I still love parades. I suspect this is the child in me that has never fully grown up. I love the music, even though the bands seem always to stop playing just before they reach me so that I have to settle for the beating of the drums. I love the floats, and because I grew up in a simpler time, the floats don’t need much glamour to get my attention. I even enjoy watching the marching groups, representing a variety of organizations and causes.

            I’m fortunate in that I’ve never watched a parade that evoked a negative reaction. Sometimes I’ve heard someone in the crowd mutter about a particular banner or individual or institution, but never very seriously.

Mixed voices at the parade

            But the parade I want to report on this morning is quite another matter. Its basic tone was as jubilant as any parade you can imagine — full of hope and excitement and enthusiasm. Yet even as the parade developed, a cloud of disaster began to take shape in the crowd.

            The parade to which I refer is the oldest parade in Christian history, the event we call Palm Sunday. It isn’t surprising that so many churches choose to have a miniature parade as part of the worship celebration on this day, with children coming down the aisle carrying palm branches. And at the same time, it isn’t surprising that this particular Sunday has two names in our general church calendar: Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday — names with very, very different moods. Stay with me, then, while I te

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