Palm Sunday

By Leo Racicot

I’m not much for religion, not a churchgoer. Every year though, I try to make it to Palm Sunday services.

I like the literal joy of the proceedings: the priests don bright red vestments for this celebratory day, the incense has a dual sensory effect; the smoke rising from the thurible to the sky of the church could, at times, be so thick, it would envelope the priest completely, the scent of it so strong, it felt like I was going to pass out but it would be a good “passing out”. I like seeing the long procession down the center aisle up to the altar, with congregants waving their lightsome palms. As a kid at Saint Patrick’s School, I well remember kids using palms as swords and old Sister Clare Cecilia trying mightily to corral them while not disturbing the services, not easy to do although, as a teacher, I observed that, with students, the immediate appearance of the principal was enough to strike the fear of God into the wildest of Indians, and into teachers. After all, it was the principal.

There was, and still is, something medieval about the ceremony, something close to primeval. The holy day does have its origins in Late Antiquity, the first Palm Sundays dating back to the 4th century. As a kid, I felt being in the midst of these rituals was a transport to another time, another world. I liked the solemnity of them, the seriousness on the face of the celebrants. It was, for me, a reflective, awe-inspiring Mass as well as a joy-filled one, and remains so. After Mass, as the congregation leaves the church and the bells ring out, I feel exhilarated, anointed, renewed…

I retain what might well be called a palm fetish. I like the tradition of parishioners being handed palms. And though church organizers now feel that one palm per person is plenty, I miss the days when whole bunches of them were handed out. Diane always liked when I could bring home several. and here in the kitchen, to my right, above me, are a few fronds framing a photo of The Last Supper which have been there for many years.  Our good neighbor, Anna, loved weaving palms into crosses and other religious symbols, I liked sitting with her at her kitchen table, watching her patiently weaving chotki (Eastern Orthodox prayer ropes), always the honeyed scent of baklava hovering nearby.   At Ms. Shea’s in Cambridge, sometimes when the grad school guys were leaving after their one-year tour-of-duty with Richard was over, they’d give me gifts as a sort of farewell; a book they thought I’d like, a stereo too big to fit in the back seat of their car. etc. My dear pal, John Dewis, as a goodbye, left me an elaborate palm frond hat he’d woven from many Palm Sunday masses. I still have and treasure it.

The funniest Palm Sunday I recall is the time an Arlington parish recruited, for lifelike effect, a male parishioner to play Jesus and a donkey on which for him to ride around the grounds and into the church. The beast was a tiny, charming, sweet-faced fellow and “Jesus” was, shall we say, a tad on the heavy side. After a while, it became apparent the donkey had had enough of fat Jesus on top of him and stopped in its tracks, refusing to budge another step. To the astonishment of the crowd, “Jesus” leaped down, literally picked the donkey up in his arms and carried him the rest of the way into the church. A memorable Palm Sunday, to say the least…

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Palm Sunday procession

Altar Boys lost in incense smoke

Jesus carrying a donkey

Palm hat made by John

Anna weaving palms at her kitchen table