Matthew 21:1-11
“Available”
April 17, 2011 - Palm Sunday

         I hate being tied up. So I kicked my heels and tossed my head with excitement when a pair of humans began to undo the rope that held me that Sunday morning. I was tired of standing in one place, even with my mother alongside, and I was ready to break free and run for it, look for a bit of grass to chew on or sniff out a female. But when they got it loose, one of the men held the rope tightly and tried to pull me along.

         Of course I did what asses always do: dug in my heals. (You can call me a “donkey” if it sounds more genteel to your ears, but our race’s proud and true name is “ass.”) And we don’t like being pulled or pushed. When it happens we pull or push back. I don’t think the man knew much about my kind. His cloak smelled like fish and I imagine he was more familiar with pulling ropes on nets, which come along more easily than my people do.

         My mother was taking it all more calmly as the other man took her lead and turned her into the road. But I had my legs splayed and head down in a tug-of-war with the fishy man. Then our owner came up huffing and puffing and shouting at the two men trying to lead us away.

         I thought that would be the end of it, that Josiah would send these two donkey thieves on their way. But they turned and said something strange to our master, “The Lord needs them.” Josiah got an odd look on his face, then came over and rubbed my side. “It’s all right, it’s all right, Balaam,” he said softly, drawing out the words slowly in a way which calmed me down. “Go with them,” he told me, “we can trust these men.”

         Then Josiah showed the fishy man how to scratch behind my ears and stroke my muzzle, which I liked. So I decided I’d go along with him after all, at least for awhile. I could always dig in or even turn around and come home if we didn’t find anything to eat or if they treated me roughly.

         One thing I knew would not happen. Neither the fishy man nor his partner was going to get on my back. I’ve seen men ride donkeys. Josiah even rides on my mother now and then. It looks uncomfortable, even painful. Would you want some smelly fisherman who hadn’t bathed in days sitting on your back? No, no one had ever ridden me yet and it wasn’t going to happen that day.

         Our little village of Bethphage was perched on the Mount of Olives and we went out the gate beyond the wall on the road that led toward the rising sun. That didn’t seem too promising because once down the mountain, there is only desert in that direction. Still I hoped that spring rains might have brought up some grass I could snatch from alongside the road. With a little luck there might even be a bit of clover.

         We went down the hill a ways and then my ears stood up as I caught sight of a larger band of men coming up toward us. Was I going to encounter donkey thieves after all? But the man leading me, who hadn’t scratched my ears for quite awhile now, waved at them. So I guessed these were friends of the two who had commandeered Mother and me.

         Donkeys aren’t good at counting. I think there were more than five men in the group we met, maybe twice that many. But what I do know is that there was one Man among them different from the rest. If humans gathered in herds like wild donkeys, I would have said He was the leader of this little herd. He had the same rough clothes and ragged beard as the rest, but they each respected Him above the others.

         My fish man stopped a step in front of the men’s herd leader, bowed his head, and mumbled, “Here is the beast you requested, Master.”

         “Master?” I wondered. I had heard there were humans who were “master” to those they called “slaves,” as if they were domestic animals like Mother and I. But those “masters” of fellow men were supposed to be cruel and aloof, treating their slaves like bad men treat us, whipping and ordering other humans about like beasts.

         But this One addressed as Master merely clapped my man on the shoulder and said, “Good work, Andrew. This is exactly the creature I had in mind.” I wondered at that as well. I know I had never seen or heard or smelled this Man before. How could He have me in mind? How could He even know I existed?

         Whatever else He knew or didn’t know, Andrew’s Master knew about donkeys. He approached me slowly, reached up and scratched behind my ears in exactly the right place. “Come along little friend,” He said, “we have a big day today.” And before I even knew what I was doing, I turned around beside Him and we walked together back up the hill and on through Bethphage to start down the mount’s west side. Mother and the other men trailed along behind.

         I lost my hope of fresh grass, for the ground on that side of the Mount of Olives was trampled bare by human feet. There were tents and rolls of bedding spread everywhere across the slope and under the trees. It was one of the human “festivals” that Mother told me about. Bigger than any donkey herd, two or three times a year men and women and their colts all came here to camp outside and do weird things in the city across the valley. Strange smelling smoke rose continually from a building standing on the highest point of the city. “Jerusalem” they called it. The smoky building was their “temple.”

