ALOHA kākou! As we continue our journey through the Easter season, this Sunday we meet two disciples walking a dusty road from Jerusalem to Emmaus, deep in conversation, trying to make sense of things, because who among us hasn’t walked through a season of confusion or disappointment, talking through it with a friend or family member, wondering where God is in it all? And yet, in this story from Luke 24:13-35, something remarkable is happening just beneath the surface. Christ is present, walking right alongside them, even when they cannot recognize him! It is only after he accepts their invitation to have a meal with them in their home, and he breaks the
bread, that they realize who has been with them all along.

THIS SUNDAY, we’ll explore how and where the risen Christ becomes known to us still, often in ways we might not expect. Come and walk the road with us! Please join us Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live.

LAST SUNDAY, we were honored to have the Rev. Karen Swanson as our preacher and celebrant, and she encouraged us with the post-Resurrection appearances of Jesus. In the gospel lesson (John 20:19–31), we heard the risen Christ come among the disciples in their fear, speak peace, and breathe new life into them—a tender and powerful reminder that resurrection is not only a past event, but a present reality, meeting us where we are, even behind our own locked doors.

STARTING THIS SUNDAY: “CONFIRMING FAITH” ADULT SUNDAY SCHOOL CLASS: We’re planning a special series of classes for anyone who is interested in understanding more about the Christian faith, and especially anyone who wishes to be confirmed or received in The Episcopal Church. We’ll meet after worship in the Vicar’s Office on most Sundays from April 19 through August 2 (dates subject to change). We’ll be using the book Faith Confirmed by Peter Jackson and Chris Wright (Forward Movement Publishers). See the announcement below for more information. Everyone is welcome! I hope you will plan to join us as we explore the basics of our Christian faith and the sacraments of The Episcopal Church. It’s a great way to refresh and renew your faith during Eastertide!

Beloved brothers and sisters, I hold you in my prayers in this most glorious season of Eastertide. I ask your faithful prayers for St. Timothy’s Church, for those who lead and serve, for every member of our ‘ohana, and for your vicar. May the blessing of Almighty God be upon you and remain with you always. 

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

ALOHA kākou! Our celebration of Holy Week and Easter was truly a communal offering of faith and devotion. I am deeply grateful for all who served so faithfully: our Altar Guild (and especially Sylvia and Kurt for all their extra efforts!), our STEAM AV team, Eucharistic Ministers, lectors, Zach and all our Choir members, Sue Ann and Paul for preparing and printing all the bulletins, our ushers, acolytes, and so many others whose gifts made our worship so meaningful and beautiful. Your ministry helps proclaim the Good News in word, music, and action. Mahalo! Now, as we move forward in the Easter season, may we continue to receive Christ’s peace as we are sent out, renewed and strengthened for the life of faith.

THIS SUNDAY, we are honored and delighted to have the Rev. Karen Swanson as our preacher and celebrant. We’ll hear again the story from John’s Gospel (20:19–31) where the risen Christ comes among the disciples in their fear, speaks peace, and breathes new life into them. It is a tender and powerful reminder that resurrection is not only a past event, but a present reality, meeting us where we are, even behind our own locked doors. Please join us Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live.

LAST SUNDAY WAS EASTER DAY! And we heard the story of the Resurrection from John 20:1-18 as we concluded our “Witnesses on the Way” series of Holy Week sermons, hearing the exciting events from the perspective of eyewitnesses. Jesus told his disciples to “go and tell”—and that’s our assignment as well. How have you been fulfilling your assignment this week?

STARTING APRIL 19: “CONFIRMING FAITH” ADULT SUNDAY SCHOOL CLASS: We’re planning a special series of classes for anyone who wishes to be confirmed in The Episcopal Church, or anyone who is interested in understanding more about the faith from an Episcopal point of view. We’ll meet after worship in the Vicar’s Office on most Sundays from April 19 through August 2 (dates subject to change). We’ll be using the book Faith Confirmed by Peter Jackson and Chris Wright (Forward Movement Publishers). See the announcement below for more information. Everyone is welcome! I hope you will plan to join us as we explore the basics of our Christian faith and the sacraments of The Episcopal Church. It’s a great way to refresh and renew your faith during Eastertide!

BISHOP CANDIDATES MEET AND GREET: I want to highlight the announcement below about the Bishop Candidates Meet and Greet here at St. Timothy’s on Saturday, April 25, 10 a.m. till 1 p.m. You’ll have the opportunity to meet the three candidates, one of whom will become the next Bishop of the Diocese of Hawai‘i. The Transition Committee asks that those who plan to attend REGISTER at https://episcopalhawaii.jotform.com/team/dsc-office/meet-greet-rsvp. It will also be available to watch on Facebook Live. Please keep our candidates and this process in your prayers.

