Palm Sunday
“We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here in the old dispensation…” T. S. Eliot, “Journey of the Magi”
We process behind the red robes, palm fronds held tenderly. Entering the church, the potted palms, the Holy Water, all of it Smelled of the temperate valley. Was the ass the old white horse? We begin with the instructions of where to find the upper room And prepare in joy the ancestral meal. But soon the betrayal and we learn that we were not led here For exuberance, we are part of the play. We cry to be given Barabbas and exhort the crucifixion Incited by our betters, Not even confused by our transformation. The three trees on the low sky loom ahead. We have entered the Passion play and part In anticipation of the week ahead and how the drama Will be relived as it has for two-thousand years. We will bear witness to the grisly death and In the burst of light, new life. All manner of things shall be made well again. And the palms, they will return to our houses, Placed in drawers or behind pictures, Or on windowsills to bear the coming storm. In the Spring, we will repeat the cycle and In the Sun’s focused light, the palms, like ourselves, Return to ash and renew.
We have entered Holy Week and in an odd juxtaposition I am drawn to rereading Eliot’s “Journey of the Magi.” The poet’s images rattled around in my head as we went through the Palm Sunday service this past weekend, shook a little harder and this came out - I hope you enjoy.