Thoughts, Prayers & Art

Originally Published: April 15,2025

Dear Friends in Christ,

As we walk once more the sacred road of Holy Week, I write with a heart both heavy and resolute. I know you feel it too—the ache of the world pressing in, the sacred weight of our calling, the unspeakable sorrow we carry for the people we serve and the suffering we witness, near and far.

The groans of the earth do not go unheard by us. We hear the cries—from Gaza and Sudan, from border towns and prison cells, from hospital beds and homeless encampments. We hear the anguish in our parishioners’ voices, the tremble of fear in young people who don’t see a future, the exasperation of the faithful who wonder why justice still seems so far off.

We hold these cries in our bodies, in our sermons, in our prayers. We absorb the stories, and we show up anyway. That, dear friends, is sacred. That is priesthood. That is the Gospel lived out in flesh and blood.

But I beg you—tend to your own humanity this week. Jesus, knowing all that was to come, paused to be anointed. He allowed himself to be loved, even as the shadow of the cross loomed. So must we. You are not the Savior. You are the witness. You are the vessel. The Gospel does not require your burnout; it asks only your faithfulness.

Take a breath. Drink water. Step into the sunlight. Call someone who knows your soul. Cry if you need to. Laugh if you can. Honor your limits. Let the silence hold you when words fail.

Remember: the prophets were not popular. Jeremiah wept. Elijah fled. Amos was silenced. Jesus was executed. And still, the truth of God pulsed through them like fire shut up in their bones. Do not be surprised when your truth-telling provokes resistance. Do not be discouraged by critics who distort your love for justice into partisanship or pride. We stand in a long line of those who were misunderstood—yet faithful.

We preach resurrection not because we are naïve, but because we have known death intimately. We proclaim hope not because we ignore the darkness, but because we have stared it down and found the tomb still empty.

So, beloved, let us walk this Holy Week with courage and compassion—not only for the world, but for ourselves and one another. You are not alone in this ministry. You are not unseen. You are not forgotten. You are precious in the eyes of the One who knelt to wash feet and broke bread with the weary.

Let the story of this week also be your story. One of heartbreak, yes—but also of tenderness. Of betrayal, yes—but also of fierce love. Of agony—but also of rising.

Stay faithful. Stay grounded. And if you falter, know that we are holding the vigil with you.

With love and solidarity in Christ,

The Very Rev. Allison Burns-LaGreca

Rector, Sister, Friend in the Struggle and the Resurrection