The little blue donkey

The little blue donkey: A Palm Sunday reflection

Each one of us has some preconceived image of what Jesus looks like. Our image of Jesus is often coloured by our culture, our customs, and what we have learnt, read or experienced about him. During Lent, we in Christian tradition have a Palm Sunday celebration.

Some time ago, I had a revelation about the Palm Sunday service in my local church. I saw a little boy, selected by the Sunday School, riding down the aisle on his blue donkey while the parishioners waved their palm fronds. It must have been such a memorable moment for that little boy. The air was full of joy. He was caught in the atmosphere of the occasion. The Sunday School had delivered their best—all dressed in Biblical costumes made by their mothers and grandmothers. We all felt so much love and pride for that little boy on the blue donkey.

His parents must have been so proud of him, too. When the festivities were over, and everybody went home, this little boy, well, he became his mother’s little boy again. He needed caring for and dressing, and to be taken to school. His life was determined by his parents’ actions for some time yet.

I sometimes wonder what happened to that little boy.

And when I started to think about it, I realised that, for me, Jesus had become almost like my own private deity whom I met in my quiet devotions in the solitude of my own chamber.

It was like I had put my God in a little box where I can keep him to myself. There he is kept comfortable and secure. Just for me. Ever serving. Ever loving. Ever suffering. Always comforting. Ready to accept my private homage and worship. In my little devotional room Jesus is, well, very tame.

Thinking about Palm Sunday does not make me feel comfortable. It is like somebody has shaken my little box of faith and out came Jesus. A different Jesus. Jesus who is riding in triumph through Jerusalem. For all I know, he could be riding through New York, Singapore or Moscow! He is in the open for all to see.

And now I see how self-centred I have been. The Man from Nazareth must be where the people are. In the open. And that is where he has always been. On Palm Sunday, he is not riding in a Cadillac or Volvo. He is riding, of all things, a donkey.

He’s gone to the streets where people are—it is dangerous there. All these people are shouting. He is there for everybody to see. He is so blatantly the King of Israel. So manifestly Messiah. He is also so wonderfully, openly, God.

And that makes me scared.

The vision of Jesus being so publicly worshipped and adored goes far beyond my own preconceived ideas of what Jesus is like. Where does this kind of Jesus leave me?

It is like he had stepped out from the familiar places of worship. Whether I like it not, as a follower of Jesus, I find myself right there in the thick of things. I am where the people are. I cannot go back home to my computer and books. I must follow him wherever he goes. During this time of Lent, he reveals himself to the people—both sinners and saints. He is in the open.

You see, the Jesus I follow on this Palm Sunday is a ‘dangerous’ person. He chooses to be out in the open and bold for love. At the same time, I see in him so much humility that it hurts me.

He is unlike any hero I’ve known before.

All I can hear is the crowd calling ‘Hosanna, save us!’ All I can see is Jesus riding on, riding on steadfastly towards his destiny. And perhaps my destiny. Maybe even yours.

All I can do is to lift my voice together with all the others and cry ‘Hosanna!’

What does it all mean? Hosanna, save us.

And what do I see? What do I hear? I see the multitudes who are suffering. Those dying. Sick from drugs. Ravaged by cancer. With AIDS. The depressed people. The lonely people. I see abused children. I see battered wives. And I can see that little boy there, too, riding his blue donkey. And I hear them calling out ‘Hosanna, save us!’

And I realise we were never meant to be alone. We are many. More than I ever imagined. We are the Church. We are the Christians. Jesus is riding at the front. We follow.

And who are ‘we’?

We are the past inhabitants of our Jerusalem. It is through our cities and through our villages that he first came. He rode through our streets and he heard our cries. ‘Save us!’

And he heard us. He gave us more than charity. He gave us love. He gave us more than food. He gave us the bread of Life. He gave us more than friendship. He gave us forgiveness for our sins.

We are the ones who have heard and believed that Jesus is more than a Davidic King. He is our God, our Lord, and the Saviour.

It is for us that he rode forth past Jerusalem to the bitter end.

It is for us that he came. He lived and he died. And it is for us that he arose from death. We heard the Gospel and we believed. We are his church—his representatives for our times.

On every Palm Sunday, Christ is calling us. He calls us to the church to ride together with him. To follow him and to go where the people are. It is time for us to step out and confess that Jesus Christ is the Lord. Hosanna to Jesus!

On Palm Sunday, he challenges us to go beyond our individual structures. He challenges us to go out and to partake in the fellowship of his mission. When we hear his name, every knee should bow, every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is the Lord.

And he has not left us alone. He is the one who constitutes, renews, and rules us—his body, the Church. He is the one who can save the people of our world.

He is the one who can truly unite us.

How can we not follow him?