Reading Luke Together #41 – Palm Sunday/Lowly and Riding on a Donkey

Sunday morning: for Jews, the day after the Sabbath. After a day of quiet rest in their homes, people thronged the streets of Jerusalem, joining the usual rush, but with an added edge. From the west, Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, was riding into Jerusalem at the head of a massive column of imperial cavalry; the people quaked in fear. He'd come to intimidate, and to keep that sort of peace that is nothing but trembling fear.

But then rumors spread: another great man is riding in from the east, not on a war stallion or in a chariot, but on a humble donkey. Jesus, descending the Mt. of Olives into the Kidron Valley, then through the gates of the Holy City. Excitement mixed with confusion: Jesus had won quite a reputation - so would he be the one to lead the rabble in rebellion against the Romans?

He wasn’t riding because he was tired from walking. He was staging something symbolic, fulfilling the prophecy of Zechariah 9:9: “Rejoice greatly and shout! Behold, your King is coming to you; he is lowly and riding on a donkey.” No one would have misunderstood his implied message! And yet almost everyone misunderstood how his kingship would take place. Tim Rice’s ingenuous lyrics in Jesus Christ Superstar captured the moment’s unexpected dynamic: “Hosanna, Heysanna, Sanna sanna ho… Hey JC, JC, won’t you smile at me?” Then the crowd shifts to “Won’t you fight for me?” before turning to “Won’t you die for me?” For Jesus, those are jarring words. He did come to fight, not with fists or weapons but with love. And it did cost him his life – which he had predicted. So was he smiling?

Jesus, as was often the case, disappointed, even before the cries of "Hosanna!" settled down. No sword was hidden under his tunic, and if anybody flashed a weapon he sternly but lovingly said "Put your sword away." He seemed more likely to be killed than to kill. He came into Jerusalem, not avoiding those who feared him or misunderstood him. He engaged, he demanded a decision - and across the centuries, he still confronts all of us with God's humble compassion, ready to bear all injustice in order to redeem it, prepared to be ridiculed to rescue our ridiculous lives, relentless in his mission of saving grace.

So now we can grasp the pathos of that children's hymn: "Tell me the stories of Jesus... Into the city I'd follow... waving a branch of the palm tree high in my hand." We follow, yes - and much courage will be required. Jesus knew he was in for a rough week - and across the years he invites us to follow, trembling a bit and yet confident in him, bracing for what may come, trusting that the dawning of the next Sunday, the Easter resurrection Sunday, cannot be thwarted.

And I’m moved by that donkey. When Jesus sends disciples to fetch a donkey, he instructs them to tell the owner “the Lord has need of it.” I’d love to be, and am, like that donkey, needed by the Lord. And what does the Lord need that I have? And then this donkey is “unridden,” and so not broken in yet. You’d expect such a donkey to bolt or rear up with so much racket and flapping of palm branches. But he’s steady, fulfilling his task to carry Christ where he wanted to go. Can I calmly be one to bear Christ into places he wishes to go?

Then Luke adds an item we’d not know otherwise. Jesus wept over the city. On that steep downhill journey from Bethphage to Jerusalem, we stop perhaps where Jesus stopped. There’s a lovely chapel there now, shaped like a teardrop. That first Palm Sunday, everyone else was cheering and laughing. Jesus though wept over the city. He understood its high glory and destiny, yet understood its failures, how it had become an impressive and yet embarrassing mockery of what it was supposed to be. As we’ll see, this holy city did not receive its saving lord, but got rid of him, as it had so many other prophets through history – or so it thought.

On Monday, he mortified everybody by overturning the tables of the moneychangers and threatening the downfall of the temple. No wonder they decided then and there to kill him. Tuesday he taught all day. And on Wednesday he rested. On Thursday – well, I’ll send you another email on Thursday.