Message From Thack “A Very Holy, Holy Week”
There are weeks that pass like ordinary pages in a book… and then there is Holy Week, which reads more like a living drama—each day a different scene, each moment carrying us deeper into the mystery of God’s redeeming love. It is not simply remembered. It is walked and lived. The following is a review of our week together.
We began with Palm Sunday, hearing the story of Jesus’ “triumphal entry into Jerusalem” as recorded in Matthew 21:1–11. Jesus entered Jerusalem not as a conquering warlord but as a king of peace, riding humbly on a donkey. The crowds shouted “Hosanna,” laying down branches and cloaks, expecting one kind of salvation. Yet even then, the shape of God’s kingdom was quietly overturning human expectations. This was a king who would reign not by force, but by love.
On Monday of Holy Week, we celebrated a Taizé service where we turned to John 12:1–11. The scene opens in the home of Mary, Martha and Lazurus, where their friend Jesus and his disciples had gathered one last time. There, Mary, in anticipation of Jesus’ burial, anointed Jesus’ feet with costly nard. Her act was extravagant, almost reckless in its devotion. While Judas calculated the cost and seeming wastefulness of this gesture, Mary recognized this gracious act’s sacred worth. In that fragrant moment, love filled the room—and foreshadowed both burial and glory. It reminded us that true worship is never stingy. It pours itself out.
Tuesday carried us to the Jewish Passover celebration through our wonderful Seder meal. Linda McNamara and her many volunteers recreated that holy event where we remembered the Exodus, God’s great act of liberation—through the last “plague” of the death of the firstborn that led to the freedom of God’s people from bondage in Egypt. We were reminded that this ancient story is not locked in the past. It stretches forward to the Last Supper, where Jesus takes bread and wine and reveals a deeper Exodus: not just freedom from Pharaoh, but freedom from sin and death itself. In Christ, God leads the world from the slavery of sin into life everlasting.
Then came Holy Wednesday, and the tone shifted. In John 13:21–32, we were told that Jesus was troubled in spirit. At table with His disciples—those He loved—He declared, “Very truly, I tell you, one of you will betray me.” Jesus can feel the sting of betrayal before it happens. He knows what is coming, and it troubles Him.
And here is where the story turns toward us. It is easy to point to Judas and keep him at arm’s length, as if betrayal were a foreign thing. But if we are honest, we recognize something uncomfortably familiar. We, too, have moments when we turn away, when we choose convenience over faithfulness, silence over witness, or self-interest over love. Not with thirty pieces of silver, perhaps—but in a thousand quieter ways.
And still, Jesus keeps the table open. Even in His troubled spirit, He does not withdraw His love. He offers bread. He shares the meal. He remains present. Holy Wednesday reminds us that the grace of Christ is not reserved for the faithful alone, but is extended even in the shadow of our failures. The story of betrayal is also the story of a love that refuses to let go.
Then came Maundy Thursday. In John 13:1–17, 31b–35, we joined Jesus and his disciples in the quiet upper room, where Jesus knelt and washed the feet of His disciples. In that act of humility, the Lord of heaven stooped to serve. “I have set you an example,” He said. In that basin and towel, greatness was redefined. Love became something you do, not merely something you feel. The commandment was clear: “Love one another as I have loved you.”
Good Friday followed when we read the stark narrative of John 18:1–19:42. Here the story slowed, darkened, and deepened. Jesus is betrayed, tried, crucified, and laid in a tomb. The cross stands at the center—not as a symbol of defeat, but as the place where God absorbs the worst the world can offer and answers it with forgiveness. It is love stretched wide enough to hold the whole world.
And on the evening of Good Friday, we walked the Stations of the Cross—what is often called the Via Dolorosa, the “Way of Sorrows.” This ancient devotion traces the path Jesus walked, carrying the cross, from condemnation to crucifixion at Golgotha. In fourteen stations, we lingered at each moment: Jesus is condemned, taking up His cross, falling beneath its weight, meeting His mother, encountering Simon of Cyrene, speaking to the women of Jerusalem, being stripped, nailed, killed, and finally laid in the tomb.
For the pilgrim, this was not mere recollection—everyone participated. We walked slowly, deliberately, entering into the suffering of Christ, not as spectators but as companions along the way. Each station became a mirror as we were reminded of human weakness, cruelty, compassion, endurance—and above all, a love that does not turn back. The Via Dolorosa teaches us that the road to resurrection passes through the reality of suffering, and that Christ meets us in every step of our own journeys of sorrow.
On Holy Saturday morning, we gathered in the quiet nave. There were no mournful hymns like “Were You There” or Easter alleluias. There was just stillness as we remembered that first Holy Saturday as Christ was in the tomb. The Church has long taught that in this silence, Jesus descended to the dead, proclaiming hope even to those who had gone before the resurrection. It was a day that felt suspended between breath and heartbeat—a reminder that God is at work even when all seems lost.
Then, as darkness fell that evening, the Easter Vigil began—one of the oldest and most beautiful liturgies of the Church. From the kindling of the new fire to the proclamation of Matthew 28:1–10, we moved from shadow into light, from death into resurrection. The stone was rolled away. The impossible became reality as we proclaimed, “Alleluia. Christ is risen!”
And on Easter morning, the celebration continued—not as an echo, but as a living proclamation. The resurrection is not only about what happened to Jesus long ago; it is about what God is doing now through our own resurrections. It’s all about life breaking through death, hope rising from despair, and new beginnings where we thought the story had ended.
This was the flow of our Holy Week: from palm branches to an empty tomb. What we experienced was not a sequence of disconnected events, but a single, sweeping movement of grace.
So, what are we to take from it? That the Christian life follows the same pattern. We are called to lay down our expectations, to love extravagantly, to serve humbly, to face honestly our moments of betrayal, to carry our crosses, to trust God in the silence—and ultimately, to live as people of the resurrection.
Holy Week is not the end of the story. It continues in us. The risen Christ now walks not just the streets of Jerusalem, but through the pathways of our daily lives. And if we have truly walked with Him through this very holy week, then we carry its light into the world—quietly, faithfully, and with great hope. Alleluia. Christ is risen!
Peace, Thack
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