One Palm Sunday, when I lived in Rome, I drove to Fiumicino airport to collect visitors. I was early, so I went to the airport church for a few moments. It was in the aftermath of the attack on the World Trade Centre in New York. While I was in the chapel, a police officer in uniform came in and took a generous amount of the blessed palm. A few minutes later, as I walked towards arrivals, I saw her distributing the olive branches to her colleagues, each of whom wore what looked like a bullet proof vest and carried a large automatic gun with a revolver strapped on their hip. They all accepted the palm and many of them attached it to their uniforms.
Clashing symbols – olives and armaments; symbol of peace, weapon of war.
A comparable clash, a similar ambiguity, is at the heart of the holy week that is about to begin. Cheering crowds morph into blood-thirsty mobs, courage parallels cowardice, faith stands next to betrayal. The gospels record the final days and hours of Jesus’ life on earth in great detail, utilising rich symbolism. Scholars tell us that the passion was the first part of Christ’s life to be committed to paper. The story of our salvation begins where many thought was the end.
Christians devote a whole week to remembering and reliving those final Jerusalem days. Next Sunday is Palm Sunday. The jovial crowds cut down palm branches and make their cloaks into a carpet to welcome Christ to their city. He rides on a donkey, they chant hosanna. Who could tell what would happen next. Would the multitude prove faithful or fickle?
We celebrate the holy week Triduum as a single liturgy in three parts. We make the sign of the cross as we begin the Mass of the Lord’s Supper on Holy Thursday and the closing blessing is conferred as we conclude the celebration of the resurrection at the Easter vigil.
When we gather on Holy Thursday the scene changes. We move from city streets to upper room. The cheering crowds are replaced by the intimate group that had walked the Palestinian hills with Christ as he preached, healed, comforted the afflicted and defied the proud. A small group of friends gather at table one last time. Saving words are uttered, soothing gestures are shared. Still, the ambiguity endures. We hear a door close as we meet Judas. He goes out into the dark towards those who wished Christ harm. We walk with Christ to the Garden of Olives where we wait. Sleep overcomes the disciples and the soldiers seize. As our celebration concludes, the tabernacle stands empty, altars are stripped. Our churches are empty and barren.
Kindness and cruelty trade places many times on Good Friday. Christ is condemned to death. We feel the cold darkness in the mocking crowds, the disciples’ absence, the soldiers’ lashes, the sham trial, the condemnation, the sound of the hammer, the spark of the nails, the tearing of flesh, the corpse high on the cross. Even on the darkest of days, glimmers of light break through. Mary believes to the end, Veronica wipes his face, Simon helps, John remains faithful, the women comfort, Joseph provides a tomb, the good thief believes.
Holy Saturday is different to all other days. It is a day of waiting. It is the day of the tomb. The Eucharist is not celebrated and Holy Communion is only received in danger of death as viaticum. Our culture struggles with this day of silence, but yet it resonates with our human need to pause and reflect. The stillness is broken by the cry of Alleluia as we celebrate the resurrection. We gather after sunset, so that the darkness may magnify the light. The women go to the tomb to find it empty. The disciples struggle with belief. The words uttered by the risen Christ ‘Peace be with you’ reverberate down the centuries, to our own day.
The United Nation’s emblem features a world map embraced by olive branches. Pope Francis continually reminded us that we live in an era of world war, not fought as a single battle but as a never ending, series of interconnected regional conflicts. It is estimated that there are as many as 130 armed conflicts ongoing in our world. Side by side with that tragic reality there are extraordinary outpourings of goodness, resilience, and love. A young Rwandan woman named Uwamahoro features in the 2026 Trócaire Lenten campaign. She is the anchor of her family, supporting her mother, Verediana, her daughter, Ineza and her niece, Vanessa. Poverty, fear of violence and climate change make their lives ever more precarious. There are many like her who struggle day in, day out, to keep the flame of hope alive.
Fr. Albert McDonnell
Tradaree Pastoral Area