Streams of Mercy

I joined the church the Palm Sunday of the year I was in the sixth grade, at First Presbyterian in Harlan, KY. After weeks of study in what was then “Communicant’s Class,” the time had come!

I remember my white dress with the tiny blue flowers, the scratchy crinoline that made little girls’ dresses stand out so pretty and full in those days, and the new, shiny black patent leather shoes that Mama scuffed on the sidewalk before I wore them, so I wouldn’t slip and fall. I remember the procession of palms – how we laid them at the foot of the large, wooden cross, already banked with dogwood or redbud or whatever was blooming at that time in the mountains. I was in that same church long enough to see my own children celebrate in the same ways, and the choir always sang “The Palms” as the anthem on that special day.

I remember Palm Sunday at Ginter Park Presbyterian in Richmond, VA, during my seminary years. The entire congregation would gather on the church lawn, to process in together, behind a team of liturgical dancers, with the choir, waving palm branches and singing “Hosanna! Hosanna!” I remember the liturgical dancers taking one step forward and two steps backwards, bearing witness Jesus’ growing concern with what he was facing, as well as his commitment to God’s will for him.

I remember the community Palm Sunday processional in Rustburg, VA, making its way through the little village, following a donkey with a purple robe on its back. Choirs and ministers wore robes and stoles. Confirmation classes from the Methodist and Presbyterian churches walked together and carried banners. There were babies in strollers, folks in wheelchairs, and young children pulled in wagons. There was joyful singing as we walked along together, waving our palm branches. After breakfast at that year’s host church, we went our separate ways to Sunday School and to worship, blessed by our time together, and the congregation providing the donkey got it safely back to pasture!

We all have our personal memories of holy times and places that deepen and enrich our journeys of life and faith, and it’s important that we remember them. We have, as well, the journey we make together as a faith community each year.

We’ve come a long way since we began the journey on Ash Wednesday, with the solemn call to “remember that we are dust, and to dust we shall return”, as we received the smudge of ashes on our foreheads. Today, as we arrive at the threshold of Holy Week, our journey takes a dramatic turn. The pace quickens, conflicts become full-blown, fear, anger, uncertainty and struggle deepen, and there’s a sense of gathering darkness. Palm and passion Sunday is a strange mix of a day. There’s a joyful procession of praise and thanksgiving, but there’s also a dark shadow which hangs over the whole of the day, for the one who rides into Jerusalem is the one who will die on the cross one day soon to come.

While we stand with palm branches in hand, we stand before the mystery of the cross on this Palm and Passion Sunday. What happened to Jesus was all according to the definite plan and purpose of God. Jesus will be the lamb slain for the salvation of God’s people. His will be the blood of the true and final sacrifice, poured out for forgiveness of sins, to redeem and to restore the relationship between God and all people.

May God bless our journey through this Holy Week, to the cross, and on to the joys of Easter morning.

Elizabeth