First Cup—Palm Sunday

Holy Sunday: Palms

On that day, seems like only yesterday, he
rode into the city, followed by his disciples
who break into song and saluted by crowds
who break into hosannas (some of whom
will cry words different than hosanna in such
a short time).

He rode into the city toward his death.
He rode into the city on a donkey. Somehow
It was all set up—if anyone asks, just say
The master has need of it. A plan is working.
He had a sense of destination, I think.
The text elsewhere tells us his face was set like
flint.

Yet this day is an as if day. A day as
if they knew who he was or, at least,
really hope he might be who he seemed
to be—this honest, death defying, bodysoul
healer, feeder of thousands, story teller—
a day when it seemed to be about to happen.

Surely, now, the kingdom is to come. The kingdom he
proclaimed—but not the kingdom any of them
(any of us) wants. A life is summing up into weeks
and hours. Everything taught, lived, storied,
practiced is rolling to what feels like an inevitability.
No one is going to get this yet. (He cries, you know,
As he approaches the city: oh Jerusalem oh Jerusalem.)

Irony: the kingdom is not coming; it is already here,
he said. It is here and now; among you. It looks
like this—a meek man riding a donkey into
the city with people thinkinghopingdesiring
something other than the outcome: a no longer
flint set face hanging on a cross.

—amk
Palm Sunday, 2013