by the sword . . . and everybody else with them.  Put your sword back into its place.  Jesus offers us a better way, and a better world.  Let us follow his way into that world, that we might finally know God’s peace.

Amen