PALM I
“Hosanna!”, they shouted, their arms raised to the heavens,
their hands grasping the central vein of palm leaves. The palms fluttered in a rippling tunnel
beside him as he passed through the city gates.
Children wove their way between the legs of old men, their little arms
cradling palm leaves. They bent down, pushing through the crowd to the dusty
path where the donkey would pass, laying the leaves, lattice-like before the
beast of burden, like an ancient red carpet.
“Hosanna” they cried.
“Save now!”
Finally, on this day
in Jerusalem, Jesus the Christ would profess his royal lineage. Finally, Hosanna,
they thought he would save them from the political control of the Romans.
They did not know he would not save them from the Romans.
More importantly, he would save them from themselves.
On this Sabbath day, Palm Sunday, I hold a fresh green palm
leaf in my hand. My fingers trace the
sharp edges, all the way up to the brown tip, then back down to where the color
is the hue of newborn green. I imagine
myself there, in that city, and I wonder where I would have set my feet that
day. I wonder if I would have been a
believer, or a doubter, or a believer of half truths, or even a Roman. I pretend I am old and infirmed and I have
lifted myself from my bed, down the steps f my humble home to the street. Frightened by the motion of the mass of
people, yet compelled to join them. I
imagine myself a weary mother, wondering what all the fuss is about, wiping my
hands on my apron as I peer out my window.
I imagine I am a child, my legs curled around the trunk of a tree, my
arms stretching up to the tender part, pulling leaves out and letting them drop
to the ground below, calling to my friend to hurry and gather them before
strangers took them. I imagine the smell of sweat swirled in the dusty dry air,
stirred up by crowds of people. I
imagine the bray of a small white donkey, the shadow of a man whose cloak will
no longer hide his face.
Jesus Christ entered Jerusalem that day, one last time, and
set the wheels in motion for his own demise.
He was, of course, fully aware that this was the beginning of the
end. Such a celebration for so much
sorrow!
PALM II
I sat at church this morning, my head bowed as the Deacons
walked between the rows, offering the bread and water to we who believe and
desire cleansing. I sat there and held
my hands in my lap, my palms facing up.
Fingers fanning out, like palm fronds.
I traced with my eyes the life lines, and head lines, and heart lines on
each hand, curling the fingers up toward the thumb to make the lines press
deeper in the palms. I pondered the
mystical mind that puts weight on the length and strength of flesh lines; who
foretell the future according to the lines in the hand. I was reminded of the desire of the human
heart to find purpose, and direction, and meaning. Some of us find it in faith, others in
fortune and mysticism. Some pick,
piecemeal, bits of this and bits of that to suit their imaginations. Still some
drink their coffee and read the paper and pay no mind to faith.
I sat there, during the passing of the Holy Sacrament this
morning and spread the fronds of my palms out, interweaving my fingers into
each other…one hand into the other, and tucked them tight into a cluster of
prayer.
PALM III
She clenched her hand against her breast, the corners of her
shawl wet with her tears, her throbbing chest rising and falling with the moans
that fell from her lips. She stretched
her head upward, to the cross, where the weight of her son pulled at the nails
in his palms. His blood dripped to the ground, like sacred rain, sucked into
the thirsty earth. Her head bobbed
between the upward gaze and the demands of a mother heart that would not permit
her to watch, so she lowered her head, then lifted, then lowered again in
fitful sobs. And yet something in her told her to abide, despite the grotesque
scene…to look upon him while yet he breathed, and to stay with him through the
pain of death as she had shared that communal suffering at his birth. Full
circle. She ached to hold him, to lift
his weight, to kiss his hands and his feet and cleanse them with her
tears.
He looked on her, the cradle of his flesh, and called to
her, quieting her heaving shoulders with the safety of his living words.
He spoke to John: “Behold, thy mother.”
I do not know how they may have removed those nails when the
deed was done. Some special tool, created no doubt for such atrocities, that
would provide leverage to remove these things.
I imagine his mother’s hands, kissing those wounded palms, wiping them
clean, but unable to remove the hole.
Big, gaping holes through which we all must pass.
I imagine, without really being able to imagine in my human
condition, the moment those fingers sprang to life. I close my eyes and I am Mary, running toward
him, our hands outstretched, palm meeting palm in a sacred grip, my palm against his palm, my fingertip
fitting perfectly in the well of his wrist
.
Tokens of love. Scars He chose to keep. Never
ending circles of mercy, left for proof to all the worlds, that while he could
have saved himself, he would not save himself.
Instead, he ties us all to Home with sacred threads passing through the
palms of his infinitely loving, compassionately wiling, strong and gentle and
blessedly holy hands.
Beautiful.
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