Palm Sunday

The procession was long and excited, snaking its way up the hill until, reaching the 1,900ft. summit of Hartside Pass we saw the sparkling hills of Lakeland – Ullswater reflecting the afternoon sun. The procession was colourful, noisy and fired up with adrenalin. Bent forward in the saddle, the driver of the bike that had hugged the back of my car on the last bent, let out the throttle and with a flash of blue in my peripheral vision he was gone. The other procession was very different – eleven of us huddled in coats walked all 120 meters from the Market Cross to St. Augustine’s. A shot of adrenalin here might have helped the hymn we sang on our way, between caught breaths – even the slight incline is a struggle for us older folk. Reaching the relative calm of the M6 this afternoon I found myself reflecting on my two processions of Palm Sunday. I was tempted to see Christ in the saddle of a BMW, wind in hair (no crash helmets in AD30!) and to dismiss the ‘remnant’ of Alston parish and our half hearted waving of palms. But that’s too easy. All those years ago Jesus entered the city on festival day with excited crowds, adrenalin and noise, but his closest attention was Thomas and Judas, Bartholomew and James – a small band struggling to understand. Hey, I’m glad I joined both processions today.