+BISHOP BOB TO VISIT ON MAY 3: And, we will have the opportunity to offer an official “Mahalo and A Hui Hou!” to Bishop Robert Fitzpatrick, who will make his final visitation to St. Timothy’s on Sunday, May 3, when he will preach and preside. Please come and help us celebrate his ministry! Plan to bring something delicious to share during fellowship in Sumida Hall.

Beloved brothers and sisters, I hold you in my prayers in this most glorious season of Eastertide. I ask your faithful prayers for St. Timothy’s Church, for those who lead and serve, for every member of our ‘ohana, and for your vicar. May the blessing of Almighty God be upon you and remain with you always. 

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

I wasn’t the first one to come to the tomb. Mary was. Then she came to us before dawn, breathless, shaken. “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb,” she said, “and we do not know where they have laid him.” That was all she could manage. No angels. No resurrection. Just absence. So Peter and I ran to the tomb, and Mary returned too.

I remember the sound of our feet on the path, the way fear drives the body faster than hope ever could. I outran him—though I would never hold that over him. But I reached the tomb first. But I stopped. I don’t know why. Maybe it was reverence. Maybe fear. Maybe I was not ready for whatever waited inside. I just bent down and looked in. I saw the linen wrappings there.

That’s what struck me first—not the emptiness, but the order. Death does not usually leave things
folded. Thieves do not take the time to unwrap a body carefully and set the cloth neatly aside.

Then Peter arrived, as Peter always does—breathless, determined. He went straight in. Then I followed. Yes, the tomb was empty. And the cloth that had been on his head was rolled up, separate from the others. As if someone had risen deliberately. As if nothing had been rushed.

I saw—and I believed. Not because I understood the Scriptures. We just didn’t know yet what resurrection was supposed to look like. We had no framework for this. No category large enough to hold it. I believed, because something in me recognized the shape of love again.

Standing there, in the quiet of that garden, everything we had lived through over the past week came rushing back—not in order, but like waves, one after another.

I remembered the road into the city just a week ago, the palms in the air, the sound of the crowd swelling with hope, shouting “Hosanna! Save us!” Joy rose in the air easily that day, and we were so sure that God was finally about to act in a way we could recognize.

Then I remembered the upper room. The shock of seeing him kneel. The sound of water poured into a basin. The way love suddenly felt far more demanding than we expected.

I remembered the garden at night. The confusion. The fear. How quickly courage dissolved when the torches came. How easily we scattered.

I remembered the hill outside the city. The cross rising into the sky. The long hours of watching, waiting. The feeling that everything we had hoped for was being undone, wave after wave, until there was nothing left to stand on.

Hope. Confusion. Tenderness. Terror. Grief. All in that moment. It had all come at us so fast, like the sea in a storm—lifting us up one moment and pulling us under the next. And now, standing at the edge of an empty tomb, the storm suddenly stilled.

I saw—and I believed. Not because it made sense. But because love, once again, had proven stronger than our worst fears.

So we went home. I know how strange that sounds. No shouting. No proclamation. Just… stillness. Faith, still learning how to breathe.

But Mary stayed. Later, she would tell us the rest—about the angels, about mistaking him for the gardener, about hearing her name spoken in that voice she knew so well. About being sent to tell us that he was alive. She was the first to proclaim the resurrection. She carried that news when the rest of us were still trying to understand what our faith meant.

But my resurrection day began quietly. It began with noticing. With seeing that God had not abandoned what God had begun. With trusting that even when everything had seemed lost—when power crushed innocence, when love was nailed to a cross—God was still at work.

Resurrection did not arrive for me as certainty. It arrived as recognition. This—this—is what love has always looked like. This is the love that enters cities on donkeys instead of warhorses.
The love that kneels instead of commanding.
The love that refuses violence, even when violence seems inevitable.
The love that goes all the way through death rather than around it.

Easter does not erase the wounds. It does not pretend the cross did not happen. It does not undo the cost. It declares that the cost was not the end. The tomb is empty. Christ is alive. And belief—real belief—begins not with having all the answers, but with trusting that love has already gone ahead of us.

Mary was told to go and tell the good news. And soon Peter would learn how to lead again. And I—I would learn how to bear witness. Because that is what the beloved disciple does. He does not stand at the center of the story. He points to it.

This day is not only about what happened then. It is about what happens now. About what we see
when we stoop down and look into places we thought were sealed shut forever. About what we
believe when the evidence is partial and the future is unclear.

You and I have walked this road together—through cheers and silence, through stormy seas and a
rugged cross, through darkness and dawn.
​
And now, standing at the edge of an open tomb, we are invited into the same quiet, courageous
trust: That love has not been defeated.
That death does not have the final word.
And that whatever comes next, the risen Christ is already there. Alleluia! Amen!

