A Different Kind of Palm Sunday

Yesterday was no different in that I still found myself on the way to church to participate as pianist in the morning worship service. What WAS different, however, is that there were only 6 of us there, keeping the 6-foot protocol between us. What WAS different is that the service was live-streamed instead of just “live.” And what was also different is that on this particular Palm Sunday, there was no pomp and circumstance, no loud hosannas, no palm branches, and certainly no children marching down the aisle waving them.  It was a different kind of Palm Sunday, for sure.  

But there was something else different about this particular Sunday of shouting hosannas. My path to church leads me by the local Episcopal church. In fact, it sits adjacent to the corner where I turn, so I am always aware of its presence. On a normal Sunday morning, there are cars in the parking lot, overflowing into the next. And on a normal Palm Sunday morning, there is a crowd gathered outside its front doors, with each congregant holding a branch. And each year, I would take such delight in the image of joy it presented.

But this Palm Sunday was different. Instead of many cars, there was only one. A white one. And out of it was getting a man of many years who I could tell was approaching being crippled with age. His trek was so slow as he made his way around the front of the vehicle. And in his hand was one lone palm branch. The powerful image took my breath. I turned the corner and continued to watch through the rear-view mirror. Tears welling in my eyes. My own heart shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is He Who comes in the name of the Lord!” 

I went on inside carrying with me the image, even sharing it with some there. But as I left, I knew I wanted to see where the worshiper had placed his branch. And there it was, resting on the stone altar that sits in the partially enclosed garden between the sanctuary and the educational building. 

No, there weren’t any crowds gathered outside of churches. There weren’t any loud organs piping “All Glory, Laud and Honor.” There weren’t any crowds. And there certainly weren’t any children marching down aisles waving branches. But there was one elderly gentleman with a single palm slowly making his way to the stone altar. After all, if he had not, we might have heard the rocks crying out.

“As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice ... “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!” “Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” 

He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.””

Luke 19:37-40 NRSV

Just an ordinary moment...

A Palm Sunday Reenactment

I so wish I had taken a picture of him. There he stood on the 2nd step surrounded by a host of other little worshipers waving their arms while singing songs to the top of their tiny lungs. The smaller children had processed in to "Hosanna, Loud Hosanna," waving high their palm branches, probably totally unaware of exactly what they were reenacting. They had lined up neatly on the steps leading up to the platform, smallest to tallest -- and may I just say, every one of them was cute as a button.

Even the little boy who stood in the center.

When I say "stood," I mean exactly that. While the little fellow to his right kept hitting him in his face with his theatrical waves and the little girl on his right did the same, he didn't flinch a muscle except to bat his eyes to keep them from being poked out by the drama going on all around him. I was mesmerized by him, and couldn't help but lean over to one of the children's directors and ask, "Who is that little boy?" She whispered his name to me and said, "We hardly got him to walk down the aisle; much less sing." Bless his heart, those big brown eyes just stared straight ahead.

I've always deemed myself a church girl and with that comes loving to celebrate certain days on the church calendar. One such day being Palm Sunday -- the one we celebrate today. But as a church musician, and since most of us don't gather again until Easter morning, I often find myself in a quandary as to what to play on this particular Sunday. Do I stick with the celebratory "Hosanna!" and "Glory, Laud and Honor!" or do I try to incorporate the darker pieces of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday? This morning I chose the latter and used "Go to Dark Gethsemane" for special music in the middle of the service.

I've thought a lot today about that little boy standing front and center. So stoic. So free of emotion or song. And I've wondered: did he get it? Could a child that young understand what was happening? Could he himself have been reenacting the role of Jesus? That One who entered on the back of a donkey arrayed with fishermen's coats because there was no royal apparel? That One of whom the crowd sang, "Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!" as they waved palm branches? That One whose entourage consisted of street people, mentally ill men, questionable women, and inept disciples? Could it be that He alone knew what kind of parade He was in? A parade that was leading Him straight to the cross. And to His death.

Maybe the 2 selections of music were nothing short of appropriate after all. Hosanna and Gethsemane. And maybe, just maybe, that little tyke standing front and center was the only one who really got it. And if not? Well, he certainly played his part well.

Just an ordinary moment...