Holy Week: Our Salvation Narrative

I don’t know about you, but my Lent went by so quickly! Thank God for Holy Week—a time to slow down and enter into the agony and the wonder of the death and resurrection of Jesus. The following article was originally published in this month’s GIA Quarterly and is republished here with permission. I hope it may be helpful in reflecting on the Gospel texts that tell the story of our salvation.

Holy Week: Our Salvation Narrative

It’s been said that we have four Gospels because one would not be enough to tell the story of Jesus Christ. And indeed, each of the Gospels tells the story of Jesus in its own unique way. This variety gives us a fuller, more textured portrait of Jesus.

But in the stories of Jesus’ passion and death, the four Gospels find great harmony. Even the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) and the Gospel of John—usually quite different in tone and content—agree on significant details of Jesus’ suffering and death.

Why might this be? It’s clear that of all the stories told and retold about Jesus—stories that circulated for decades before they were written or woven into Gospel accounts—the stories of Jesus’ passion and death were especially revered. They were told often. They were preserved with great care. Their details were cherished like precious family heirlooms or holy relics. They were among the church’s most sacred truths.

As we enter into Holy Week, we immerse ourselves in these essential stories once again—hearing, breathing, living them as one salvation narrative.

Palm Sunday

All four Gospels share the high drama of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem on the back of a colt or donkey, accompanied by the cries and shouts of the people: “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” This moment is understood as the fulfillment of a prophecy: “Your king comes to you” (e.g., Matt 21:5; cf Zech 9:9).

Of course, the excitement of the people as Jesus enters Jerusalem serves as an illuminating backdrop to the week’s unfolding events. The king enters the city to the waving of branches and the laying down of cloaks. But soon the people will scatter in confusion and division, and the king will be abandoned, mocked, and murdered. 

This kind of contrast is appropriate to a salvation narrative. The people are genuine in both their praise and their abandonment of Jesus—and so it continues with us. The high drama of Palm Sunday reminds us why we need a savior.

Holy Thursday

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John agree that Jesus shared a final meal with his disciples the night before his death. But here we have a fascinating divergence between the Synoptics and John. While the Synoptic Gospels give us details about a Passover meal, characterized by Jesus as an intimate meal to be shared in his memory, John’s Gospel says very little about the supper itself. Instead, John focuses on another powerful moment: the washing of feet. “He rose from supper and took off his outer garments. He took a towel and tied it around his waist” (13:4).

The wonderful thing about this apparent divergence is the actual convergence of the stories. Eucharist and footwashing are intersecting rituals at the heart of our salvation narrative—both are events, acts, declarations of total love and self-gift: “This is my body, which will be given for you” (Luke 22:19) and “You ought to wash one another’s feet. I have given you a model to follow” (John 13:14-15). Jesus’ life has become pure gift—in both living and dying, it is for the sake of the other.

Every word of Holy Thursday’s narrative—and every sign of its liturgy—is eucharistic, whether of bread and wine, or towel and basin.

Good Friday

All four Gospels agree that Jesus was arrested at the Mount of Olives, tried before the high priest, denied by Simon Peter, mocked and tortured by soldiers, handed over by Pilate, crucified between two criminals at a place called Golgotha, and offered vinegar or wine in his final moments. These traditions are strikingly consistent.

Equally striking—and deeply revealing about the full reality of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus—is the variety among the Gospels regarding Jesus’ final words. Here again we are reminded that four Gospels give us a fuller, richer narrative. Each utterance of Jesus sheds light on how he lived and died, and how he saved.

In Matthew and Mark, Jesus cries out: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matt 27:46; Mark 15:34). Jesus, exhausted, uses his last bit of energy to shout to God his feeling of total abandonment, relying on a psalm he knew by heart. Yes, Psalm 22 ends on a victorious note, but it is not that note that Jesus sounds. God will triumph, but this is a moment of despair—and a moment of remarkable familiarity, for we see that our savior is every bit like us. He is human and in pain.

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus’ final words again rely on a beloved psalm. Jesus cries out: “Father, into your hands, I commend my spirit” (Ps 31:6), and then he “breathes his last” (Luke 23:46). Here we have a final, total declaration of trust in the Father. Rather than a feeling of abandonment, it is self-abandonment that is intoned in this cry—a giving-over-by-choice, an intentional word of surrender.

And finally, in John, a dying man boldly proclaims his own role in the transformation of all that is, saying only: “It is finished” (19:30). Earlier in the same Gospel Jesus had declared: “No one takes [my life] from me, but I lay it down on my own” (10:18). And now he has done this great thing, and it is finished.

We may naturally ask which of these utterances really were Jesus’ last words. And of course it is quite possible that he said all of these things on the cross. The witness of the evangelists is the witness of the early church that all of these statements are true, and all shed brilliant light on the person of Jesus and the nature of his death. The pain and abandonment, trust and surrender, power and agency of Jesus—all were and are a part of the narrative of salvation.

