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Day 40; Palm Sunday


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So it’s technically the last day of lent and there’s a couple of thing’s to be said before I get into this picture.
Is this the end of the daily picture thing? No, I’m thinking about turning this into a 365. It might not have as many reflections, but I’ll try to keep up with them as much as possible.
Would you do this again? A million times over. I might actually do a lent diary every year from now on.
What’s coming up? Holy week, which should be pretty dramatic considering how dramatic I get during holy week. Then after that whatever catches my fancy. Special projects every once in a while. Maybe not religion related.

I sat in the pew solemnly with a bright green palm frond in my hand. Mass had not started and my mind wandered to those around me. The girls behind me with their pretty dresses and makeup and purses, the ladies in front of me chattering away. In the background a man was giving instructions as to how the procession would take place, a woman would then take the man’s place to announce the song and page number and I without even thinking about it, took the book up and followed instruction with the words flowing out of my mouth and with each second becoming more and more real. The children were called to the back of the church to follow the procession, everyone mechanically put their palm fronds up with their nice flowered dresses and smiles on their faces and looked around at where the procession was coming. I sang loudly and looked around at all the people around me with their fronds up in praise. Then as the procession approached something incredible happened.

Year after year Palm Sunday has been one of the most important days of my life. Ever since I can remember my eyes would get a little watery and seeing the people around me I too would lift my frond up and pretend to smile. I didn’t know what I was smiling for, for in that moment all I ever wanted to do was cry, and I never understood why. But year after year I bit my lip and remained smiling like all of those around me. The during the rest of the mass, we would fold and slowly peel off pieces of our fronds. In Colombia we would regale in the intricate patterns that were made from the palm fronds at the entrance of the church and were sold my little country people sitting in front of the stone facade. Everything was this way, everything had always been that way.

The procession approached and the cross was seen by my own eyes. My hand lifted up slightly with the palm frond and occasionally glancing at the song book in my other hand. My eyes began to get watery, like every other year and I attempted the same smile which all others had, but the mere attempt was completely futile. My eyes streamed with tears and I could no longer hear myself sing. My throat tied up into a tight wound knot, and I cried where all other smiled and sang.

Little old ladies stared at me and my busy hands felt weak and incapable of wiping away the tears or pushing the hair out of my face. The priest walked behind and threw holy water upon us at which point a simple sob came out of my mouth and I could no longer distinguish the words in the song book. I sniffled constantly and those around me couldn’t help but be totally weirded out.

At once I understood the phenomena that had occurred my whole life, every Palm Sunday, that perhaps no one else would or could understand. Palm Sunday to me wasn’t about praise, it was about hypocrisy. How happy we seem to wave our palm fronds on high and praise God while seconds later the gospel asks us to say "Crucify him!" again and again. It hurt me how even the disciples, Peter specially, would renounce God and crucify him with his words. It hurt me that no one stopped the murder of he who they had claimed to love and adore. It killed me that even during this event, everyone seated around me read the words mindlessly and whispered about their shoes crucifying Him once more with their indifference. Once more I could feel a pain growing in my heavy heart and I thought of how many times I had crucified Him with my indifferent actions and words. It was the hypocrisy that killed him, and now the hypocrisy that pained my beating heart.

"Are you okay?" whispered my mom worriedly. "Umm, yea mom."

That’s all I could answer.
Who was I to tell her all I thought?