Liturgy of the Palms (Year B, RCL)

The bewilderment of the women at the tomb gives way to a hope that overturns power, shame, and death itself.

As I pressed my sermon’s pages across the book’s valley, I couldn’t keep them from sliding into the groove.

Perhaps the psalmist is referring to limestone, important to ancient civilizations for construction and also as an agricultural and dietary aid.

Jesus’ last week in Jerusalem is full of confrontation.

Jesus moves in the same direction as other pilgrims but at a pace and purpose that is his own.

For almost 40 years they have done their plodding, gracious work on me and my vocation.

In the Palm Sunday narrative, all the signs are there: something big is about to happen.

Even if we think we don’t need a savior, we seek one.

An odd, charming gospel account that draws from dozens of sources

Palm Sunday makes me cringe.

Humility isn't a stunt for Jesus—it's a condition of his life.

When she knew she was dying, my grandmother took me to see the cornerstone of a small brick church in my hometown of Kansas City, Missouri. I didn’t recognize the sign outside. It was a Baptist church, I think. It was pretty rundown, but still in better shape than the neighborhood. Overgrown vacant lots were everywhere; it was like visiting an abandoned church in the jungle.

Palm Sunday is a story of disappointed expectations, of what happens when someone you admire refuses to be who you think they should be.

A few years ago, while wandering through the Old City of Jerusalem, I stumbled upon a spray-painted sign on the side of a small factory building. It called out in English: “We need peace.”

It seemed to me like a modern-day cry of “hosanna” coming from the people of Jerusalem.

How does a crowd turn from shouts of joy to cries of murder in such a short span?

After Jesus shared his last supper with his friends, they sang a hymn together. There is every reason to believe it was the Hallel, Psalms 113 through 118. How have I missed this before?