Easter

Our salvation narrative leads in one direction and to one place: an empty tomb on Easter morning. And again, all four Gospels agree on this emptiness, witnessed first by women.

Accounts of encounters with the risen Jesus come in all the Gospels, but the empty tomb is the first and fundamental sign of resurrection. We long to see the Risen One for ourselves, with our own eyes—to reach out and touch him, like Mary Magdalene, with our own hands. And we will. But for now, no matter which Gospel we read, we can peer into the emptiness of this burial place and stand in awe of what is not there. For what is missing is death.

This is where our salvation narrative brings us—biblically, liturgically, and communally. For in all of its sameness and all of its differences, fullness of life was the story it told all along.

The women approach the tomb at daybreak. “Three Marys” by Henry Ossawa Tanner (1910).

Epiphany: Come, Let Us Worship

“On entering the house they saw the child with Mary his mother. They prostrated themselves and did him homage. Then they opened their treasures and offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh” (Matt 2:11).

 
One of the most opulent verses in all the Gospels, Matthew 2:11 overflows with action, color, and even wealth. Sophisticated men—wise men from the East—throw themselves on the ground before a little child. The profound worship of the magi astounds us.

Our English translations sometimes fall short of the original Greek’s power. To say the magi “knelt down” or “prostrated themselves” is fair. And to say they “did him homage” is rich enough. But truly, these men “fell down” (pesontes) and they “worshiped” (proskynesan). As deliberate as the magi apparently were, their act in the house of the Christ child was not entirely measured. Something overcame them and brought them to their knees.

It is hard to pin down exactly what it means to worship. But this single verse expresses it as well as anything. To worship something—to fall down before it, to submit entirely to it even with our bodies—is extraordinary, but also perfectly natural. It is to feel awe and wonder, to see and watch stars, to behold before us a presence, a person, a brother, a light. It is to know deep down in a place so instinctive that it is connected to our muscles and our memories that this One is sacred, and this One is kin. It is to know how close we have come to Glory.

Scripture often speaks of the face of God—how much we long for it (Ps 27:8), how dangerous it can be to gaze upon it (Exod 33:20), how light shines forth from it (Ps 4:6). Here, in the house of Jesus, in the arms of his mother, that light pours forth—brighter than anything we have ever seen before.

Come then, let us fall down! Let us return to him this gold, this Glory! Come, let us worship!

Adoration of the Magi, Kazimierz Sichulski

NEW BOOK! "Stretch Out Your Hand: Reflections on the Healing Ministry of Jesus"

Hello, all! I’m excited to announce that my new book is now available for preorder from Liturgical Press. This book of reflections on Jesus’ healing ministry was originally conceived as a joint project with my friend Fr. Tom Stegman, SJ, but, as many of you know, Tom died of glioblastoma in 2023. I’ve written this book in his memory, in full knowledge of how much we are all in need of healing—whether of mind, body, or spirit.

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“This beautiful work will bring hope to so many in our broken world who seek the healing touch of Christ. Amy Ekeh has given us a treasure: an insightful, thought-provoking, soul-stirring look at the stories of healing in the Gospels that ends up being a kind of ongoing, heartfelt prayer. I was moved, uplifted, and consoled—and I know many others will be, too. Thank you, Amy Ekeh!”  — Deacon Greg Kandra, journalist and author of A Deacon Prays 
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I hope this book will bring comfort and healing to those who are going through difficult times, those who want to reflect more on healing and Jesus as a healer, and all who bring healing to others, whether as caregivers, medical professionals, chaplains, pastoral ministers, loving family members, or friends.

A big thank you to artist Jack Baumgartner for allowing us to use his beautiful painting of Jesus and Thomas on the book’s front cover.

Blessings!
Amy

From the Ground Up

This feature essay for April’s Give Us This Day was written immediately after the funeral of Tom Stegman, SJ, in 2023. I’ve lost three more friends in the months since. I’m not alone—you too have lost friends and loved ones, and you too have had times when you felt that the losses just kept coming. These are the days when we decide if we really believe what we say we believe, the days we hear each other whispering and encouraging, “We are an Easter people.” These are the days when we dig deeply within ourselves to find an Amen, even an Alleluia—when perhaps we finally understand what it means to say that death and resurrection are a single event, that we can speak them in a single breath, and share them with one another as a single gift. Happy Easter, all.

From the Ground Up

There was a man named Jesus. Born in Bethlehem, raised in Nazareth, preached in the land of Israel. In a time of political and religious tension, Jesus of Nazareth saw the writing on the wall. His work was coming to an end. One night after a meal, he walked the countryside, one foot in front of the other, to a grove of olive trees, a place he liked to go. He had a terrible decision to make, a terrible night to pass. He threw himself on the ground and lay face down in the dirt of the garden (Mark 14:35).

There were two women named Mary. One foot in front of the other, they were on their way to visit the body of a dead man. Wracked with grief, their sole consolation was the duty before them, to care for his body, the body of Jesus of Nazareth. And suddenly he appeared before them—himself but more, alive but more—risen, glorious, eternal. They fell to the ground in belief and disbelief, the two so often bleeding into each other (Matt 28:9).

