Because here’s what we know: as the light grows longer, the shadows stretch too. We don’t always talk about that part. But it’s just as real. That’s why, alongside the candles, we introduced another Lenten practice on Ash Wednesday—one you may remember, or may have quietly walked past on your way in or out of worship.

We call them Shadow Prayer Boxes—and they’ve been available near our worship spaces all through Lent. But on Ash Wednesday, they were up front for the first time. During that service, Pastor Rebekah spoke about the book of Lamentations—a book full of honest grief and sorrow. She reminded us of something that might sound strange in a culture that avoids pain: that lament is holy. That we don’t have to rush to resolution. That God meets us not only in joy, but also in heartbreak, and confusion, and longing.

So that night, we handed out blank cards. And we invited you to write “shadow prayers”—the things you’ve been carrying, for yourself, your family, your community, or the world. And we placed those cards in locked boxes, trusting that they would be held, even if they were never spoken aloud again.

Since then those boxes have been right there—quiet, steady, near the doors. Maybe you wrote something weeks ago. Maybe you added one recently. Maybe you didn’t know they were there. But I want you to know this: your pastors—Rebekah, Barbara, and I—have been praying over those boxes each week. Not reading the cards, not knowing who wrote what, but holding space for what they represent. Praying for you. For your shadows.

I’ve personally been carrying those prayers with me every day—literally and spiritually. I don’t know what’s inside, but I know what they mean: they are witness to the truth that many among us are walking through things we cannot always see. They remind me that even the brightest path can still be touched by darkness. That every light, no matter how steady, casts a shadow.

And today—Palm Sunday—is the day those two realities come together.

Luke tells us that as Jesus approached Jerusalem, he sent two of his disciples ahead to find a colt. Not a war horse. Not a stallion. Just a young, ordinary animal.

It’s such an intentional choice. It’s not flashy. It’s not triumphant in the usual way. Jesus enters the city humbly, vulnerably, knowing full well that he’s stepping into danger—and into the heart of human pain.

And as he rides in, the disciples begin to shout. The crowd gathers. People lay down cloaks in the road. There is joy! There is singing! There is genuine celebration. But the shadow is never far behind. Luke includes a moment the other gospels don’t. As Jesus nears the city, just after the celebration begins, he pauses. He looks over Jerusalem—and he weeps.

I wonder if it’s because he could see what was coming. He knew how misunderstood he was. I imagine he could sense the hurt the city holds and the pain that will unfold. And even as the crowd cheers, Jesus knows: the light is lengthening, yes—but so are the shadows.

He doesn’t turn around. He keeps going. But he weeps as he walks into it.

And something about that has always stayed with me. Jesus doesn’t force joy. He doesn’t deny pain. He allows himself to feel the full weight of what’s ahead, and still—he moves forward, toward us.

This whole season, we’ve been exploring what it means to Come Back to Life. Not just spiritually, but emotionally. Physically. Relationally. And if we’ve learned anything through these weeks of candles and prayer, it’s that coming back to life is not a tidy or linear process. Sometimes, coming back to life feels like celebration. Sometimes it feels like weeping outside the city gates. Sometimes it feels like writing a prayer on a card and trusting God to hold it. Sometimes it feels like lighting another candle and daring to hope.
And sometimes—let’s be honest—it feels like both at the same time.

That’s why I love the Psalm we read this morning. Psalm 31 is a psalm of lament. It says:

“Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress…
My life is spent with sorrow, and my strength fails…”

The psalmist is not pretending. This is not feel-good-at-all-costs faith. This is raw, real, spiritual honesty. And yet—right there in the middle of that grief—the psalmist says:

“But I trust in you, O Lord. I say, ‘You are my God.’
My times are in your hand.”

Not “My life is great.” Not “Everything is fixed.” Just—“My times are in your hand.”

That, to me, is what Holy Week faith looks like. Not certainty. Not perfection. But trust that even in shadow, we are not abandoned. So, let me ask you gently: Where are you seeing light in your life right now?
And where are the shadows?

Maybe this Lent opened something new in you—a shift in perspective, a step toward healing. Or maybe it’s been hard. Maybe you’ve felt stuck, or sad, or afraid. Whatever is true for you—there is room for it here.

Because Jesus enters all of it. The praise and the pain. The celebration and the sorrow. The hosannas and the heartbreak. And he doesn’t just visit those places—he stays. He walks the road through them. For us, and with us.

In the days to come, we’ll gather again—at the table on Maundy Thursday,
in the shadows on Good Friday—reversing the rhythm we’ve kept all season, as the candles are extinguished one by one, and for a moment, we will sit in darkness. But it will not be the end. Because here’s the truth:
The shadow never gets the final word. Not in this sanctuary. Not in your life.
Not in God’s story.

And so today, we wave our palms, we sing Hosanna, and we light candles—holding fast to the hope that love is stronger than death,
and trusting that God is moving, even in our sorrow. And we remember:
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.
Even when it’s hard to see what’s ahead.
Even when we carry unspoken prayers.
Even when we don’t know what to say.

Blessed is the one who comes.
And blessed are you, who come—with your light and your shadow,
with your trust and your doubt, with your longing and your love.

You are not alone. Your prayers are held. Your burdens are carried.
And the light is still growing. Thanks be to God. Amen.