Remembering Palm Sunday

Exactly a year ago today, I lived in Jerusalem and participated in the reenactment of Christ's triumphant arrival in Jerusalem. I found this entry in my journal describing my experience. I only wish that my journal entry was as poetic and moving as the experience itself.

As we walked up Mt Scopos to the Mt of Olives, our Palestinian neighbors sat outside on their porches to become spectators of this Christian tradition of Palm Sunday. Finally reaching the Mount of Olives, we became part of the growing stream of hundreds of people. Among the congregation were several different languages and national flags waved through the air. Hundreds of Christians mingled on the Mount Olives - diverse people from all over the world became united in this one celebration.
As appropriate, I bought a green frond that I carried throughout the trek. While waiting for the procession to begin, I remained close to a Spanish band playing a catchy tune. I joined in for the chorus because it was repetitive and simple enough that even I could mumble along. Then the crowd began to walk downhill towards Jerusalem: past the Jewish cemetery, Dominus Flevit and the garden of Gethsemane. I looked behind me as I descended and all I could see were thousands of pilgrims waving green fronds and flags - it was a river of people stretching endlessly to a distant vanishing point. It was at this moment that I realized the magnitude of this event. As our journey led us to the Kidron Valley, we now had to walk uphill to reach our final destination. The sun was bright and it was crowded, so I was hot and sweaty when we reached our destination: St. Anne's Cathedral. Palm Sunday in Jerusalem...it's surreal.