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Karen Hollis | March 29, 2026 Palm/Passion
Matthew 27:46-56 – Death of Jesus - Good News
At about three o'clock Jesus cried out with a loud shout, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why did you abandon me?” Some of the people standing there heard him and said, “He is calling for Elijah!” One of them ran up at once, took a sponge, soaked it in cheap wine, put it on the end of a stick, and tried to make him drink it. But the others said, “Wait, let us see if Elijah is coming to save him!” Jesus again gave a loud cry and breathed his last. Then the curtain hanging in the Temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split apart, the graves broke open, and many of God's people who had died were raised to life. They left the graves, and after Jesus rose from death, they went into the Holy City, where many people saw them. When the army officer and the soldiers with him who were watching Jesus saw the earthquake and everything else that happened, they were terrified and said, “He really was the Son of God!” There were many women there, looking on from a distance, who had followed Jesus from Galilee and helped him. Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and the wife of Zebedee.
Matthew 27:57-61 – Burial of Jesus (OEB)
When evening had fallen, there came a rich man from Arimathea, named Joseph, who had himself become a disciple of Jesus. He went to see Pilate, and asked for the body of Jesus. Pilate ordered it to be given him. So Joseph took the body, and wrapped it in a clean linen sheet, and laid it in his newly made tomb which he had cut in the rock; and, before he left, he rolled a great stone against the entrance of the tomb. Mary of Magdala and the other Mary remained behind, sitting in front of the grave.
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be reflections of your word to us today, in Christ’s name we pray. Amen
Perhaps it feels familiar, this loss. We visit this space every year . . . we know the story, we know the events that will take place. We know what this loss feels like, when a life is over too soon, when a promise is snuffed out before it can thoroughly bless us, when what has been brewing under the surface fully takes shape, and when darkness in today’s particular form wreaks havoc on the common good . . . in the face of so much loss, we feel powerless. Powerless, but not hopeless. The text says the disciples fled . . . perhaps some of them did, but not all. Some of them stood with Mary Magdalene in witness. They stood silently and allowed the truth of the day to touch them. They weren’t tracking the movements of the entire empire, they were in one place, bearing witness to something that mattered deeply. From my own practice of hope, I like to imagine them there, connecting to the holy presence within, as Jesus had taught them. A presence of love so solid and steady that it endured even as their hearts crumbled, it endured with every wave of rage that washed over them, through every moment of panic, every second of anguish . . . their centre held. They didn’t just believe, but they knew that the Holy One still had them.
The holy presence comes around us for Good Friday . . . for as long as it lasts. And when Friday is over, the Holy fills the space of Holy Saturday. When we observe Good Friday along with Palm Sunday, Holy Saturday becomes very long . . . and indeed it often is. Like a caterpillar in a chrysalis, time is needed for things to come apart and come back together. Time is needed for us to fully grieve what was so that we can even imagine something new. Holy Saturday holds the space for us and this process. It doesn’t ask us to do anything before we are ready. She simply reminds us again and again of the Holy presence that accompanies us.
I brought a blessing for us as we cross the threshold into the space of this long Holy Saturday, but it isn’t the one printed in your bulletin. We can use all the blessings in these days, so you’re welcome to take that one home. Receive also this blessing.
Blessing for a Broken Vessel by Jan Richardson
Do not despair.
You hold the memory
of what it was
to be whole.
It lives deep
in your bones.
It abides
in your heart
that has been torn
and mended
a hundred times.
It persists
in your lungs
that know the mystery
of what it means
to be full,
to be empty,
to be full again.
I am not asking you
to give up your grip
on the shards you clasp
so close to you
but to wonder (in this spaciousness)
what it would be like
for those jagged edges
to meet each other
in some new pattern
that you have never imagined,
that you have never dared
to dream.
(pause, transition to your words)
With every breath you take,
may you know the holy presence
that goes with you
as you make space for
the gift of life renewed.
Amen.