Palms to Passion
Holy Week, which began with Palm Sunday two days ago, begins on a high note of celebratory praise. From the gathered crowds thronging the roadside (some scholars believe Jersualem's population on that day in history increased fivefold from 40,000 to 200,000) we hear shouts of "Hosanna," "Save us," "The Messiah comes," "The Son of David."
It is a raucous, jubilant event filled with faces young and old, with bodies agile and aged, with personalities ranging from subdued to explosive. As happens with a crowd of any size, the energy ripples through the crowds and returns back again and again for an even larger arc of explosive connection. (It is the very kind of crowd that we are currently prohibited from being part of due to the deadly epidemic confronting us).
Jesus enters Jerusalem, hailed a a king, but adorned and transported like the humble servant he understood himself to be. He is not riding an armored steed, but seated upon a braying donkey. His entrance is not smooth and flowing; it is halting, roughshod, according to the whim of a typically recalcitrant animal.
Even his humble entrance, though, cannot quell the passionate embrace of the people. They imagine their generational longings fulfilled, their days of oppression ended, their anticipated liberation finally within reach.
And so Palm Sunday ends, and Holy Monday and Holy Tuesday come. They are quieter days, but filled with percussive spiritual energy. Jesus cleanses the Temple, curses a fig tree for not bearing fruit; that evening Mary anoints Jesus' feet with expensive oil and her tears. On Tuesday Jesus debates with religious authorities in the Temple and issues his famous discourse about the end of the age on the Mount of Olives.
From the peak of public acclaim his work continues. As Jesus pulls together the final details of his earthly ministry, we sense a shift taking place. His day of immense popularity has gained the attention of those who have sought his demise for more than three years. For his opposers it is time to take action to bring this peasant-popular prophet down, once and for all.
And so Holy Tuesday is followed by Holy Wednesday, which in some circles is called "Spy Wednesday," because it recalls the night when Jesus is betrayed by Judas for thirty pieces of silver. By the time Jesus and his disciples assemble to share together a last meal, a profound shift has taken place. The air once filled with "Hosannas" and acclamations of praise is increasingly, hour by hour, heavier. Darker clouds are moving in as the moments of Jesus' passion begin to take form.
Most years -- I daresay in all the years of my life -- Holy Thursday (aka "Maundy" Thursday, from the Latin word for "command," as in Jesus' command to his disciples to love one another) is a sacred time of congregational gathering. We come together in the shadows of the evening, light candles, hear God's Word, sing contemplative music and then share together in the Eucharist. We observe the Lord's Supper, leaving in the quiet of the night to brace ourselves for the brutal barbarity of "Good" Friday and the tomb-silenced hush of Holy Saturday.
This year we will not gather face-to-face. We will, however, gather together in virtual reality via Facebook Live, using A Liturgy for When We Cannot Meet Face to Face.
It is a raucous, jubilant event filled with faces young and old, with bodies agile and aged, with personalities ranging from subdued to explosive. As happens with a crowd of any size, the energy ripples through the crowds and returns back again and again for an even larger arc of explosive connection. (It is the very kind of crowd that we are currently prohibited from being part of due to the deadly epidemic confronting us).
Jesus enters Jerusalem, hailed a a king, but adorned and transported like the humble servant he understood himself to be. He is not riding an armored steed, but seated upon a braying donkey. His entrance is not smooth and flowing; it is halting, roughshod, according to the whim of a typically recalcitrant animal.
Even his humble entrance, though, cannot quell the passionate embrace of the people. They imagine their generational longings fulfilled, their days of oppression ended, their anticipated liberation finally within reach.
And so Palm Sunday ends, and Holy Monday and Holy Tuesday come. They are quieter days, but filled with percussive spiritual energy. Jesus cleanses the Temple, curses a fig tree for not bearing fruit; that evening Mary anoints Jesus' feet with expensive oil and her tears. On Tuesday Jesus debates with religious authorities in the Temple and issues his famous discourse about the end of the age on the Mount of Olives.
From the peak of public acclaim his work continues. As Jesus pulls together the final details of his earthly ministry, we sense a shift taking place. His day of immense popularity has gained the attention of those who have sought his demise for more than three years. For his opposers it is time to take action to bring this peasant-popular prophet down, once and for all.
And so Holy Tuesday is followed by Holy Wednesday, which in some circles is called "Spy Wednesday," because it recalls the night when Jesus is betrayed by Judas for thirty pieces of silver. By the time Jesus and his disciples assemble to share together a last meal, a profound shift has taken place. The air once filled with "Hosannas" and acclamations of praise is increasingly, hour by hour, heavier. Darker clouds are moving in as the moments of Jesus' passion begin to take form.
Most years -- I daresay in all the years of my life -- Holy Thursday (aka "Maundy" Thursday, from the Latin word for "command," as in Jesus' command to his disciples to love one another) is a sacred time of congregational gathering. We come together in the shadows of the evening, light candles, hear God's Word, sing contemplative music and then share together in the Eucharist. We observe the Lord's Supper, leaving in the quiet of the night to brace ourselves for the brutal barbarity of "Good" Friday and the tomb-silenced hush of Holy Saturday.
This year we will not gather face-to-face. We will, however, gather together in virtual reality via Facebook Live, using A Liturgy for When We Cannot Meet Face to Face.
Theologically we understand that Holy Communion is intended for the physically gathered sharing gifts that have been consecrated in the context of in-person worship, so "virtual" communion is not possible.
However, in alliance with our Methodist heritage, we may celebrate together in a kind of Love Feast celebration. This liturgy allows us to do so across the cyber world using our own source of light (candles or lamp), bread and water. It allows us to connect with one another and with God, quenching our basic hunger and thirst, while allowing us to anticipate earnestly the next opportunity commune around Christ's table with bread and juice, face-to-face with one another.
Please join us on Thursday evening at 7:30 via Facebook Live (our Boonsboro UMC Facebook page) to share together in this special gathering of God's people.
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