Palm Sunday. Green branches waving. "All Glory, Laud, and Honor." Lots of Hosanna-ing.
But no children's procession. Sometimes my church does a children's procession. Sometimes it doesn't. We're the flexible, changeable sorts of Presbyterians. You know, mix it up. Keep things fresh. Surprise the punters in the pews. I imagine God approves, since He/She/They seems to enjoy surprises (earth-encompassing floods, the writing on the wall, Daniel and that lion, burning bushes, virgin births, the whole resurrection thing--this is clearly a God longing for a surprise party).
I might need a more predictable God. The thing is, I really really like the children's procession. I miss the children's procession. Palm Sunday just isn't Palm Sunday without it. I'd like to think it's for deep, spiritual reasons, not just the "awwwww" factor. See, those kids stumble down the center aisle, and they embody us, we questers of the Divine, in all our various stages and manifestations. You know, you've got the kid who races down the aisle, and there's always the kid the teacher has to carry, the little ham that charms the congregation, the totally serious one who is intent on waving that palm branch is just the proper, prescribed, Presbyterian way and who is visibly annoyed by all the non-conforming palm waving all around her (yes, yes, I do identify with that kid). . .
My all-time favorite Palm Sunday was years and years ago, a lifetime ago, back before marriage, before the Ph.D., before the move Down South--another time, another place, another life. A graduate student at Northwestern, I had joined the Presbyterian church in downtown Evanston. It was my first Presbyterian church, and my first (and only) experience of a distinctly swanky congregation. The kids in the Children's Choir, for example, were decked out in red choir robes, complete with the circular white frilled collars that always reminded me of those paper frills you put on a crown roast. (To contrast: in my current church, the kids in Children's Choir definitely gravitate to the Casual section of the Children's Department: shorts, tee-shirts, sweat pants, the occasional soccer uniform. . . ) As one would expect, the church had a fabulous adult choir, filled with paid professionals (which always struck me as cheating, somehow). So the choruses of "All Glory, Laud, and Honor" resonated throughout the faux-Gothic sanctuary with carefully articulated and beautifully modulated precision, as the robed and frilled children processed up the aisle waving their palm branches. They all then gracefully folded to the floor, to sit out the welcome and opening hymn, before singing their anthem. The minister, a young, good-looking charmer with a gorgeous wife and three lovely kids, stood up and began the Welcome portion of the liturgy, which centered on the theme of embracing the Prince of Peace. And at that point, the pastor's son--a sturdy, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, four-year old--flipped his palm branch around so he was holding the stick-like end, and proceeded to transform it into a machine gun and massacre the congregation: BUHBUHBUHBUHBUH. So much for the Prince of Peace.
I was the only one laughing. Which is probably why I don't belong in a swanky congregation with children dressed up to look like Christmas dinner lamb chops.
All glory, laud, and honor
To thee Redeemer King;
To whom the lips of children
Made sweet hosannas ring.
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