Our Easter services begin on Sunday! What is known as “Passion Week” honours the death, crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus. It is so strange not to meet together! Our Easter services are truly the most important worship services in our entire church year. They testify to the core beliefs of our Christian faith. In spirit, together, we celebrate this week ahead!
On Palm Sunday April 5, our bulletin service and sermon remember Jesus entering Jerusalem with the loud Hosannas and palm branches waving. I have attached a palm branch to print and colour (if you haven’t a printer, you can trace the pattern), and this Sunday, will you wave your palm branches like the crowds long ago, shouting Hosanna, welcoming Jesus our King!
I’ve also included a very short clip for children to watch of Jesus entering Jerusalem. It is made with Lego pieces and written by a seven year old girl!
Joyce Rupp has written many beautiful poems and in her book “Out of the Ordinary,” she has a section devoted to Easter. This poem speaks of daffodils opening, and since spring has arrived and I have daffodils ready to open in my front garden, I post her poem here for today. I especially like her words about resurrection and closing thoughts about “a long, silent time, wondering what soul-shroud of mine needs to be unwrapped before I, too, am blooming.” We can begin our Easter week and our own soul-searching with her words.
Blessings to all, Rev. Mary
A Remnant of Resurrection – by Joyce Rupp
the time for daffodils has come.
bunches of six, ten, or twelve,
with tightly wrapped buds,
arrive from warmer lands.
like sentinels of invitation
they keep my wintered heart
leaning into Spring.
the directions say to cut
at least a half inch off the stem,
then place in water and
wait for the surprise.
behold, in the early hour of dawn,
I see resurrection on my kitchen table,
every yellowed daffodil hurrahing the morning,
stretching outward in the etched-glass vase.
but what captures my attention
is one small, thin remnant,
beneath the smiling daffodils.
this dry, transparent cover,
a cast-off tube of protection
once concealing a fragile bud,
conveys the price of blooming.
I pick up this remnant of resurrection
and hold it for a long, silent time,
wondering what soul-shroud of mine
needs to be unwrapped,
before I, too, am blooming.