I did not go to the tomb expecting anything unusual. I knew what awaited me. I thought. But I went
because love knows where to go, even when hope has been exhausted. I went because there was a
body to tend, and grief that needed somewhere to rest.

After everything that had happened—the shouting in the streets, the long hours at the cross, the unearthly silence that followed—it felt unbearable simply to stay away.

So before the sun had risen, while the city still slept, I walked toward the garden. Another Mary walked with me. Neither of us spoke much. The road was familiar now. Only a few days earlier we’d
seen crowds filling the streets, branches waving in the air, voices crying out Hosanna. Hope had
surged through the city like a rising tide. But that hope had collapsed just as quickly.

By the time we had reached the hill outside the gate, that same city had shouted for his death. We
stood there and watched the cross lifted into the sky. We heard the hammer strike the nails. We saw
him breathe his last. Now we were returning to the place where they had laid him.

The garden was still dark. The air held that strange quiet that comes just before dawn, when even the
birds have not yet begun to sing. I remember thinking only about the stone. It had been rolled into
place so firmly that it seemed to be the final word on everything we had hoped for.

But when we reached the tomb, the ground beneath us trembled. It was not a violent shaking, but
something deeper—like the earth itself had shifted. And before we could even understand what was
happening, we saw that the stone had already been rolled away.

I remember stopping in the path. I was feeling panicked. Had someone taken him? Had the authorities come again to disturb even his burial?

Then the light came. A messenger of God stood before us, bright as lightning, his clothing white as
could be. The guards who had been posted there collapsed in terror. But he looked at us—not with
anger, not with judgment, but with calm assurance—and said the words we would hear again and
again before the day was over. “Do not be afraid.”

He told us what had happened, though I could hardly take it in. “You are looking for Jesus who was
crucified. He is not here. He has been raised.”

Even now, remembering it, the words feel almost too large for the moment that held them. Raised.
Alive. The one we had watched die had not remained in the grave!
The messenger gestured toward the empty tomb. “Come and see the place where he lay.”

We stepped forward slowly. The stone that had sealed death away was now rolled aside, and the tomb stood open behind it. What had been closed was open. What had seemed final was no longer the end.

Then the messenger gave us something to do. “Go quickly, tell his disciples: He has been raised from
the dead, and he is going ahead of you to Galilee. There you will see him.”

Go and tell! Those words startled me almost as much as the message itself. We had come expecting
silence and sorrow. Instead we were being sent out with news that would change everything.

So we ran. The strange thing about that run is that it held two feelings at once. We were filled with
both fear and great joy. Our hearts were still trembling from what we had seen, yet something like
hope—something stronger than hope—had begun to rise inside us again.

And then, suddenly, he was right there, on the path. He did not appear with thunder or lightning. He
simply stood before us, alive, as real as he had ever been.

“Greetings,” he said. That single word broke whatever restraint we had left. We fell at his feet and
held onto them, overwhelmed by the impossible truth standing before us.

The one who had entered the city so humbly, riding on a donkey. The one who had knelt among his
friends with a towel and basin. The one who had remained on the cross even when the world
demanded his defeat—he was alive.

And once again he spoke the same words the messenger had spoken:
“Do not be afraid.” Then he sent us on the same errand.
“Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.”
Go and tell! That is how resurrection began—not with an army, not with a proclamation from the
Temple steps, but with a message entrusted to two grieving women on a garden path before sunrise.

Tonight we have heard the long story of God’s faithfulness. We have listened again to the ancient
promises—light spoken into darkness, waters parted, people led from slavery into freedom.

All of those stories have carried us here, to this moment in a quiet garden where death was supposed to have the final word. But death did not get the last word.

The stone was rolled away. The tomb was opened. And the one we thought we had lost forever met
us on the road and spoke peace.

This is how God works. Not by undoing the suffering we have seen, but by transforming it. Not by erasing the cross, but by revealing that even the cross cannot defeat the love of God.

​ The road that began with palms and shouting did not end at the cross. The love that knelt with a basin was not buried in the tomb. The life we thought had been extinguished has broken open the grave itself.

And now the message has been placed into our hands just as surely as the stone has been rolled away.

Do not be afraid.
Christ is risen.
Go and tell!

So we ran from the garden while the morning was still breaking, carrying a story that sounded almost
impossible even to our own ears.

We did not yet know what the others would say when they heard it. We did not know whether anyone would believe us.

But the world was already beginning to change.

Look, I’ve overseen executions before. That’s not something I say with pride. It is simply the truth. This is my assignment: keep order, carry out the sentence, and make sure the crowd does not grow restless and the condemned do not escape the fate Rome has prepared for them.

After enough years, you learn what to watch for. Some men curse until their last breath. Some beg. Some scream in agony, others grow quiet long before the end arrives. Most try to cling to whatever dignity they have left, even as it slips through their fingers. This man was different from the beginning.

