Green cardboard palm leaves, nearly as big as their standard bearers, wave in a double row up the aisle of the church.
“Hosanna, Hosanna” chirps the smallest in the kindergarten class as they are led and coaxed up to the front of the Sanctuary.
Bemused smiles are exchanged by various church members as their tiny, sweet voices repeat parts of the Easter week story. Then the grade 3’s and 4’s take over and set up a market. An enthusiastic “Jesus” sends it flying as he exclaims ,“My Father’s house is a house of prayer and you have made it a den of thieves.” An uninformed parent in the back row, gasps and says “Oh no!”, then realizes it is part of the presentation.
The Junior High class sets the pace for the story. Each member reads the appropriate scripture over the mike. At the front of the Sanctuary the grade 4’s and 5’s take their place. The obvious unease of this older group is evident to all of us but gradually they become absorbed in their acting. As each speaks the familiar passage, a hammer falls again and again on a cross that’s partially constructed. Each nail drives home the fact that this is not a pretty story.
Then the cross is raised and a crown of thorns placed over the top, resting on the cross bar.
In that instance, for me, all was changed. The children and their voices disappeared. I sat transfigured as the agony of the moment washed over me. I could almost feel the piercing and bruising of the thorns. My heard ached with a sadness I could not explain and tears filled my eyes. For that moment I felt I stood before the crucified Christ.
Then, swiftly, the scene changed and there before me were the children, peering into the empty tomb. Their voices on stage proclaiming, “He is not here, He is risen.” Then, the whole Sunday School, joined in joyfully, “He is risen, He is risen!”
The corners of my mouth lift as their chorus fills the Sanctuary.
A simple, unsophisticated, childlike Easter pageant… yet, God had somehow used its very simplicity to reach out and touch my heart.
