Blessed Is He Who Comes - Palm Sunday (Photios Kontoglou)

Blessed Is He Who Comes - Palm Sunday 

By Photios Kontoglou

What noise and turmoil is heard again around us! The world, like a stormy sea, groans and rages — with revelries, with sleepless nights, with wicked feasts where people dance and get drunk, devouring one another with their eyes, celebrating without fear of God, “clouds without water, driven about by winds; autumn trees without fruit, twice dead, uprooted; wild waves of the sea, foaming up their shame; wandering stars for whom is reserved the blackness of darkness forever” (Jude 12–14).

Just as sin raged shamelessly in the time of Christ, so it rages now, “feasting without fear;” so now its storm surrounds, just as then, the few who walk, sorrowful and silent, behind Christ who goes to be crucified. And He turns and says to them: “Do not fear, little flock!” “Do not be afraid, My little flock, My few sheep, surrounded by wolves who howl day and night!”

Who are these few who follow the poor little donkey? They are the “weary and burdened,” to whom the One riding on the donkey said: “Come to Me, and I will give you rest!”

But where are You going, Lord, among this merciless world, with the donkey that walks slowly on its bare feet among the iron vehicles that stand like fortresses before it and will crush it if it stumbles? Where are You going, and You lead us behind You as well, barefoot, hungry for bread and for love? Two thousand years You walk with the donkey! Look beside You! Iron houses rush past, as tall as the Temple of Solomon, roaring terribly and breathing fire from their mouths. Look above You! Do You not see how they tear the sky like lightning, these terrible scorpions that carry men, horses, chariots and take them to the four corners of the world? Where are You going then, You, with the donkey? The poor thing is tired. We too are tired, we who follow You! In those days, some poor man would spread his garment for Your colt to step on; some woman would give a handful of grass to Your hungry donkey. Now even these are gone — they have no time to spare! The bitter sea keeps swelling and increasing, sprinkling us with its waves. But You continually say to us with Your gentle and peaceful voice: “Do not fear, little flock!”

Yes! Yes! Your quiet voice is always heard clearly, “mightily,” within the turmoil, and it strengthens our hearts. The thunder of the iron machines, the groaning that fills the sky, the whistling of the black shepherd who drives his frenzied flocks—all are drowned out by Your meek voice, which comes to our ears and enters our hearts and fills us with courage and bravery, a bravery stronger than that needed in the wars of this world:

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places.”

All you who feel within yourselves love for our Christ, who goes to suffer and be crucified for the world — come, let us go to find Him. In some poor, forgotten little chapel, far from the roads where proud men walk who have completely forgotten Him. Its old walls will be eaten away by the mountain wind and the rains. Shrubs and thorn bushes will be its adornment; wild herbs, thyme, wildflowers, lentisk and other humble plants will decorate the dry stone wall of its enclosure. Butterflies, wrens, bees, and bright red insects will quietly flutter among them. Inside the dark holy sanctuary, the holy hierarchs — Basil, Gregory, Chrysostom, Spyridon — will stand painted around the holy altar, half-faded by time and by the smoke of incense. On the iconostasis will stand the Mother of God, Christ, and the Forerunner. The lamps with their faint light will glow gently before them. An old monk-priest, simple, of the mountains, will be serving the Liturgy, standing humbly before the altar, clothed in worn vestments. A poor chanter, with sparse uncombed beard, in worn clothes, will chant at the analogion with a humble, afflicted voice that at times becomes like a sigh coming “from the depths.” A few simple worshippers from the people will stand with arms crossed, and from time to time will kneel on the stone floor, bowing their heads to the ground.

It is morning. The sun has not yet risen. After “God is the Lord,” the chanter sings: “With branches, having spiritually cleansed our souls, like the children let us faithfully cry out to Christ, loudly proclaiming to the Master: Blessed are You, O Savior, who have come into the world…” And then he begins to chant the Canon…

“The springs of the abyss have appeared, and the foundations of the surging sea have been revealed…”

At the end of the Liturgy, the poor chanter, tucked into his old stall, as if his mind were in another world, chants with a hoarse voice, sorrowfully, with compunction, the communion hymn: “Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! Alleluia!”

Coming out of the church after the dismissal, we sit on the low wall holding in our hand a branch of laurel. The mountains are peaceful, “dripping with sweetness.” The bees hum in the greenery. Nearby the donkey of Christ grazes quietly. Peace flows, as balm flows into our hearts, which continually say within us: “Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! Alleluia!”

Source: From an article by Photios Kontoglou in Eleftheria, 4/13/1952. Translated by John Sanidopoulos.