They brought him to us after the questioning, already pretty beaten up. The scourging had done its work. Many men do not survive it. He did.

The other soldiers had amused themselves while they waited for the order. They twisted together a crown from thorn branches and pressed it onto his head. Someone draped a faded cloak across his shoulders.

“Look,” they laughed, bowing before him, “it’s the King of the Jews.”

I’ve seen mockery before. I have heard every kind of insult shouted at a condemned man. But he did not answer them. There were no threats, no pleading, no anger.

When Pilate brought him outside to show the crowd, he said something I have heard many times: “Here is the man.” The crowd did not hesitate. They shouted, “Crucify him!”

Pilate looked irritated more than convinced, but the crowd kept shouting. The priests insisted. The moment tipped, as moments often do in a city already tense with fear. And so the sentence was given. And Pilate washed his hands of the whole mess.

They placed the crossbeam on his shoulders and led him through the gate toward the hill called Golgotha. I walked with the other soldiers assigned to the execution.

The crowd followed at a distance—some curious, some angry, some grieving. Executions always draw witnesses.

By the time we reached the hill, the sky had grown strangely dim, though it was still early in the day. The soldiers worked quickly. They had done this many times before. The sound of the hammer carries farther than people expect.

Once the cross was raised, the crowd settled into a restless silence. Some shouted insults up at him. Others simply watched. Above his head they fixed the charge written by Pilate: Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. I think it was meant to mock him. But something about it felt true.

From where I stood I could hear fragments of what he said. Not much—just a few quiet words. He spoke to his mother and to the young man beside her. He spoke forgiveness for those who had nailed him there. And near the end he spoke again, words I did not fully understand, though they sounded less like defeat and more like accomplishment. It was done!

Most men fight the end. This one seemed to receive it.

As the day wore on, the sky darkened further and the wind moved across the hill. Even the crowd grew quiet. I have watched many men die, but this was not like the others. The moment came almost gently—a final breath, his head lowering—and then it was finished.

For a long time no one spoke. The crowd slowly drifted away. The soldiers attended to their duties. The hill grew quiet again. But something about that death would not leave me.

I’ve carried out Rome’s justice for years. I know what power looks like. It is loud. It forces obedience. It makes its will known through fear. What happened on that cross did not feel like power winning. It felt like something else entirely.

A man refusing violence even as violence closed around him. A man entrusting his life to God instead of gasping for escape. And in that moment I heard myself say the words aloud before I had time to question them: “Truly, this man was the Son of God.”

I did not say it because the sky darkened. I did not say it because the earth trembled. I said it because I had just watched an innocent man absorb the worst the world could give—and answer it with mercy.

Well, I didn’t understand everything that had happened on that hill. I only knew that something true had been revealed there.

The soldiers eventually removed the body. A few of his followers carried it away toward a nearby garden. The crosses stood empty against the darkened sky, and the hill fell silent again.

But the cross he had died on… remained. And as I stood there, at the foot of it, one question refused to leave me: What kind of king rules like this—not with force, not with fear, but with a love that is so manifest, even here? Even now?

ALOHA kākou! As our Holy Week reaches its most sacred hours, we will gather at the foot of the cross today, Good Friday, where love is poured out in silence and sacrifice. Yet even here, the story is not finished. Tonight and tomorrow, we keep watch—through the stillness of the tomb, into the quiet hope of the Easter Vigil, where new fire is kindled and light returns to the darkness. And then, with joy beyond words, we greet Easter Day, the proclamation that life has triumphed over death, and Christ is risen. Our Lenten journey of prayer, repentance, and renewal finds its fulfillment, not only in what God has done, but in what God is doing, even now, among us.

THIS SUNDAY IS EASTER DAY! And we will hear the story of the Resurrection from John 20:1-18. We’ll conclude our “Witnesses on the Way” series of Holy Week sermons, hearing the exciting events from the perspective of the disciple whom Jesus loved, who ran to the tomb with Peter after Mary’s astonishing report that Jesus’ body was gone. Jesus tells his disciples to “go and tell”—and that is our assignment as well.

STARTING APRIL 19: “CONFIRMING FAITH” ADULT SUNDAY SCHOOL CLASS: We’re planning a special series of classes for anyone who wishes to be confirmed in The Episcopal Church, or anyone who is interested in understanding more about the faith from an Episcopal point of view. We’ll meet after worship in the Vicar’s Office on most Sundays from April 19 through June 28 (dates subject to change). We’ll be using the book Faith Confirmed by Peter Jackson and Chris Wright (Forward Movement Publishers). See the announcement below for more information. Everyone is welcome! I hope you will plan to join us as we explore the basics of our Christian faith and the sacraments of The Episcopal Church. It’s a great way to refresh your faith during Eastertide!