There was a man named Saul. He traveled along a well-worn road, the road from Jerusalem to Damascus, on his way to stifle faith in a man named Jesus. One foot in front of the other, with zeal and determination, he walked. He walked until a flash of light and a voice like a waterfall—the voice of Jesus of Nazareth—knocked him to the ground. Face down in the dirt, life as he knew it fell apart as the sound and light scattered all around him (Acts 9:3-4).

Scripture insists, Scripture repeats: on the ground is not a bad place to be. This is the place where we grapple with life—and death. This is the place where we grieve and fight—the place where we believe, doubt, believe again—the place of resolve and resilience. The place we are remade.

Jesus stood up and set his face to Golgotha, dusting himself off in the center of that beautiful grove of trees, announcing to his drowsy disciples: “The hour has come!”

The two women stood up, letting go of the feet of Jesus. They dusted themselves off and stood tall. They looked him in the eye and knew. It was time to tell the Good News.

Saul stood up. He saw nothing but darkness. But within, all was light. He dusted himself off—the dirt of that road still clinging to his face and feet. That blessed dirt, the dirt of Damascus, that place of being utterly and completely changed.

Scripture insists, Scripture repeats: no matter where we fall, no matter how long we lie there, no matter the grief or fight that took us down, the dirt beneath us is sacred ground. It is from this place that we will stand again—ourselves but more, alive but more. Dusting ourselves off, we will walk on—all light within—one foot in front of the other.

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 Amy Ekeh, from the April 2024 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2023). Used with permission.

Christ and the Garden of Olives, Paul Gauguin (1889)

The Unbearable Tension of Hope

The essay below was published in the October issue of Give Us This Day as commentary on this week’s lectionary — especially the readings from Romans on Monday and Tuesday, but also looking forward to the celebrations of All Saints and All Souls on Wednesday and Thursday.

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I consider that the sufferings of this present time are as nothing
compared with the glory to be revealed. (Rom 8:18)

St. Paul was a master of opposites. I can remember my New Testament professor making wonderful lists of Pauline opposites on a chalkboard, back when chalkboards were a thing. What a wonderful list he would have made (and probably did!) with the readings we have this week from Romans 8 (Monday and Tuesday). In Column A, we have this present time, characterized by: flesh, death, spirit of slavery, fear, and suffering. In Column B, we have what is to be revealed, with its corresponding opposites: Spirit, life, spirit of adoption, hope, and glory. I can almost hear the spirited scratch of chalk and see those dust particles flying!

Although Paul suffered plenty of rejection as a preacher, there is a reason his gospel took hold and still speaks to us today. Paul knew all too well that suspended feeling each of us experiences every day of our lives—the “eager expectation,” the waiting, the endurance, the groaning—the way it feels to live in both columns.

Paul’s gospel was about hope. Not a shallow hope meant to numb or appease, but a “prophet-who-has-seen-the-Promised-Land” kind of hope, a living witness. Paul’s understanding of salvation was primarily apocalyptic; he was convinced that the present and the future intersect and collide. The present time is moving inexorably toward a future that is rich and overflowing with glory. In the meantime, we “groan.” And yet! In the meantime, we already taste God’s glory as children of God who live in a time of incredible promise: as “joint heirs with Christ” we will inherit everything Christ himself has inherited. The first inheritance is resurrected life.

Paul’s opposites express the almost unbearable tension of this apocalyptic hope. Although salvation is playing out in our lives every day, indeed every moment, it has not played out in its fullness. Not yet. But if one column of our chalk­board list could be etched in gold, it would be Column B, with its one foot firmly in the present and its full lean into an abundant future. Indeed, Paul insists that “the sufferings of this present time” are “as nothing” (“a small price to pay,” translates Brendan Byrne, SJ). Elsewhere Paul insists that “this slight momentary affliction” will yield “an eternal weight of glory” (2 Cor 4:17).

Sometimes the “sufferings of this present time” overwhelm us. Death, fear, and futility still have their way with us. And yet it is Paul’s vision—one that was acquired, let’s not forget, on a dusty road to Damascus when he encountered the Risen One in a blaze of light—that sustains us. The “glory to be revealed” is none other than our own transformative encoun­ters with God as joint heirs of the Risen Lord—a glory we can already see, taste, and touch, but which we do not yet fully experience.

The saints and souls we celebrate on Wednesday (All Saints) and Thursday (All Souls) are living witnesses of this light-filled vision. Having lived the opposites, they are icons of the hope etched in gold—a hallmark of Paul’s gospel and of every Christian life.

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Amy Ekeh, from the October 2023 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2023). Used with permission.

Postscript: My New Testament professor was Fr. Frank Matera at The Catholic University of America, now retired in my home diocese, the Archdiocese of Hartford, where I’m blessed to see him regularly. He taught me so much about reading the New Testament, and I continue to count on his mentorship and friendship.