Holy Week arrives. Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey, palm branches strewn; disciples, strangers, love him and cheer, but finally turn away. Loyalty morphs into fear: the crowd condemns the man of justice, a counter-cultural man with a message of love.

Who would I have been in the crowd? If I had rushed to the noise, to the screaming, what words would have fallen or spewed from my mouth? I ponder the thought.

We walk before Mass, the lot of us - parishioners diverse and noisy, some silent; a community of hope. My son meandering away walks with the crowd. I hold back, accompanying my friend whose legs move more slowly than they once did.  We walk the neighborhood, around the building that feeds the hungry of our community each day – no matter their faith or lack of it. We feed them.  

This morning we carry palms: smooth blades, blessed and fresh. Walking, the People of God – we are imperfect, stragglers, helpers.

The sun casts shadows on our return to Church, down a small hill. Bagpipes lead us and the wailing notes echo off the bricks. As the choir sings, we crowd back into the building, eager souls who listen to the Word, awaiting this week of Passion, humanity’s defining pilgrimage.

Let us begin.

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