Beloved brothers and sisters, I hold you in my prayers in this most meaningful season of the church year. I ask your faithful prayers for St. Timothy’s Church, for those who lead and serve, for every member of our ‘ohana, and for your vicar. May the blessing of Almighty God be upon you and remain with you always. 

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

After everything that had happened earlier this week—the crowds in the streets shouting Hosanna and throwing cloaks and palm branches, the tension building in the city—I expected our meal to carry a special weight. Perhaps he would explain what’s coming next. Maybe he would tell us how the kingdom he’d been preaching about would finally come.

I expected him to teach us. I did not expect him to kneel in front of us.

We had barely settled around the table when he stood up. I thought he was about to begin teaching. Instead, he removed his outer robe. Then he wrapped a towel around his waist. Slowly, deliberately, he poured water into a basin.

At first no one spoke. The room felt suddenly smaller, as if we had all been pulled into something we did not yet understand. Then he knelt.

This was not how teachers behaved. This was not how rabbis treated their disciples. This was the work of a servant—the kind of work usually given to the lowest person in the household. But we had no servant present. So he began to wash our feet.

I watched as he took the feet of the first disciple in his hands. The road dust colored the water. His hands moved gently, carefully, as though this small act mattered more than any talk he might have given. The room remained silent except for the sound of splashing water.

One by one he moved from person to person. I could see the discomfort on the others’ faces. No one knew how to respond. Gratitude felt too simple. Protest felt too bold.

When he reached Peter, the silence broke. “Lord,” Peter said, pulling his feet away, “you will never wash my feet.”

It sounded like reverence, but it was really resistance. Because if the teacher knelt like this, if the master took the place of a servant, then everything we thought we understood about authority would collapse.

Jesus looked up at him calmly. “Unless I wash you,” he said, “you have nothing to do with me.” That stopped Peter immediately. He swung from protest to eagerness in a heartbeat: “Then not my feet only, but my hands and my head as well.”

But, bless my friend Peter, that was not the rabbi’s point. The point was not the washing itself. The point was what the washing revealed.

When he had finished, he returned to the table and looked at us quietly. “Do you know what I have done to you?”

Of course we wanted to say yes. We wanted to believe we understood. But the truth was that we were still trying to make sense of what we had just experienced.

“You call me Teacher and Lord,” he said, “and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.”

It would have been easier if the lesson ended there—if this moment remained something beautiful but unique, something we could admire but not imitate. But he did not leave it that way. “I have set you an example,” he said, “that you also should do as I have done to you.” That was the moment I realized how unsettling this night truly was.

Because it meant that love was no longer just something we spoke about. It was something we were meant to do. Not in grand gestures or heroic acts, but in the small, humbling ways that bring us close enough to one another to see the dust on each other’s feet.

Later in the meal he broke the bread and passed the cup, and those words felt familiar to us. We’d blessed bread before. We’d shared meals together many times. But now I see the basin came first for a reason.

Before the bread. Before the cup. Before the command to remember. He knelt.

That is how he chose to show us the heart of God. Not by claiming power, but by giving himself away. Not by standing above us, but by kneeling among us.

Now we remember that moment: the towel, the basin, the quiet shock of seeing our Lord take the place of a servant. But we also remember the words that followed.

“I give you a new commandment,” he said, “that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”

The basin was not only an example. It was a revelation. It showed us what that love looks like. Love that kneels. Love that serves. Love that gives itself away without counting the cost.

And then he said something even more unsettling:
“By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Not by our words. Not by our certainty. Not by our strength. But by a love that looks like this.

Because once you have seen the Son of God with a towel around his waist, washing the dust from the feet of his friends, you can never again pretend that love is simple, or distant, or safe. You begin to understand that this is the shape of the kingdom he came to reveal— a kingdom where greatness kneels, where authority serves, and where love, poured out without reserve, becomes the clearest sign that God is near.

I live in Jerusalem, just inside a city gate. And that matters during Passover week, because everything comes through that gate—pilgrims, merchants, rumors, and sometimes trouble.
​
By the time the festival begins, Jerusalem swells beyond itself. The streets fill with accents from Galilee and Judea, travelers sleeping wherever they can find space. Roman soldiers double their patrols. You can’t gather thousands of people to celebrate their deliverance from one empire, Egypt, without making the current empire, Rome, nervous. 

So when the shouting began that morning, I stepped outside to look. At first it sounded like any other surge of pilgrims entering the city—children laughing, people calling to one another, animals shuffling along the road. But then a single word began rising above the noise, over and over, until it rolled down the street like thunder:

Hosanna. Save us!

Now that word carries some history with it. Every child in Israel knows it. Every pilgrim sings it in the Psalms while approaching the Temple gates. But when people shout it in the streets like that, it means something more.

