Inspired by Luke 19:28-40
Dear God:
I remember the smell of palms.
I remember walking into church on
Palm Sunday morning and
Smelling the freshly cut palms.
It was a subtle smell but distinct like
Freshly cut grass or
Strawberries right out of the garden or
Almonds.
It was the sage of Easter with hints of Hosanna and victory over the grave.
This year I smell the dread that lingers with the palms.
The hint of decay that comes from a grave.
This was theater of the soul
- a spiritual gesture to the powers and principalities -
that mocked those who would assume to be King.
They marched on the Temple.
They chased out the money changers
and gatekeepers;
the liars and the lie makers;
The, now, interrupted demagogues who
who encouraged the abuse of those they called unworthy;
who deflected their blame by
pointing at the blameless from
other lands and
other religions; those
whose bodies they used to
build the foundations of their
Empire with
the blessing of those who damned themselves
when they called themselves
Religious.
This small group marched on this Temple in
Chicago. I mean
St. Louis. I mean
Cincinnati. I mean
Kansas City, I mean
Jerusalem and they
Shut it down.
They shut
It
Down.
Eventually, the soldiers acting as police were set on them.
They were beaten and spit on by offended mobs.
They killed one of them; one of their leaders but
first there were Hosannas
celebrations and the possibility of
change. There was hope
as there was dance and there was hubris and humor but something
Happened
Between Palm Sunday and Good Friday; as Passion faded
and fear began to insist on a reality that needed the
profit made from souls sold to
prop it up and something turned and the
Hosannas were mumbled.
The smell of freshly cut palms still lingered.
Speak your Hosanna.
Yell it if you can.
Scream it when they beat you.
Hosannas all over until...
