Nick Bundock preached at the 9am Holy Communion service at St James.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen
Psalm 118 begins, “O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his mercy endures for ever.” And as we get towards the end we read these extraordinary lines: “Bind the festal procession with branches, up to the horns of the altar.
There’s a sacred journey at the heart of this Psalm—a movement towards the altar, towards sacrifice, towards the presence of God – and it is this Psalm that the crowd sings on the first Palm Sunday as Jesus makes his way towards Jerusalem. It’s a psalm about steadfast love, about doors opening, about stones rejected and then honoured, and about trusting in God rather than princes.
And I find myself standing here, on this Palm Sunday, on my last Sunday at St James, feeling as if I’m in my own kind of procession.
It’s not exactly triumphal – no waving of cloaks or palm branches as I came in this morning – but there is a kind of holy procession in leaving a place you’ve loved. It’s not about fanfare; it’s about walking with faith, even when the road bends towards something new and unknown. And it’s about turning and looking one last time at the place that has been your home for twenty years.
It’s strange how the lectionary can so often give us exactly what we need without us having chosen it. Because I hear Jesus in Luke 19 sending his disciples to fetch a colt – “The Lord needs it.” A borrowed animal, a borrowed parade, a fleeting moment of recognition. The crowd cheers, the stones almost cry out, and Jesus rides not to a throne but to a cross.
And I think, this is what ministry has always been. It’s never been about the grandeur. It’s always been about the road. The journey. The walking with people. The living with people. The stubborn hope that love will win in the end.
This is the road we’ve walked together for twenty years. Some of you were here at the start. Some of you joined in the middle. Some may feel like you only just arrived. But you’ve all been part of this procession.
And it’s not over, of course. The story continues, because the story is God’s.
But today, I need to pause long enough to say thank you.
Thank you for welcoming me into this church family when I arrived as a much younger man, full of ideas, carrying both excitement and a fair bit of nervousness (and naivety). Thank you for letting me grow into my calling here – for letting me make mistakes, for helping me find the courage to lead differently, for staying through moments of profound change.
We’ve travelled through joy and sorrow, through heartbreak and healing. We’ve
baptised, married, and buried beloved friends. We’ve dared to become more inclusive, even when the cost was high. We’ve laughed, sung, wept, and prayed – sometimes all in the same service.
And underneath it all has been this faithful rhythm – this holy liturgy of being church together.
Palm Sunday reminds us that every ending in the Christian life is also a beginning. That even the road to the cross is also the road to resurrection.
So what do I want to say as I step off the road here, and others carry it on?
I want to say: keep walking. Keep trusting the story, even when it’s hard to believe. Keep waving your palm branches, even when the world says it’s foolish. Keep walking towards the altar, even when it feels like sacrifice.
Don’t be afraid of the next chapter. The God who has been faithful through these past twenty years will be faithful still. And just as Jesus rode into Jerusalem not on a warhorse but on a colt – a symbol of peace, of vulnerability, of humility – so too the church is called not to power, but to love.
That’s what we’ve tried to do here. Love well. Love extravagantly. Love at cost.
I’m not saying goodbye today. That’s for Easter. And even then, it won’t be a goodbye in the truest sense – because the bond of Christian love doesn’t dissolve with distance.
But this is a farewell to this altar, to these walls, to the quiet stillness of the 9am
Eucharist. And I will miss it and I will miss you.
You have been my home. My teacher and in many ways, my salvation.
The Psalm says: “This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
It’s not an easy thing to rejoice while letting go. But I am glad and I’m grateful beyond words.
And maybe that’s why the people cry out as Jesus enters the city – not because they understood everything, but because they felt something in their bones. That something holy was happening. That love was moving among them. That the story was reaching a turning point.
That’s what I feel today. So let me end simply, with words that are inadequate but sincere:
Thank you. I love this church. I will carry you with me always.
And now, together, we walk once more to the altar. Amen.
