I stood in the chancel of our sanctuary wearing muddy sneakers on Sunday. (and for those of you who will say “no one noticed or cared!”, you’ve obviously never worked in a church. Someone will always notice. Once several years ago, I got the evil eye from a pianist during the service because I had slipped my shoes off while playing the horn. Someone will always notice). By the time I noticed it, I was already seated and the service was about to begin, so I had no recourse but to stand there in my choir robe and muddy shoes.

I stood there, trying desperately to not think about my shoes, as the children’s choirs processed down the aisle. Clad in their little robes, singing, and waving palm branches. I watched them take their place at the front of the sanctuary and begin to sing. I’d heard this song 1000 times. I’d heard these same children sing this same song countless times in the weeks leading up to Palm Sunday. But, this time was different.

I forgot about my muddy shoes. All I could think about was the antiphonal unison (is that a thing?) of their little voices saying “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” and suddenly my muddy shoes didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to me more in that moment than to help them grow to love the Lord and understand just a small portion of the love he has for them (us). The love that led him, on a donkey, into a city that would turn on him 4 days later. The love that led him down the dusty road lined with people waving palm branches in an excited victory cry that quickly turned to shouts of rage and hate.

The love that led him to the garden on a Friday night. The love that led him to the cross and the cold tomb. And the love that led him out of the tomb and out of death and defeat on Sunday.

The love that stood in our place, the love that became that which His Father despised, all so we could become holy, righteous, and redeemed.
I looked at these children, most of whom I’ve come to know and love with a part of my soul I thought had died, and suddenly, my muddy shoes didn’t matter.