Palm Sunday Procession!

The Jerusalem cross fluttered behind a wall topped with barbed wire. This was the Christ I’d come to know, here in Jerusalem: marginalized, beaten, maligned, sidelined; caged in behind walls of other religions, boxed into churches. Christ competing for space. So as Palm Sunday approached, I’d been apprehensive. The overt walk down the Mount of Olives into Jerusalem seemed like some clownish parade. The sadness of believers, the smallness of Christian life here, is overwhelming. I didn’t want to take part in some spectacle, to add to the ridicule.

But as soon as I stepped behind those barbed wire walls, as soon as I saw palm-lined arches and heard lilting “Pentecostal Palestinian” music, as I floated under dancing flags and fluttering pennants, and glided into the church where “Hosanna Rex Israel” was inscribed around the windows, as I saw Mother Teresa’s sisters (and mine) from Calcutta, then I came alive! Jesus had really been here! Right here in Mary and Martha's home town of Bethany on the Mount of Olives, soon after raising Lazarus from the dead, Jesus had laughed and shouted and encouraged the screaming crowds who spontaneously made a red carpet for Him from their cloaks! Jesus had told the righteous leaders to get lost, saying that if these people didn’t yell hosanna, the stones would, for heaven’s sake!! 

I saw the altar painting of Jesus riding the donkey amid throngs of people; then I walked outside and joined them - crowds of all ages, nationalities, ways of life, under smiling skies – and my eyes flooded with tears! This was real! I wasn’t joining in a parade; this was a pilgrimage! What a difference there is between those two words.  I was following His footsteps.

And so I did, with ten thousand others, down the winding road of the Mount of Olives, waving hundreds of palm branches, singing in Latin or Arabic or German or any other language of the world. Babies and grandmas, friends and strangers, young monks with guitars, older, limping men; giggling girls with curly hair and shining black eyes, trying to squeeze through to the front; bands blaring, tambourines beating, palms swaying, hands clapping, some people doing a circle dance all the way down the long, long road.  We paused where Jesus wept over the city, beside a tiny church shaped like a teardrop, designed by a famous Italian architect. Ahead of us were the gates, the Beautiful Gates, where the Messiah was prophesied to enter – they’ve been bricked up for centuries. (No longer needed, I say!) We moved on. 

You had the “Jesus on a donkey” guy, whose photo you could take for a dollar (I missed him, thankfully – he looked like a waxwork figure, I heard); you had the Filipino group with t-shirts specially made for the day – very nice too. You had the Mormons, shiny, young and American with a bit of Jerusalem syndrome hovering over them. You had the Koreans, well organized and fervent but glowing as they belted out “Because He Lives” in their language. Paul and a happy Nigerian danced side by side to the Koreans' singing, and shook hands at the end! Brothers from Africa. We processed on. I heard Oliver’s newly-deep voice beside mine, singing “I am the Lord of the Dance, said he”. “A catchy tune!” said Oliver.

Elliot, at 15, felt held back, restricted, overcome by the crowd. He was one of those who slipped down the edges, making his way to the front. It would take time to get there. The entire hillside was one enormous, long procession, engulfing the road. I was nervous, I must confess. It was a big crowd and I hoped he wasn’t feeling lost. But just like Jesus at about that age, Elliot needed to get lost in the crowd, needed to lose his parents for a bit, so that he could find himself.  When I reached the gate to the city, there he was, relaxed, with shining eyes, smiling at me. “I wasn’t worried!” he said.

We entered the gates with thanksgiving. Long-suffering priests marshaled us to the sides of the garden so that the procession could continue on and on and on, as it flowed through the archway of St. Anne’s church, into sanctuary. This was the church of Mary’s mother – Jesus’ grandmother - where the final prayers were to be offered. As we passed “the birthplace of the Virgin Mary” I thought about how Mary would have felt on that day. Every Mom likes some control, but hers was quite, quite gone. Her Son was much more than hers now. What did “Hosanna” mean to Mary?  How fitting that this procession should end at Mary’s mother, Anna’s, domain.  That’s where you’d go on such a day if you were Mary.

We stood in that archway, clapping and cheering to more “Pentecostal Palestinian” music. Pilgrim groups came through, belting out their own songs, but as they passed under the arch they hesitated, then caught the new melody, and with great big grins, joined in the new song. (I thought how much like heaven that will be; you arrive with your own words and worship but soon hear the different tune, catch on, and join in that more beautiful, united one!) Hosanna!!

And then it happened. The thing that makes a liturgy into an epiphany.  I saw Jesus! As the vibrant young woman beside me cheered and ululated with the high-pitched trill of the land, I watched pilgrims respond with joy at her welcome, and there He was. I knew in that moment: these people are Jesus! After all, He said to His followers, “You are my body. You are my hands and feet. You are my heart.” And there we were, cheering as Jesus Himself entered Jerusalem!

Last came the church patriarch, who in pictures looks stern and tired. Today he was radiant, smiling, waving as if to friends, his traditional deep red clothing trimmed with white lace and a fuchsia pink overlay, complete with perky hat rosette!  We just glimpsed him, and then he was swallowed up by the crowds on his way into the church. Jesus had entered Jerusalem and was coming to pray at Anna’s house before heading on to Friday.