Month: April 2025

Scripture: Luke 19:37–40; Luke 23:1–5; John 18:36
Holy Week Devotional by Rev. Philip Allred

Holy Week begins with a parade.

However, this is not the type of celebration Rome would have envisioned. Rome showcased its generals, military triumphs, and displays of power—processions filled with soldiers, war horses, and trophies from victory. In contrast, Jesus enters Jerusalem on a humble colt rather than a war horse. He carries no weapons but instead brings humility. His procession features the ordinary and the overlooked. The crowds proclaim, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!”—an inherently subversive claim, for in the empire’s eyes, the title of king already belongs to Caesar.

This marks the initial indication that Holy Week represents a confrontation. Instead of swords, it involves truth; rather than violence, it embodies love. Jesus does not shy away from the world’s powers—he boldly approaches their stronghold, declaring through both words and actions that another kingdom has arrived.

Throughout the week, Jesus turns the symbols of the empire upside down:

• He enters the Temple not to uphold religious respectability but to disrupt its collusion with political power.
• He washes his disciples’ feet, refusing the ladder of dominance and choosing instead the basin of servanthood.
• He shares a meal, not with elites, but with friends—some of whom will betray and abandon him—proving that love is not earned but given.

On Good Friday, the empire does what empires always do: it silences dissent, this time with a cross.

They call him a threat to national stability. They say he’s undermining public order. They accuse him of inciting revolution.

And in a way, they’re right. He is leading a revolution—not with legions, but with love. As Brian Zahnd says, “Jesus didn’t come to start a religion; he came to start a revolution. Not a revolution of violence, but of love.”

This Holy Week, we’re not just remembering a story. We are being invited to live it.

The empire’s narrative is still alive in the world today—in systems that oppress, ideologies that divide, and the lies we tell ourselves about who matters and who doesn’t. To walk the way of Jesus is to reject the ways of empire—whether that empire looks like nationalism, violence, racism, exploitation, or any system that crushes the vulnerable to protect the powerful.

However, Holy Week presents a contrasting narrative: embodying the subversive gospel includes

• Choosing forgiveness when the world demands retribution.
• Showing mercy when the culture demands judgment.
• Standing with the vulnerable when empire protects the powerful.
• Loving enemies when the world teaches us to fear them.
• Carrying a cross, not to punish, but to redeem.

This is not just a nice idea—it is a different way of being human. A different way of ordering the world. A different kind of kingdom.

The cross is not just where Jesus died. It’s where the values of empire go to die. And the empty tomb is not just about life after death—it is about life before death, a new kingdom breaking through.

So, as we walk through Holy Week, may we see it not as a series of rituals but as a revolution. May we find ourselves caught up in the story of a God who defeats violence with peace, hate with love, and death with resurrection.

Let us walk this week not as spectators but as disciples—people shaped by the subversive nature of a different kind of king.

By Rev. Philip Allred

I recently returned from a pilgrimage to Argentina, a journey that was as emotionally difficult as it was spiritually rich. We sought to learn from Methodist churches and those who experienced one of the darkest periods in Argentina’s history- the military dictatorship from 1976 to 1983 that led to the disappearance of 30,000 individuals.

I listened to a man speak about his parents, who were taken by the regime and never returned. I stood in a former military base turned museum filled with faces—thousands of the disappeared—all tortured, all killed. Then I learned something that made the grief heavier: the U.S. government helped fund and train the Argentine military behind it all.

I left that day asking deep questions:
What is the Church’s role in the face of political extremism?
When do we speak up?
How do we discern the truth when even history itself is contested?

These aren’t abstract questions. Today, Argentina wrestles with the same divisions we do. Some deny the scale of the atrocities. Others cling to a version of history they believe restores order. And the Church is caught in the middle—divided, weary, and still trying to be faithful.

I thought of Jesus’ words:

“By their fruits, you will know them” (Matthew 7:16).

Truth isn’t just a claim; it’s what endures. It’s what produces justice, humility, and compassion. That’s the truth we must live by.

But alongside that grief, I also encountered something holy. I saw radical hospitality.

We were welcomed like family in a church, not polished and pristine like American churches. At this church, we enjoyed a prepared meal, sang together, and shared with them in laughter. I noticed they were organizing children’s programs—not to boost attendance but to bring hope to the community. Another church launched job workshops aimed at helping people achieve dignity and earn a living. Yet another church trained former sex workers and unhoused women in sewing to provide income for their needs and their families.

These communities weren’t wealthy. But they were rich in presence. Their ministry wasn’t flashy—it was faithful. This kind of hospitality was beautiful to experience. I was reminded of the early church in Acts 2:

“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer… And they had everything in common.”

True community is not just programs—it’s people, showing up for each other. Creating space. Sharing what they have.

As I reflected on the political and social complexities I witnessed in Argentina, I found a mirror of our own challenges. Just as they wrestle with contested histories and deep division, so do we. Some churches there are deeply engaged in political advocacy. Others avoid politics entirely. Some lean more conservative; others more populist or progressive. But like them, we are asking: How do we follow Jesus in a politically fractured world?

I believe the Church must not perfectly align itself with any one ideology or party. Instead, we must evaluate every policy and every power through the lens of Christ—through the call to love, justice, and humility. Sometimes, this means we will align with a particular group or movement for a time, but our allegiance is never to them. Our loyalty is to the way of Christ, who calls us to stand with the vulnerable, speak truth, and pursue the peaceable Kingdom above all else.

Here’s what I’m bringing back from Argentina, which I will be processing in the coming months:

• Truth matters—not for argument’s sake, but because real lives are shaped by it. The Church must be a voice of clarity and compassion in a world of spin.
• Hospitality is Resistance—against despair, against division, against apathy. It’s what makes the Kingdom of God tangible.
• Kingdom allegiance means no tribal allegiance. Not red. Not blue. Not purple. But the radical love of Jesus, who sided with the least of these.

As Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn said,

 “You can resolve to live your life with integrity. Let your credo be this: Let the lie come into the world; let it even triumph. BUT NOT THROUGH ME.”

My prayer is that spin, lies, and disinformation come to an end with us! Let us be known not by our opinions or party but by our courage to tell the truth and our commitment to breaking bread with our neighbors.

Let us be a Kingdom Church where Christ is King, honesty is sacred, and the table is always set.