"Do Something, God," We Cry

 

If the writer of today’s Gospel had been in my seminary Old Testament class, he wouldn’t have made poor Jesus ride two donkeys at once. Did you notice that in Matthew’s Gospel—in the part that we read in Barcelona House--the disciples are told to prepare two donkeys for Jesus to ride into Jerusalem? They bring him a full-grown mama donkey as well as her young colt, and Jesus somehow has to lumber into Jerusalem with one leg on each. Did anybody notice that?

Oh Matthew! Didn’t anybody ever teach you that Hebrew poetry holds phrases together in pairs? Pairs in which the second phrase often intensifies the first phrase? It’s the Hebrew prophet Zechariah who first mentions these donkeys. He’s describing the coming king of Israel in a prophetic poem. He uses an image created by a word pair. In his image, not only does this king ride a donkey. He rides a little, young colt. Zechariah isn’t talking about two animals! He just wants to be sure that we get the picture: this king is so humble that, instead of riding a regal camel or a majestic horse, he rides not just a donkey, but a young one at that!

In my mind, I keep imagining a young version of Winnie-the-Poo’s donkey friend Eeyore—head lowered, pin-on tail between his legs. I can picture Jesus on the little creature, both feet raised up high in the air to keep from dragging the ground. I can hear the baby donkey braying loudly and mournfully for its mother, announcing Jesus’ arrival in a most undignified fashion. I can see them stopping and starting irregularly, as the donkey balks suddenly on a whim and then trots forward so quickly that Jesus has to hold on with both hands to keep from falling off.

A triumphal entry into a city is supposed to be for a conquering warrior. It’s supposed to be for the Roman governor in his horse and chariot, bedecked with weapons and carrying the spoils of war. But Zechariah goes on to say that this king on a baby donkey “will cut off the chariot … and the warhorse from Jerusalem; and the battle-bow shall be cut off, and he shall command peace to the nations.” The image of Roman-occupied Jerusalem waving palm branches and shouting, “Hosanna! Praise to the God who saves us!” to a defenseless, peace-loving guy on a young donkey is totally absurd. 

It’s an image that is crazily counter-cultural for Roman times. Just imagine Nicole Kidman padding down the red carpet at our fashion-worshiping Oscars, wearing flip-flops and an old pair of mom-jeans. Imagine a five-star general striding into a meeting at the fortress-like Pentagon in shorts, while he coos and rocks a sleeping baby in his arms… Imagine almighty God, taking the form of a slave, letting himself be captured and killed as a criminal on a Roman cross.

We might shrug off peculiar and out-of-character behavior on the part of our human celebrities. Yet, there comes a time, doesn’t there, when God’s strange, compassionate, self-humbling behavior just doesn’t sit well with us anymore. When children hear the Easter story for the first time, they cry out boldly, “Wait, Jesus isn’t going to let them kill him, is he? Why doesn’t God stop them?” We adults, though, we cast down our eyes, following the news until we just can’t take it anymore. Maybe it’s the images of those babies trapped in the rubble of the earthquake in Turkey and Syria? Or the leveled homes and ruined lives after all those tornadoes in the south this weekend? Or the murdered children and teachers in that Nashville school, after so many mass shootings that we can’t even count them anymore? Maybe it’s that terrifying report on climate change that came out this week? Maybe it’s the recent political attacks on our trans siblings?  Or the opioid crisis. Or cancer. Or the death of a loved one. At some point we quit waving our palms and stop cheering. At some point we want to yank Jesus off of that baby donkey and hand him a fast horse and a really big club.

“Do something, God!” we cry. “We want lightning bolts. We want justice. We want you to stand up for yourself. We want you to stand up for those who suffer. We want you to stand up for us!” And we trade the humble Jesus in for thirty pieces of silver.

“Me? I’ve never met this weird Jesus-guy before,” we mumble, as we turn away to shop for pastel bunnies and chocolate eggs.The story, however, doesn’t stop when we give up or turn away. It keeps on growing, just like the seed hidden in the dark earth that’s preparing to spring up green. Later down the road, the ridiculous Jesus becomes the triumphant Jesus. The hidden God blazes like the sun. Weakness is proven to be true strength. Love vanquishes hatred every time. God’s story keeps on plodding down the road, just like that little donkey, one determined step at a time, bearing Jesus forward.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m brave enough, and free enough, to ride with Jesus. Sometimes fear keeps me from seeking my salvation from a humble Lord who rides a young donkey through Caesar’s dangerous streets. That’s when it’s helpful to remember the baby donkey himself—how he was brought to Jesus. Here’s how poet Mary Oliver puts it:

On the outskirts of Jerusalem
the donkey waited.
Not especially brave, or filled with understanding,
he stood and waited.

How horses, turned out into the meadow,
   leap with delight!
How doves, released from their cages,
   clatter away, splashed with sunlight.

But the donkey, tied to a tree as usual, waited.
Then he let himself be led away.
Then he let the stranger mount.

Never had he seen such crowds!
And I wonder if he at all imagined what was to happen.
Still, he was what he had always been: small, dark, obedient.

I hope, finally, he felt brave.
I hope, finally, he loved the man who rode so lightly upon him,
as he lifted one dusty hoof and stepped, as he had to, forward.[1]

 

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[1] Mary Oliver, “The Poet Thinks about the Donkey.” Found at https://www.saltproject.org/progressive-christian-blog/2021/3/23/the-poet-thinks-about-the-donkey-by-mary-oliver.