PALM SUNDAY

Palm Sunday has, over the last few years, begun to hit me right in the solar plexus - it gets me right at the core of my very being. In one service, we go from celebration and welcoming and waving our palms in the air as we process around the streets of New York sharing our Good News - to the reading of the Gospel that forces us to "Crucify him!" - to a silent, organ-less, service ending hymn that speaks to the very hardship of what it means to be obedient to death, even to death on a cross, and what it means to be a son pleading with his father while at the same time having an other-worldly understanding of "not my will, but Yours be done." It so quickly moves from rejoicing to that moment of knowing that the mourning is soon to come. It is the tears of joy in welcoming one that you hope will save you to weeping for what is about to be done. It's an emotional turmoil. An aching in the heart that will rest, and stay, and wrap its arms around your beating life until just one week from now when the awe, and the rejoicing, and the love that passes understanding will begin.