Note: This is a revisiting of a post published on Palm Sunday 10 years ago
Several hundred, some may say several thousand, years worth of anticipation hung thick in the air. Like summer humidity that sticks to your shirt the second you step outside, you couldn’t avoid it if you wanted to. Especially not during Passover week.
There was a guy making his way into Jerusalem; a guy claiming to be the Messiah. This was nothing new. He would not be the first that people claimed would save us. There had been tons of guys going around saying that they were the One; saying that they were going to show Rome what’s what. So a would-be messiah making his way to Jerusalem was about as common as a singer-songwriter making their way to Nashville.
But this felt different. He seemed different. Now there was a fair amount of debate whether he was the right or wrong kind of different. For starters, word got out that he had tried to keep a lot of the messiah talk and even tales of his miracles under wraps. But it is difficult to keep those kind of stories quiet: dead men walking, the blind seeing, demons plunging a herd of pigs over a cliff, and thousands fed from a lunch meant for a single kid. You can tell people to keep that hush-hush all you want, but it’s not going to happen.
He certainly had the right kind of name: Yeshua, which translates to Joshua or, as the Greeks put it, Jesus. The Lord saves. Sure tons of people gave their boys that name. What parent doesn’t want their child to be the redemption of his people. You have to name the kid to fit the bill. Poindexter isn’t going to quarterback the state championship team and Biff isn’t going to find the cure for cancer. Joshua, like Messiah talk, was nothing rare. But it seemed special. At least with him.
The stories, feelings, and hope mixed with Passover week like a molotov cocktail. Jerusalem seemed like it could explode at any moment. Roman officials were squeamish enough with so many of their unwilling subjects pouring into the city. The last thing they wanted was for another revolution-driven Messiah to take the religious devotion of the masses and transform it into an uprising.
Word traveled that this Joshua would make his way into town on Sunday. Again, it was Passover week and all the pieces seemed to be moving into place. People began to line the streets. They put their coats on the ground to prepare the way. Some cut branches off of trees and laid them in the street. Others waved the palm branches around in excitement. It was a parade atmosphere. Confetti. Music. Laughter. Hope.
Like a wave, an excited buzz reverberated through the crowd that he was at the city gate. The anticipation reached a fever pitch. Most of us had never seen him and a popular topic of the day was how he would make his triumphant arrival. There was a script for this. The Romans would come in on a mighty horse. We craved for him to stick it to Caesar by showing up like a King or a war hero. We expected a display that would stir the soul; something that would let us and the rest of the world know that Rome’s domination would come crumble like dust.
And then we saw him: a rabbi on a donkey.
I couldn’t believe that I had let my hopes get raised again. A donkey? Really? Was the only other choice a three-legged mule? It would be like the biggest star in the world showing up at a red carpet atop a beat up, rusty tractor. I’m pretty sure I heard someone in the crowd let out a snort of laughter. Could this would-be messiah not have found something a little bit more dignified?
Someone shouted out “Hosanna,” which means “Save!” and we all joined in. This was not what we expected, but we weren’t quitters either. If we had to will this awkward moment into an event fit for the Messiah, then so be it. And the cries of praise went out as Joshua entered Jerusalem.
“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”
“Hosanna in the highest!”
“Hosanna to the Son of David!”
The palm branches waved, the confetti was thrown, and the songs were sung as he made his way to the Temple.
The festive mood seemed to revive the crowd’s earlier hopes. Afterwards, everyone excitedly chattered about how blessed we were that the Messiah was finally here. Not too many people talked about the donkey in the room. I heard a few wave those concerns away. Powerful leaders were usually a bit eccentric. Look at Herod. It was only a matter of time. It was Passover week, that had to mean something. Despite my skepticism, I think many of us truly believed this man was the One.
As I stood amidst the trash of the parade, I tried to resist the thought that we once again had gotten all worked up for nothing. I don't mean to keep harping on this: but a donkey? What kind of show of power was that? When he came in, I saw a few Roman soldiers nearly fall over laughing at the sight of this "conquering king" on a donkey. Either he wasn’t the Messiah...
Or there was something else.
When he passed by, you could almost get the sense that this rabbi was making a point and most of us were missing it. Yeshuamania was sweeping the city and he must have known a big fuss would be made when he hit town. He knew all eyes would be on him. What if the donkey was intentional? What if he was trying to turn our expectations upside down?
For years, we had been hoping for revolution to no avail. What if he was saying that war horses and kings, uprisings and domination weren’t going to get it done? A friend of mine who had heard the rabbi once teach said that the message revolved around loving enemies and praying for those harmed you. That wasn't exactly the language of a great king preparing to overthrow Rome by force.
But force was how the game was played. He who has the power gets to make the rules and Rome regularly made sure we knew who had the power. The only language that gets through to a bully is force. Right? Those laughing Roman soldiers knew how the game was played. Everyone knows. That's the way things are.
In the pit of my stomach there was a sense of dread that this upside down project would end poorly for the one we asked to save us. Yet for some strange reason, I couldn't shake the feeling that he too knew of the grim fate which awaited him.
I shook confetti and hope off my shoes as I made my way home wondering if rescue would ever come. We had waited so long. We had hoped so many times. Then my mind went back to that ridiculous image of a rabbi on a donkey.
And I thought, “What if God really tried to pull it off that way?”