News had spread to Jerusalem of the dead man who’d walked from his own tomb. Rumors abounded of Jesus’ influence not only over death, but the sea and the sky and even hearts of men.
So the city was fully charged with the kind of static electricity only ever generated by intense hope churning together with the most resolved cynicism.
But when he finally rode into town, lightning struck.
For he arrived not on a majestic war horse, but upon a humble beast of burden.
As usual, it wasn’t until later when Jesus’ own disciples would make the connection. But the people knew the prophecies so well—how the great rescuing king would ride in on the foal of a donkey.
“Hosanna!” they cried “Save us!” Dropping their cloaks in his path in lieu of a red carpet.
“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord” they quoted in unison. “Blessed is the coming kingdom of David!”
“Peace in heaven and Glory in the highest”
Indignant, the religious leaders demanded Jesus hush the blasphemous accolades, but “if they were silenced,” he replied, “the rocks would cry out.”