Processions: the Ancient Way

It is Palm Sunday. Here in our Barrio, and, I think, all over Mexico, Palm Sunday processions look the way a corner of your heart knows they should be: openly down the main street, throngs of people celebrating, waving greenery, church folks, priests, deacons, altar kids, vested, a grand affair all around. Non church folk speeking out and watching: envious? or scoffing?

Here, the procession is forming a couple blocks up the street. The altar boys and girls are tearing around the parish office, sacristy and garden, collecting their vestments, candles, books, cross, and other necessaries, and running (do children EVER walk?) up to the corner. The head of music brings my Deacon a program, he grabs his alb and stole and heads for the corner.

Sadly, I will miss most of these doings, saving my energy for mass at the Cathedral. I'm just getting over a little sick spell, and THAT mass is going to be HUGE- packed from wall to wall and fence to fence, even the extensive patio will be filled, so packed you can't even wiggle through. We'll have to get there early, stash me in the sacristy, and stay there until it's over, and hustle out before the next mass starts.

Palm Sunday has been a claustrophobic's nightmare for me since 1961 when I went to that mass in the Cathedral in Morelia while expecting #3 and nearly got smushed in the crowd. Now I let my Hero run interference for me. Enter deeply into the season. While I know we are all capable of betraying the Lord, I don't believe we run with that crowd anymore. I believe our palms and praise are from the heart!