the Mount of Olives
are swathed with tombs.
Nine-hundred year-old
olive trees survive within
the Garden of Gethsemane
where Jesus prayed
that Thursday night
before his crucifixion.
There is a church there
which will be limited this year
to fifty worshipers at a time.
Like all the churches
and synagogues
in Jerusalem because
of the threat of missiles
and drones. The Dome
of the Rock is closed to all.
Other olive trees, the
ones in West Bank
orchards, are often cut
or uprooted by gangs
of settler youths. Enough
survive to harvest
that we buy the cold pressed
extra virgin oil when we can
get it at Christmas time.
Tonight my darling
and I will consecrate
Jesus’ memory the way
that he asked us to,
with the Bread of Life
and the Cup of Salvation.
And we will search our
hearts and attempt to
love those despoilers.
Maundy comes from Latin:
“mandatum” commandment,
to love them, even if it must be
like the love a mother never
relinquishes for a son who
steals and murders. We try.
It does not reprieve them,
only God can do that.
As he forgave Cain
who slew his brother.
Are we strong enough
to do that? Strong
enough to keep planting
olive trees. Protect them like
the ones in Gethsemane?
We will surely stumble
as he predicted, “All of you will
be made to stumble because
of Me this night for it is written,
I will strike the shepherd and the
sheep of the flock will be scattered.”
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