Palm Sunday

As he approached Jerusalem the walls rose ahead of him. Walls for protection. Walls for boundary setting. Walls for politics.

The green of the palm trees stood in colorful contrast to the tan-gray walls.

The blue of the sky gave a framework over and around it all.

The people lined the street. Some were in the trees. Children ran along beside the donkey and between the disciples accompanying him.

But he was alone in the middle of all the noise and hub-bub. The palms laid in front of him got brushed aside by all the movement.

Was he smiling? Was he praying? Was he periodically looking toward heaven wondering what in God's Name he was doing this for.

He passed the garden at the bottom of the hill, rounding into the valley before making one last ascent to the Golden Gate ahead of him. Olive trees ancient already gave a brief shadow from the strong spring sun.

He was triumphant. Or was it an illusion? Was it an act of what we now call "guerrilla theater" or was it a defiant throwing down of palm leaf gauntlets?

Here I am.

I Am.