I don’t know about you, but I really struggle to imagine how Jesus could ride into Jerusalem on both a donkey and a colt. It might be a first world problem: I drive a car and I don’t have much experience riding animals, so that makes it especially hard for me to envision what it would be like to be mounted on two donkeys at once. However he managed it, it sounds really uncomfortable.
But clearly, I’m not alone in my imaginative deficits. I did a quick Google image search, and nobody seems to have painted or made a movie in which Jesus entered Jerusalem mounted on both a donkey and the foal of a donkey. Even though that is clearly what is written in the text.
There’s a reason for that equine anomaly, which I’ll return to shortly, but for now I’d like to consider an aspect of today’s Gospel that’s much easier to imagine—perhaps too easy to imagine—which is the description of the whole city of Jerusalem being in turmoil. We actually don’t have to look very far away or very far back in time to find a city in turmoil.
As I consider people I know who’ve entered into cities in turmoil, I’m reminded of my mother and father in law, who joined the march from Selma to Montgomery. Lord, save these cities. Or more recently, I think of friends who have joined in solidarity with protesters in Ferguson Missouri. Lord save this city. Or Paris in the wake of the Charlie Ebdo bombings: Lord, save that city. Or Mosul, Tikrit or Kirkuk. Lord, save these cities.
And then there’s Jerusalem itself, a city that was and still is in turmoil. Which makes it a city like any other city: stratified by race and class and religion, politically volatile, full of beauty and danger and the intrigue of commerce. But it was also a city like no other city. For Jesus and his followers it was the city of the legendary King David, the home to the temple where God had promised to dwell among the people, and the ritual center of Judaism. And… it was also occupied by the hated Roman empire, whose local military representative was Pontius Pilate. Lord save the city. Lord, save us.
Which is exactly what the people were crying when they said “Hosanna to the son of David.” Hosanna is a Hebrew acclamation of praise. But its not exactly like that other unmentionable Hebrew word which Father Steve was preaching about last week.” Alleluia. You, praise God!” There, I’ve said it during Lent. In contrast, Hosanna might be translated “Good Lord, deliver us.” Save us in the mighty way that only God can. Hosanna bespeaks both praise and petition, which hints at the kind of turmoil that was unfolding in Jerusalem.
And the whole city was asking, “Who is this?” Well, who was the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee? It seems to have mattered a great deal who they thought he was, which is no doubt why Jesus himself asked Peter “who do you say that I am?” That’s a question for the ages, and it’s a question for each of us.
One thing we can know for sure is that he was not Pontius Pilate. Where the Roman Prefect—in command of thousands of soldiers—would have ridden into Jerusalem on a horse, Jesus entered on a peasant’s donkey without army or other tools of war.
In the Gospel we just heard, Matthew bends over backwards to present Jesus as the fulfillment of Jewish prophesy, specifically referencing Zechariah 9:9: which says “Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” Sound familiar?
Which is why we have the awkwardness of Jesus apparently riding two animals at once. Matthew wanted people to understand Jesus to be the king who would restore the royal Davidic line and thereby fulfill God’s promise. But Matthew also wanted people to know that Jesus’ kingship would not be like that of the Roman emperor or his proxies. Jesus would be king, but not by means of coercive power.
And so the crowds accompanying Jesus laid down their cloaks and branches for their long awaited Jewish king. But giving their allegiance to a leader not chosen by Rome was a direct threat to imperial power. And what did it mean to shout Hosanna, Son of David—you with the royal credentials, save your people—and lay down cloaks and branches for someone who has no military to protect or defend? It’s a dangerous business, and the crowds may not ultimately have had the stomach to stay with this countercultural king. We might not either.
This will be a week of turmoil. There’s really no other way to understand the events we remember during Holy Week, so I invite you to go ahead and embrace the passion, in all of its treachery and tragedy. We might begin today by considering for which kings we lay down our coat and branches. I can think of about a dozen powers other than Jesus—money, fossil fuel, race and class privilege—to whom I will pay homage this very afternoon. Hosanna: Lord save us from false allegiances. Or we could ask ourselves at which point in the narrative we will abandon Jesus. Because everyone in the story did. Hosanna: Lord save us from ourselves.
Our Holy Week liturgies—Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Saturday Vigil—give us ample opportunity to wallow in our individual and collective need for salvation. And this is not a bad thing. Acknowledging all the ways in which we fall short does not make the Gospel a story about our miserable faithlessness, but about God’s magnificent faithfulness.
Because from the time the very pregnant mother rode a donkey into Bethlehem through the time when the son rode a donkey and a colt into Jerusalem, God had been all about showing the people that they are not alone or abandoned. Jesus was willing to take the most awkward or uncomfortable ride into the places of greatest turmoil, if that’s the way to reach us.
Jesus knew he would not escape suffering. He continually attempted to teach his confused disciples about what was coming, telling them no less than three times that he was headed for Jerusalem, where he would be arrested, condemned and crucified. It was the heartfelt cries of God’s people, shouting throughout the ages, “Hosanna, Lord save us,” that drew him there. And so he came riding into the city. As into the centers of our own turmoil, he comes riding still.
