Hosanna

Another reflection for Palm Sunday:

What of those children lining the streets.
Caught up in the adults’ excitement.
A festival or feast day for them.
A family day out.
With a special picnic.
For once they could be noisy in the presence of adults.
Because the adults were being noisy too.
For once they weren’t being told to simmer down.
They’d probably rarely seen adults so uninhibited.
Letting their hair down.
Throwing their heads back in unbridled mirth. The children had known from the beginning this Jesus was a hero.
It was great that the adults had finally caught on.
All those times they’d been in trouble for staying out beyond supper because they’d
followed Jesus around.
Now maybe their folks would finally understand.
There was just something about this guy.
But then Sunday was over.
And the week stretched ahead.
Things went quiet.
Eerily quiet.
There was something wrong.
It wasn’t just the anti-climax that often follows excitement.
This was an an unnatural quiet, a quiet that signaled something not good.
The adults were whispering again.
In little groups.
Closing up as soon as the children appeared.
They were used to adult’s secrets.
But there was something different about these secrets.
They felt bad.
And so the week dragged on.
It was almost a relief when the crowds gathered again.
Although it was ugly, at least it was a resolution of sorts.
And how ugly.
How could folk turn so quickly and so completely?
Is that what happens to adults?
They follow each other.
All good together.
And all bad together just as easily.
What happened to those partying folk?
Now they were yelling at the children, and yelling at each other.
And especially yelling at Jesus.
Crucify him.
Crucify him.
What had he done in a week to so turn their minds.
From hero worship.
To a blood thirsty rabble.
The children would never understand the vagaries of adult minds.

Liz Crumlish 2008