On Palm Sunday morning in Cooperstown, the streets were cold, windy, and mostly empty. Then, a miracle. As if fire alarms had been pulled, people poured out of four major churches, marched through the streets, and converged into a congregation of four hundred in the middle of Elm Street. In two hundred years, the village had never seen its like of this.

As a member of a notably small minority (the Quakers), I got to march with the Presbyterians. And during the worship I got to read the Gospel _ proclaim it, really (with the help of good amps), out over the smiling, shivering crowd.

That street service was astounding. Waiting in the Presbyterians’ chapel to begin the march, I glanced down toward St. Mary’s and reported to Katie Boardman, ``The Catholics are massing down the street!’’ Without a second’s pause, she asked, ``High mass or low?’’

Again, by the time all had gathered, we had a crowd of about four hundred, buzzing with scores of happy conversations carried on across denominational lines. These were Cooperstown friends and neighbors, but they sharing something more: joy in commemorating Christ’s last entry into Jerusalem; and foreboding, too, with the darkness of Good Friday gathering on the horizon.

How wonderful! These varied Christians had put aside doctrinal clashes and were melded in their common beliefs, the really important ones. And how different from past times, when Christians stuck to their own turf or growled suspiciously at one another like dogs across common property lines.

But these people had all marched out of their churches to share, and then marched back with a deepened sense of their own beliefs. Who says the Spirit no longer moves among us?

The disparate Christians did so at the leading of their pastors, who’d gathered to plan the event. I think the hero of the day was Father John Rosson of St. Mary’s. For years he’d lobbied for such a meeting, not of minds, but of hearts and spirits. This year he succeeded, God bless him, backed by the strong support of Christ Church’s new rector Mark Martin and the other clerics. Father Mark, a grand addition to Cooperstown, was the master of logistics, arranging for chairs to be delivered, a brass consort to accompany the hymns, a program to be distributed. And he got the willing cooperation of Mayor and police in closing off Elm Street.

How stirring was the event’s hometown pageantry! First, the marching congregations merged on Elm Street, right in front of the McGoldricks’ house. (They kindly powered Rich Brown’s amps for us.) Those converging crowds, said one wag, reminded him of the film, ``Gangs of New York,’’ in which rival mobs meet in the streets to battle it out. Except that these folks didn’t converge for battle.

They met to embrace.

The United Methodists had the longest walk, all the way from Chestnut and Glen Avenue. (They’d planned to bring along a donkey, but it fell sick at the last minute; they did bring a Methodist lamb.) The Episcopalians cleverly slipped down the alley beside their church, crossed Fair Street, and cut through the Presbyterians’ cemetery to Pioneer. The Presbyterians (with invited Quakers) just walked out their own front door and down Elm. And the Catholics, bless them, emptied their church right onto Elm and walked down to the site behind Father Rosson, who held a rustic cross made of birch branches.

The colorful part of the pageantry was in the clergy’s vestments. Leading the Christ Church contingent, Father Mark, a tall and dignified man in a scarlet cope, looked like Cooperstown’s cardinal archbishop. He was preceded by a crucifer, candle-bearers and other robed acolytes carrying the palms. Hands down, they took best-in-show.

But Father John came in second, in his own scarlet cope and with that eloquent cross, and with Deacon Randy Velez to back him up. And Dr. Miriam Hathaway, whom Presbyterians have come to love as their interim pastor, came in third with her handsome purple stole; her church also gets the blue ribbon in the banner category. Methodist pastor Sundar Samuel and yours truly were rather drab entries; though, in sturdy overcoats, we were the warmest. I forgot to say that Father Mark also had his censer along; and so the blessing of palms by all the clergy took place in clouds of sweet smoke, with Fathers Mark and John also flinging holy water over the big crowd. (I think I saw some Calvinists flinch.) Then, after a moving homily by Bassett chaplain Betsy Jay, the congregations parted and marched off with their palms, back to their own church services.

And, oh, friends, a perfect final touch: While palms were being distributed, a group of schoolmates, come together from the different churches, got hold of some big, leafy palm fronts. And, lining up alongside each other, the boys did a stadium wave. How the Lord must have loved it!

READ ABOUT Atwell’s book, From Fly Creek, Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country, at JimAtwell.com.