Arriving as a preamble to Easter week, Palm Sunday always held an almost-dearer place in my heart than the big resurrection day – partly because I’ve always enjoyed the anticipation more than the actualization, and partly because palm fronds were a part of that morning’s church service. After every winter, their essence of newness, their bright but quiet canary color, edged with the freshest and slightest sliver of green reminding of how recently they had been cut. The palm fronds were a tangible bit of the hope of spring, the hope of Easter, there to be held in our hands and blessed by a Holy-Water wielding priest.
When I was an altar boy and serving on this day, I’d follow the priest around carrying the bucket of Holy Water as he traversed the entire church, dipping and swinging his wet scepter over his eager audience. It felt healing and hopeful, and at that young age I readily believed in such magic. That belief was enough, that trust was a source of confidence even if none of it turned out to be true, even if we had all been duped. The belief was what mattered, and there would be nothing to shatter it for years to come. I was lucky that way.
Today palms no longer represent the Sunday before Easter. They’ve gone back to their plant kingdom, assumed places of artifice and background beauty. They signal California sun and shadowy noirish films of sepia-toned warmth and decadence. A far cry from the innocence of Palm Sunday – and maybe it wasn’t never all that innocent anyway. The story of Jesus begins taking its darkest turns this week. Maybe the palm was a signal of warning, or portent. Such drama is always appreciated in these parts, particularly when it’s the drama of appearance. The world is harsh enough. Let’s cloak it in palm fronds, in freshness and green and all things spring.
