The courage of crowds

I've always felt uneasy about Palm Sunday. That's the opening line of the sermon I preached today in church. It seemed more forcible now, somehow, as we absorb the news from Ukraine, but even as a child when I learned how that week ended, I felt the brittle nature of the palm-waving celebration of the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem.

That uneasiness seemed reflected in the differences within the normally predictable liturgy, with readings at different times, even the sermon coming earlier in the proceedings. The congregation seemed small - did people stay away because the rules about mask wearing in places of worship have been relaxed? The church was cold, the sunlight outside weak. And I talked about the courage of crowds, and the necessity to stick up for what is right when we find ourselves alone. I also did quite a bit of singing; by the time we came home for a heat and a coffee I felt totally drained.

Later we went for a short walk (almost exactly two miles) round the Toward Point road, and noticed another two flagpoles in different gardens flying a saltire and a Ukrainian flag, their colours matching the gorse and daffodils against the blue of the sea along the coast near the lighthouse. And then we came home and indulged in the unheard-of luxury of posh* ready meals - a lasagna and a moussaka that I'd stashed away in the freezer for Himself when I was away on the Holiday That Wasn't and which we now need to eat because the freezer is crying out to be defrosted. They were extremely delicious, as was the nice Italian red wine we drank with them.

I've just watched the end of The Ipcress File, which I think I understood a little better than I did the film. It would help, however, if I could stop dropping off at odd intervals...

Blipping the view from my pew while I sorted out in my head what happened when in the service this morning.

*From Donald Russell, Butchers.