PALM SUNDAY (Written on March 25, 2009)

For the Lectionary (what's a lectionary?) of April 5, 2009: Mark 11:1-11

 

Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, "Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!

 

PALMS by Larry Patten

Soon there will be fists.

But first there were palms. Open. Fingers spread. Waving.

With those palms waving, did the hoarse voices shout, “Look at me, look this way!” Or were the loud words, “I see you! Thank you!” Wouldn’t that second variation be closer to the Biblical Hosanna!

Hosanna! Palm Sunday!

Did those witnessing Jesus’ arrival wave leafy branches or palm leaves? (Only John mentioned the palm tree, the—in Greek—phoinix)? Some, according to several of the Gospels, placed cloaks on the road. Whether it was a few people or a rambunctious crowd, the Gospel writers depicted the greeters honoring Jesus. Honor tempered with humility, however. There’s that colt he’s astride rather than a stallion girded for war. And the cloaks on the ground were, well, cloaks. Nothing fancy. No red carpets. No paparazzi.

When I imagine the scene, I see palm leaves waving that suspiciously look like palms grown near where I live. Maybe I’m imagining the popular Chilean Wine Palm? We have lots of them in California’s Central Valley. In Jesus’ day, in and around Jerusalem, there were only palm trees with dates. If you’ve been to Hawaii, perhaps you associate palms with coconuts. No coconuts in King David’s Holy City.

Which is fine. All across Christendom, as we celebrate Palm Sunday, the branches used will be local, mail-ordered, or substituted by paper replicas made by the Sunday school classes. Or even any old green branch that’s handy.

But I also think of my hand when I think of Palm Sunday. Your hand. All hands. That’s very handy.

And so when I imagine Jesus on a colt headed toward Jerusalem’s walls, I also see human palms waving. Open. Fingers spread. Dirt encrusting the fingernails and the skin hardened by calluses. On more than a few, digits are missing. On others, arthritis twisted the fingers together like intertwined ivy. The children’s palms have soft, pink skin.

Here Jesus comes. The arms rise. Palms wave.

How much we use our palms. Every day. Every possible way.

We shake hands, palms wide open, and recreate the ancient custom of revealing that no threatening weapon is held.

Two millennia ago or today, adults show children how to count by first using fingers. Palms open. One. Two. Three.

For many, the tradition of love places a rounded piece of metal on the “ring finger.” There, open your hand. See!

Two hands come together, fingers overlapping, and the people on the inside or the steeple on the outside can be cleverly created.

With a darkened room, a bit of light, and a wall to cast shadows on, open hands help tell stories. Shadow puppets with flying birds and dancing rabbits.

The beggar stretches out a hand.

High five and we celebrate.

The open palm cradles a child’s head at baptism. Cups a piece of bread at communion. Tenderly washes a disciple’s foot.

It’s not all good, of course. “Turn the other cheek,” Jesus implored. And what was that other cheek turning toward? An open hand hard against flesh. Or worse.

But we close our palms.

Why do we make fists? I watch people when they are frustrated. Clenched fists. I watch people when sadness overwhelms them. Knuckles from a tightened fist swipe away tears.

And, always, fingers bunch together like strands of a hangman’s rope because of anger. A hidden palm, now fist as rock, forges a horrific weapon. Observe a crowd with raised fists. Be very afraid when that happens. Be wary of the closed hand, the streak of white across the knuckles because hatred or jealousy stretches skin and soul so tightly.

Palm Sunday revels in the human hosannas. Cloaks on the ground, greenery joyfully brandished, and everyone’s hands—young and old, believers and doubters, dreamers and cynics—waving a greeting.

Here he comes. He’ll solve all our problems. Make everything right. Here he comes. He’s a problem. And a threat.

All those Palm Sunday hands will become Friday fists. All of them. Except One with outstretched arms.

in Peace,

Larry