A Slightly Unruly Palm Sunday

A Reflection on Liturgical History and Adaptations at Christ Church

There comes a moment every year—right about now—when I feel compelled to make a confession to the wider Church.

It is this: at Christ Episcopal Church, on Palm Sunday, we… bend the rules a little.

Now, before anyone writes the bishop (again), let me assure you: this is all above board.  Mostly. Sort of. In fact, after several years of my annual tradition of emailing the bishop to lament what I have called the “liturgical awkwardness” of Palm/Passion Sunday, I believe his exact pastoral guidance was something like: “Ben, please just do what you think is best and stop emailing me about this.”  Which, canonically speaking, is about as close to blanket permission as one can get.

So, what’s the issue?

It used to be that Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday were two distinct moments in the life of the Church. Passion Sunday came first—the fifth Sunday of Lent—when we heard, in full, the account of our Lord’s suffering and death. Then, the following week, Palm Sunday began Holy Week with all its triumph: palms waving, cloaks thrown on the road, “All Glory, Laud, and Honor” ringing out as Christ enters Jerusalem.

It gave the story space to breathe.

But in 1979, when our current Book of Common Prayer was compiled, those two Sundays were combined.  The reasoning was pastoral and practical: attendance at Holy Week liturgies had dwindled, and there was a concern that many would arrive at Easter having never heard the Passion at all.  So the Church, in its wisdom, said, “Let’s give them the whole story on Palm Sunday.”

Which is how we arrived at the spiritual whiplash of beginning in triumph and ending in tragedy… all before brunch.

Now, I understand the intent.  Truly, I do.  But I have long suspected that this approach has the opposite effect.  We gather, we wave palms, we sing with joy—and then, suddenly, we are plunged into the longest Gospel reading of the year, recounting betrayal, suffering, and death.  The preacher is tasked with addressing multiple chapters of dense, emotional Scripture.  Everyone leaves a little shell-shocked.  And, perhaps not surprisingly, many quietly decide they’ve had quite enough of that and skip the rest of Holy Week.

Which is precisely the week that is meant to unfold the story slowly, prayerfully, and with great care.

So here is our (slightly unruly, but I think faithful) solution.

This Sunday, we are going to let Palm Sunday be Palm Sunday.

We will gather—weather permitting—at the Barn.  We will bless the palms. We will hear the prophecy of Zechariah, reminding us that our King comes not in conquest, but in humility, riding on a donkey. We will process together, singing “All Glory, Laud, and Honor,” and we will lean fully into the joy, the celebration, the strange and beautiful truth that Christ is being welcomed as King.

And we will stay there.

Through the prayers.  Through the Eucharist.  Through the whole of the liturgy, we will inhabit that moment of triumph—because it matters.  Because it tells us something essential about who Christ is and what kind of kingdom he brings.

Then, after the Eucharist is complete, something will shift.

We will sit.  Then kneel. And in stillness and silence, we will hear the Passion.

Not as a jarring interruption to Palm Sunday, but as a kind of threshold—a doorway into the week that lies ahead. Think of it not as the main event of the day, but as a solemn preview.  A quiet turning.  A reminder that the road from “Hosanna” to “Crucify him” is shorter than we would like to admit.

And then we will leave in silence.

Because Holy Week is not something to be rushed through or summarized in a single morning.  It is something to be walked—step by step, day by day.

On Maundy Thursday, we will gather at the table and hear again the commandment to love one another.  On Good Friday, we will stand at the foot of the cross. At the Great Vigil of Easter, we will keep watch in the darkness until the first light of resurrection breaks in.

And then—then—we will celebrate.  With joy, with alleluias, with breakfast and egg hunts and all the holy chaos that Easter morning brings.

So yes, if you are following along in your prayer book this Sunday, you may notice that things feel… a little out of order.

But I hope what you will also notice is that the story feels clearer.  Fuller.  More alive.

Palm Sunday will be Palm Sunday.
The Passion will begin to unfold.
And together, we will be prepared to walk the road that leads us, at last, to Easter.

Which, after all, is the whole point.

Pax et Bonum!

Fr. Ben +