I pushed my way closer to the road. Branches were being torn from nearby trees—palms, mostly—and waved above the crowd. Cloaks were coming off shoulders and being spread across the dusty road. It looked less like a procession and more like the beginning of a festival.

“Who is it?” someone near me asked.

“The prophet,” another answered. “The one from Galilee.” Others added their own explanations: the healer, the teacher, the one who had raised the dead.

And then I saw him. At first just the top of his head above the crowd, the slow movement of people stepping aside. Gradually the road opened enough that I could see him clearly.

He was riding a donkey, a young colt, stepping carefully through the cloaks and branches people had thrown onto the road.

I remember feeling a strange mixture of excitement and confusion, because this is not how kings enter cities—and on a donkey!

Oh, I’ve seen Roman officials arrive before. When they come, soldiers clear the road first. Trumpets sound. Horses stamp the ground. Power makes itself obvious. This man—Jesus, they called him—entered quietly, almost gently, as though he did not want to scare away the very people shouting his name.

But the crowd did not quiet. If anything, the noise grew louder.

“Hosanna to the Son of David!”
“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”

They were singing the Psalms—the ancient songs we always sing when approaching the Temple gates. Words about salvation. Words about the day God would finally set things right. And suddenly those words felt less like a memory and more like a possibility.

I will admit something: I shouted too. It is hard not to be swept up into hope when hope moves through a crowd like that. When thousands of voices cry Hosanna, it begins to feel as though history itself might finally be turning.

But even as I waved a branch with the others, something about the scene unsettled me. Because I had seen men claim to be deliverers before. They gather followers, whisper plans, and stir the anger already simmering among the people. And Rome crushes them every time.

This man did none of that. He didn’t shout instructions. He did not raise his voice. He simply rode forward, looking out over the crowd with a calm I could not quite understand.

For a moment he passed close enough that our eyes met. And I had the strangest feeling—not that he was taking in our praise, but that he was already carrying something heavier.

Some of the religious leaders had come out to watch. I saw them standing at the edge of the crowd, whispering among themselves. One of them muttered, “Do you hear what they’re saying?”

Yes! We all heard it. Hosanna. Save us!  But that word is more dangerous than it sounds. Because when people shout Save us, they are usually imagining exactly how they want to be saved.

Save us from Rome. Save us from taxes and soldiers. Save us from humiliation. Save us from all this waiting for God to act, waiting for God to answer our prayers.

But what if God answers differently than we expect?

The procession moved deeper into the city. Cloaks covered the road like a patchwork carpet. Children ran ahead of the donkey, laughing and shouting the same ancient words: “Hosanna in the highest!”

And I found myself wondering something I had never wondered before: what kind of king chooses to arrive like this? Not with force. Not with fear. But with a humility that almost looked like weakness.

When the crowd moved further into the city, I stayed behind a moment. Branches people had been waving were beginning to droop in the morning heat. The road was being cleared, started looking ordinary again—just dust and stones.

Yet something had shifted. All day people kept asking the same question:

“Who is this?” I was asking it too!
​
Some answered confidently: “This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.” Others said more quietly, “The Messiah.” Still others shook their heads and said, “Trouble.” I did not know which answer was right.

All I knew was that this man had entered our city in a way no king ever had. He
accepted our praise, but he did not command it. He received our hopes, but he did not
promise to fulfill them the way we imagined.

Looking back now, I wonder if that road we covered with branches and cloaks was more than a welcome. Perhaps it was the beginning of something we could not yet see.

Because this king did not come to seize power. He came to reveal something far less expected. The crowd wanted a moment, they wanted a king. But he was beginning a journey—a journey that would move from cheers to silence, from palms to a cross, from hope shouted aloud to love poured out completely.

This day feels like a celebration, and it is. But it is also the threshold into the rest of the story.

Because once you have shouted Hosanna to a king like this, the question that follows is not only whether he will save us.

The question is whether we will follow him
wherever this road leads next….

ALOHA kākou! Throughout Lent, we’ve been learning to walk more honestly with God through wilderness places, questions at night, and moments of deeper truth and healing. Now our journey turns. This week, we follow Jesus as he enters Jerusalem—not quietly, but with a shouting crowd, with waving branches, with voices raised in hope. The road that stretches before him will lead through joy and tension, through love and loss, and ultimately toward the mystery at the heart of our faith. Palm
Sunday is not the end of Lent, but its threshold. It invites us to step fully into the story we have been approaching all along.

