“The crowds that went ahead of Him and those that followed, shouted: ‘Hosanna to the Son of David’” (John 12:12)
“Joseph took the body, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and placed it in his own new tomb” (Matthew 27:59)
“I know you are looking for Jesus. He is not here. He has risen, just as He said…go quickly and tell His disciples” (Matthew 28:5)
We hold palms and pussy willows, celebrating the Palm Sunday procession from Bethany hill across the Kedron valley through the eastern gates of Jerusalem; we reenact the joy of our Lord’s followers on that glorious proclamation of His claim to leadership as the long-awaited Messiah of Israel. We are full of joy, even if, unlike the disciples on that day, we realize full well the rollercoaster of emotions that follow and the events of that traumatic week which changed history forever.
Joy turns to grief as we play the role of pall bearers at the funeral of Life. Five days later, we emulate the servants of the wealthy Sanhedrin members, Joseph the nobleman and Nicodemus, the disciple who wanted to keep his belief in Christ secret. The Church wants us to realize the incredible and muse on what is more than a contradiction—we mere humans, who were given life through the Word of God, are taking the Source of life to the grave. We reenact the procession from Nain (Luke 7:11) of a weeping widow in the entourage from that village approached by the Lord Jesus and His disciples. There Life personified raised the boy and cheered the lad’s mother. This time it is Jesus on the bier, and we are here taking His corpse to the tomb. The disciples were in hiding for fear of their own lives. Here is where we part company with many who refuse to believe there is more to the story. What else but faith alone can transcend the logic of life ending in death? Here’s where we separate from Jews, Muslims, humanists and all other unbelievers. Death has its temporary victory—temporary at least for us.
Two more glorious processions follow. The Myrrhbearers, who had been following the procession of the Lord’s burial from a distance, could hardly wait for the Sabbath to end. They would then do a proper job of anointing the Lord’s body according to their custom. Those who have lost one they loved dearly—a parent, spouse or child—will recall the therapy of the burial ritual. Helpless, overwhelmed with grief, unwilling to accept the raw fact of death, a “survivor,” as they are called, accepts the task of a proper burial. It’s the only therapy available to assuage the awful feelings of despair. But those wonderful women who loved Jesus with such intensity were surprised with a wonderful joy. The stone had been rolled aside, the tomb was empty but for an angel who told them what had happened and ordered them to rush back and tell St. Peter and the others what they had learned. Can it be termed a procession, the lifting of their long dresses, stumbling, breathing heavily, running as best as their sandals would allow, to appear breathless before the men, with such an incredible tale? Or the response by Sts. Peter and the young John, hustling to find out for themselves what part of this story might be true?
That’s where our annual procession finds us, imitating the race of the two apostles. How different is our run to the tomb. Ours is regal, solemn yet hopeful, because we know what we shall discover. Not with the limber legs of John do we sprint ahead of the elder Peter, but rather we all follow the Cross of our Lord, because the Cross itself offers us the worst and best, the end and the beginning, the final word of life as we know it, and the first word of the Word of Life: “Christ is Risen!”