         The Master of men stopped when He caught sight of the city. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I spied a gleam of water in His eyes. But He shook his head and turned to His men and nodded. They began to take off their outer clothes. I had no idea what was going on. But then a big, particularly fish smelling one who looked a little like Andrew came toward me with his cloak held out. I thought he was about to drop it over my eyes or something, so I shied back, turned and got ready to give him a good kick with my hind legs!

         “Whoa, little one!” exclaimed the Master, but His voice was not harsh nor did He yank on my lead. He smiled as He stroked my sides and said, “Whoa, little Balaam, it’s all right. This is our day together.” I was struck dumb and still. He knew my name! He had never met my own master. Andrew had not told him and for that matter I doubt Andrew had even heard my owner speak my name quietly. How did the Master know me then?

         I was so amazed and confused that I stood quiet and let the big fisherman drop his coat on my back. I didn’t sidestep away or try to bite or kick or do any of the other things I’d done to humans so far who tried to place things upon my shoulders. Instead I let Peter, as I learned his name was later, smooth the cloth over my shoulders and then allowed two more of them to do the same, creating a thick drape of fabric over my back and sides. I turned my head and saw them doing the same thing to Mother.

         “Now is our time, little friend,” spoke the Master, as He once again scratched my head just the right way. Then to my own huge amazement, I suffered what I said would never happen that day. With one hand He grasped the hair of my mane, steadied Himself, then hopped up sideways to land on my back with His legs hanging together down one side. I was being ridden!

         Donkeys don’t buck like horses. Still we have our ways to avoid riders. But I did none of it. I didn’t sidle away as He hopped up leaving Him to fall on His own backside. I didn’t try to turn and bite one of His dangling legs. I didn’t try to rub Him off against an olive trees. Instead I found myself accepting the gentle guidance of His hands turning my head and despite all my resolutions I began to carry Him down the road into the Kidron Valley. Once again, Mother and the rest of the Master’s herd followed behind.

         One of the men who seemed a little better dressed than the others—I heard him called Matthew—began to mutter something that sounded almost like human singing. I didn’t know what it meant, but this is what he said:

         Say to the Daughter of Zion,
                  “See, your king comes to you,
         gentle and riding on a donkey,
                  on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”

The others turned their heads toward Matthew and nodded. So, I could feel, did my Rider. Somehow the words fit. He approved. So did I. I not sure, I always thought kings rode horses, but this Man who sat upon me was more gentle than any I’ve known before or since.

         Little herds of people were gathering ahead of us along the road to watch this Man ride down the Mount toward the city. I’ve since learned that “pilgrims,” as they call those who go to these festivals, typically walked, but it wouldn’t have been that strange to see a man astride my back. These people rode donkeys often enough.

         I did nearly buck and shake off my Rider, when a man standing just ahead suddenly raised his arms and shouted as loud as any of my kind might bray. “Hosanna!” he cried, a strange word I hadn’t heard before. “Hosanna to the Son of David!” I didn’t know my Rider’s name, but now at least I knew His father, or I thought I did. But I didn’t have long to think about it because others were taking up the cry. “Hosanna!” began to resound from a gathering crowd on both sides and in front and in back of me.

         These people behaved more strangely than any humans I’d seen before. A couple of the Master’s men who still had their cloaks took them off now and laid them in the dusty road before my feet. Up ahead others in the crowd began to do the same. Then I saw the flash of knives as still others began to strip branches from palm trees that grew in a date orchard along the road. Branches also went down on the road before my feet and others were being waved in the air.

         I walked slowly, unsure of this strange ground covering of cloaks and palm leaves. I had never trod such a surface before. The shouting continued, “Hosanna! Hosanna!” and then “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!”

         We went on down into the valley like that, with a crowd following all around us. Even the human colts came along, caught up in the excitement and cheering “Hosanna!” in their little voices even though they seemed to understand it no more than I did. The city dropped out of sight above us as we reached the bottom and began a long curving climb back up its side.

         The shouting never stopped until we were almost to the gate. As we rounded a curve, I could all at once see the city again, the wall, the towers, that high building from which poured smoke that now burned my sensitive nostrils. My Rider saw it too. Absently He patted my side and I understood He wanted to stop. He slid off my back and stood gazing up at the hewn stones above us.