THIS SUNDAY we’ll begin our Holy Week sermon series, “WITNESSES ON THE WAY” (see more about this below), as we hear the events recorded in Matthew 21:1-11. Seen through the eyes of one who stood along that road, we can imagine the energy and hope of that moment, along with the deeper question it raises. The crowd believes they understand what kind of king is arriving. But Jesus enters in a way that quietly challenges those expectations. As the week unfolds, we’ll see that the road ahead will lead somewhere very different than anyone imagined. This Sunday, we take our place among the witnesses and ask: what are we expecting? And are we ready to follow where this road leads? Please join us Sunday at 9 a.m. in the Chapel, or on Facebook Live.

LAST SUNDAY the Gospel lesson from John 11 told the story of Jesus standing before the tomb of his friend Lazarus and calling him back to life. We reflected on what it means for Christ to call us out of the places of darkness, grief, fear, and silence that can hold us captive. We saw that God’s power is not only about life after death, but about new life breaking into the present moment, as we listen again for the voice that calls each of us to step forward into the light of God’s grace. Have you heard that voice this week?

ST. TIMOTHY’S HOLY WEEK SCHEDULE: I hope you can join us throughout the week as we journey with Jesus to the cross, the tomb, and beyond.

• On Thursday, April 2 at 6:00, we’ll have our Maundy Thursday service.
• On Good Friday, April 3, our services are at 12 noon and 6 p.m., and after the

noon service, Rev. David Ota will lead the liturgy of the Stations of the Cross.

• On Saturday, April 4, our Easter Vigil service is at 6:00 p.m., a glorious liturgy

with Holy Baptism.

• And our Easter Day service is at 9 a.m., followed by fellowship and the Keikis'

Easter Egg Hunt!

​I look forward to our journey together to the most important day of the church year: the
Resurrection of our Lord.

COMING SOON: CONFIRMATION CLASS! I’m planning a Confirmation Class for anyone interested in being confirmed in The Episcopal Church, or anyone who is simply interested in understanding more about the faith from an Episcopal point of view. We’ll meet after worship in the Vicar’s Office on most Sundays from April 19 through June 28 (subject to change). And we’ll be using the book Faith Confirmed by Peter Jackson and Chris Wright (Forward Movement Publishers). See the announcement below for more information. Everyone is welcome! I hope you will join us.

Beloved brothers and sisters, I hold you in my prayers in this most meaningful season of the church year. I ask your faithful prayers for St. Timothy’s Church, for those who lead and serve, for every member of our ‘ohana, and for your vicar. May the blessing of Almighty God be upon you and remain with you always. 

Aloha Ke Akua!
Rev. Pete+

Witnesses on the Way: A Holy Week Invitation

As we enter Holy Week, we step into the heart of the Christian story: the final days ofJesus’ life, his suffering, his death, and his resurrection. This year at St. Timothy’s, I’ll be sharing a sermon series titled “Witnesses on the Way.”

Each sermon will be told from the perspective of someone who was an eyewitness. None of them fully understood what they were seeing at the time. But together, their voices will help us walk the story as it unfolds.

We’ll begin with the crowd welcoming Jesus into the city with palms and shouts of Hosanna. On Maundy Thursday, we’ll kneel with the disciples as Jesus takes a towel and basin in his hands. On Good Friday, we’ll stand at the foot of the cross and witness a love unlike anything the world expects. Then, in the stillness before dawn at the Easter Vigil, and again on Easter Day, we’ll encounter the mystery of the empty tomb and the beginning of new life from the perspective of one who was there.

Holy Week is not only something we remember; it is something we enter. Like those first witnesses, we come with our questions, our hopes, and our need to see more clearly. I hope you will join us as we walk this road together.

—Rev. Peter+

There are moments in life when we try to pretend everything is fine… and everyone around us knows it isn’t. Like, you spill coffee all over your shirt as you walk into an important meeting, and pretend the stain isn’t there. Or you trip walking up the stairs and quickly blurt out, “I meant to do that.” I confess I have done those things in my life!

One time in a church service I was attending, during the prayers of the people, somebody’s cell phone went off—unfortunately that happens, doesn’t it? But the ringtone was Marvin Gaye’s song, “Let’s Get It On.” It took a good while before all the stifled laughs faded away. The guilty party, and you could see who it was with their face blazing with embarrassment, looked around as if to say, “Who did that?”

We have a great talent for brushing things off, smoothing things over, pretending a moment isn’t as awkward or uncomfortable as it really is. Sometimes that talent is harmless.

But sometimes life brings moments that simply cannot be brushed aside. Moments when cheerful encouragement feels hollow.

Moments when someone tells a grieving person, “Everything happens for a reason,” and instead of comforting, it just stings.

Moments when what we need is not explanation, not optimism, but presence.

Most of us have stood at a grave—or its emotional equivalent—knowing that someone we loved is gone. And that’s where today’s Gospel begins.

Lazarus, one of Jesus’ beloved friends, is dead. Not ambiguously. Dead for several days, long enough that decay has set in. His sisters are grieving. The community is gathered. The tomb has been sealed.

And Jesus, the wonder-working Rabbi and close friend of the family, arrives…way too late. What do we do with that?

This Lent, we’ve been learning to live authentically before God, even in the hard places of life. Now, Lent brings us to the hardest place of all: the place where authenticity costs us emotionally. The place where love risks loss.

Martha meets Jesus first. You know Martha--practical. Direct. Honest.

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

That sentence carries so much—both faith and disappointment, trust and grief intertwined. Notice what Martha does not do. She does not pretend. She does not soften the truth. She brings her real feelings directly to Jesus.

That is what it means to live authentically before God.

And Mary follows. She collapses at Jesus’ feet, weeping. No theology. No explanations. Just grief.

And then something extraordinary happens. Jesus weeps.

That fact is in one of the shortest verses in Scripture—and one of the most revealing. Jesus does not rush past sorrow. He does not spiritualize grief. He allows himself to be moved, shaken, undone by love.

Authenticity looks like this too. Not detachment. Not artificial composure. But honest love that refuses to armor itself against pain.

Ezekiel’s vision that we heard read reminds us that God is not afraid of dead places. Dry bones scattered across a valley—lifeless, hopeless, beyond repair. And yet God asks the prophet a question that still echoes today: Can these bones live?

Ezekiel answers wisely: “O Lord God, you know.”

That answer is the posture of Lent. Not despair, but trust.

Well, Jesus stands before Lazarus’ tomb and asks that the stone be rolled away. Martha protests—she knows the smell of death. She knows the reality. She is not wrong.

But Jesus does not deny the reality either. He asks her to trust him anyway.

“Did I not tell you,” he says, “that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” Then Jesus cries out with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out.”

Come out of the darkness! Come out of the tomb! Come out into the light!

And Lazarus comes. Alive!

But notice this: Lazarus does not come out fully free. He emerges bound like a mummy in grave clothes. Alive, yes—but still wrapped in the remnants of death.

So Jesus turns to the community around him, and gives them a command,“Unbind him, and let him go.” This is where the story becomes about us.

Yes, God gives life. But the work of unbinding—of releasing one another from what still constrains us—is communal work. It requires patience. Courage. Love. Together.

This is the culmination of our Lenten journey. Living authentically before God does not mean avoiding grief or pretending we are stronger than we are. It means trusting God enough to bring our whole selves—even our dead places—into God’s presence.

It means becoming true of heart, even when the truth is painful.

And it means loving in ways that risk being hurt. Ways that can cost us.

Jesus knew what would happen next. He knew that raising Lazarus would accelerate his journey to the cross. Love always costs something.

That is where Lent leaves us—not with easy answers, but with a deeper invitation:

Where in your life do you feel sealed behind a stone?
What grief have you learned to manage rather than bring before God?
Where might Jesus be standing, weeping with you, even now?

The promise of this Gospel is not that everything will be fixed quickly. It is that nothing—not even death—lies beyond the reach of God’s love.

Next Sunday, we will wave palms and shout hosannas. We will tell the story of triumph and procession. But before we get there, Lent asks us to linger here—at the tomb—with Jesus. To stay long enough to notice that resurrection does not bypass grief, and that love does not avoid suffering.

Living authentically before God means trusting that even our dead places can be brought into God’s light. It means becoming true of heart—not only when life is hopeful, but when it is broken. It means believing that God’s power is not shown by avoiding death, but by meeting us within it.

Have you sat in a dark room for a long time? At first, you can’t see anything. But slowly, your eyes adjust. You begin to make out shapes. You learn how to move around. And after a while, the darkness doesn’t feel so strange anymore. It feels… normal. Until someone opens the door.

Light pours in—and instead of relief, your first instinct is to turn away, cover your eyes. It’s too bright. Too exposing. It reveals things you had learned to live without seeing. And yet—that light is the only way you can truly see what is real.

When Jesus stands before the tomb of Lazarus and calls, “Come out,” he isn’t just calling a man back to life. He’s calling him out of darkness into light. Out of what is familiar into what is true. Out of what is safe into what is alive. And the same is true for us.

During these 5 Sundays of Lent, we have been learning, step by step, how to live more authentically and honestly before God. In the wilderness, we learned to stop hiding and to trust God’s promises. With Nicodemus at night, we learned to trust enough to be born from above. At the Samaritan well, we learned to name our true thirst. And with the man born blind, we began to learn how to truly see.

And now—now we are called to step into the light. Not just to understand. Not just to see. But to come out, to leave behind what binds us. To step into the life God is already calling us toward.

And that step may feel uncomfortable at first. It may even feel overwhelming. But it is the only place where an authentic life with God can begin.

So as we move toward Holy Week, the question we face is, are we ready to step into the light? Let’s get it on!

​Amen.