         I turned to look at Him. Water that had only gleamed in His eyes now streamed down His face. Humans call it “tears.” Very quietly I heard Him say, “If only you had known. If only you had known on this day what would bring you peace.” I didn’t know to whom He spoke, certainly not to me. But He seemed to see something terrible in those walls, to hear cries that were terrified rather than the happy shouts of the colts. He said, “They will dash you to the ground, you and the children within your walls. They will not leave one stone upon another, because you did not recognize the time of God’s coming to you.” Then He was silent and just wept, His shoulders shaking.

         He placed a hand on my back as He cried and I thought about His words, “God’s coming to you.” I had heard about God. My mother told me that someone like a man, but much bigger, made the ground and the grass and rocks and the trees. This Maker made the first donkey, and made the first man. Humans name the Maker “God.” But what did the Master mean? How did the Maker come to their city that day? I didn’t understand.

         Then He got on my back again and I carried Him on up and through the gate. There even bigger herds of people met the herd that followed us and began to question them about all their commotion. “Who is this?” they asked, meaning the Man on my back.

         It was then I learned His name. “This is Jesus,” they said and waved their palm branches, “the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee.” I had no idea where Nazareth was. It sounded like a little place to me, like Bethphage, but far away. I wondered if there were any donkeys there. But then it was all over.

         Jesus slid down from the fabric piled on my back, scratched my ears one last time and whispered, “Thank you, Balaam.” His men pulled their cloaks off me. The last one, Peter, had the audacity to take his old cloak from my warm, sweaty back and hold it close to his face. He wrinkled his nose, as if my smell were any worse than his!

         Then Jesus turned away from me and began to walk toward that high stone building with the evil-smelling smoke. Once again He looked distant and thoughtful. Andrew took hold of my lead and his partner turned my mother around and we walked back the way we came, back to Bethphage.

         On the way I thought and thought about the Man who rode me. I thought about how gentle He was, about how He knew my name, and about how He cried over the city to which He had come. Somehow it came together in my poor little mind, those words He said as His tears came down, “…the time of God’s coming to you.” The great Maker of the world had come to these people, had come to His city. I didn’t understand at all, but somehow I knew that God had ridden on my little, dirty, smelly, unwilling back. God had come to them, but I wondered how many realized or understood it as much as even this poor donkey did.

         Since then I’ve heard strange things about Jesus. My owner now says His name often, with his knees on the ground and hands raised up to the sky, as if Jesus were up there. It makes no sense to me, but I do know that Josiah is more kind these days, more gentle, more like Jesus who knew exactly where to scratch.

         As for me, I guess I’m a little gentler too. I still don’t like being tied up, but now there’s no need. I stay where Josiah wants me and don’t go running off. I still like fresh grass, but I trust my owner to feed me and lead me out to green pastures. Almost anyone can ride me now, even the human colts. I even sort of enjoy it as they squeal and bounce up and down and cling tight to my mane.

         Jesus seems to have changed things around here. He changed me. I think He made me better. If He really was who I guessed that day, if the Maker Himself perched sidesaddle and bumped down the road on my back, then He might change anyone. He might change you. He might make you better, like He did my owner and myself.

         There’s this, though. I think it could have been different. I might have stayed my old donkey self that day. I might have resisted more when Andrew first came for me. And I might have stuck to my resolution not to be ridden. I might have bitten those men putting cloaks on my back, or even bitten Jesus as He tried to mount. I could have, but I didn’t do any of those things. Instead I made myself available. I gave myself up to His gentle words and gentle leading. And somehow that made things better. By giving myself to Jesus I became everything I was made to be.

         So I would encourage anyone silly enough to listen to a donkey to hear this if nothing else: make yourself available to Jesus. I have a suspicion that in His eyes, in God’s eyes, there’s not much difference between a donkey and a man. We both can be very stupid and very stubborn. But it’s also true that we both can be better, can be better when we give ourselves to Jesus. Take it from the donkey’s mouth.

         Eeyah! Or as you might say, amen.

Valley Covenant Church
Eugene/Springfield, Oregon
Copyright © 2011 by Stephen S. Bilynskyj