The road from Bethany to Jerusalem
The 9th of Nisan, 3790
On the same day as the Roman procession and at nearly the same time that Pontius Pilate, Prefect of Judea, enters Jerusalem from the west, there is another grand procession taking place from the east. It too is scripted. It too is a demonstration of strength. It too signals the victory of a God.
Since the chief priests, Sadducees, Pharisees, and scribes have failed to kill this Jesus—the one the people would make king, the one who embarrasses Israel before Rome—he is making his move upon the Holy City.
He is joined by those who traveled with him from Galilee, as well as those who began following him once he arrived in Bethany. He will use the old caravan road that leads to Jerusalem from Jericho. He will climb the east side of the Mount of Olives and enter the city after descending and crossing the Valley of Kidron on the other side. This is his plan. He has made other plans, as well.
He begins. It is the first day of the feast, a good day to be approaching the city. Before he has gone far, a crowd begins to form. People have recognized him. Some know him from his teaching, others have heard of the Lazarus affair and the miracles he did with wine, fish, and bread. His appearance delights them. They begin to cheer him. He is walking a road often taken by celebrating pilgrims en route to Jerusalem and so the scene does not appear at all odd. The crowd grows and the cheering changes into singing. Soon the throng is large enough to line both sides of his path.
He is still ascending the east side of the mountain when he pauses to speak to two of his men. He tells them to go on to the next village, which is a short distance away. There, they will find a colt that has never been ridden. They are to bring it to him. They obey immediately. It takes only minutes. The two men find a colt tied by a doorway and when someone standing nearby asks what they are doing, they say simply, “The Lord needs it.”
The colt is intended as a sign. Its use is not an accident or a last-minute revelation. It is part of a very specific statement, a type of declaration of war. He intends to ride the colt over the crest of the Mount of Olives, down its western slope, through the Valley of Kidron, and into the Holy City. For Jews who witness this or hear of it later, the image of King Solomon riding just such an animal to his coronation will certainly come to mind. The image will also suggest the words of Zechariah:
Rejoice greatly, Daughter Zion!
Shout, Daughter Jerusalem!
See, your king comes to you,
righteous and victorious,
lowly and riding on a donkey.
It is a dangerous declaration. A king has come. He is even now among us. Victorious. Righteous. He is entering Jerusalem. And yet Pontius Pilate, emissary of the Roman god on earth, is entering Jerusalem from the opposite direction just now, entirely confident of an entirely different dominion. The two processions entering Jerusalem this day promise a clash of deities, a contest of gods and the empires built in their names.
When his men return with the colt, the rabbi climbs upon it and rides over the crest of the mountain. The Holy City is now gloriously in view. Pilgrims on the road coming from Jericho meet other pilgrims coming from Jerusalem in the opposite direction. They have all heard that the rabbi is in Bethany and they want to see the miracle worker as well as the man he raised from the dead. The crowds merge, blend, part to either side of the path and continue shouting their joy.
In a time-honored act of welcome to royalty, the people lay their robes upon the ground. This forms the carpet due a king. Overhead, the people wave branches they have just torn from trees. They are “preparing the way,” demonstrating to this man that they receive him as their ruler.
The passion heightens. The excitement spreads. Soon, the great throng begins chanting the traditional Hallel of the Passover liturgy:
Hosanna!
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!
Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!
As the colt descends the eastern side of the mountain, the great mass of pilgrims multiplies. Hundreds of people pour out of the white tents that dot the mountainside, their temporary dwellings during the feast. They eagerly join the celebration, which seems to them no more than a particularly thrilling Passover procession. It continues, the Holy City looming, the crowds thickening.
The priests and Pharisees, the scribes and Sadducees, have been watching. They always are. They have been looking for a chance to move on the troublemaker but they choose not to do it during the Feast so as not to arouse the people. This demonstration rankles them though, and they cannot remain quiet and out of view. “Rabbi, rebuke your disciples,” they command. They are offended by this praise for a mere man. They know that the words of the Hallel pertain to the Messiah.
The young rabbi has already seen these men, already knows their displeasure and their purpose. I tell you, he shouts back over the noise and commotion, if they keep quiet the stones will cry out.
There. He has said it. If they had been listening they would already have heard him say it many times before. He believes he is the Messiah. He is doing everything possible to declare it, now, on this first day of the feast.
There is nothing more to say. The fool has condemned himself with his own words and in the presence of witnesses. The high priest is right: it is time for this man to die.
The laughter and shouting grows more eager, the waving of branches more frenzied. The rabbi graciously acknowledges it all.
Where the road turns just before an outcropping of rock, the rabbi looks to the city. He grows quiet and reins his colt to a halt. He passes his eyes over Jerusalem as though seeing her for the first time. She is the city of palaces, of his people’s kings and their God—now vulnerable in the clenched fist of Rome. He begins to weep. It is not gentle weeping but the loud lament of one in grief. The people hear and grow still. It is a terrible sound and the great throng that was celebrating a moment ago is suddenly paralyzed. Soon, the rabbi speaks. His tone is that of a wounded lover. How many times I longed to take you in my arms. How very much I have loved you. But you would not receive me. You do not see. You cannot understand. You have grown dull. Soon, armies will encircle you. Your city will be destroyed, your children smashed against the very stones in which you trust. God is coming. The time is now and you are soon to be ruined.
It is not what the people expect. There is silence, bewilderment, but it does not last. After a pause, the rabbi urges his colt forward and the commotion begins again, moving down the rocky hillside, across the makeshift bridges that span the rushing waters in the Kidron gorge and into the gates of the city. Once inside, the Galilean dismounts. The people press in around him. Some weep. Some dance. More than a few are confused and do not know what to do.
Jesus looks upon them with compassion and sadness. He knows what is coming. Those before him, like heedless sheep herded to slaughter, do not. He can say no more. He turns and begins the short walk to the temple.
He has, then, announced himself.
In a carefully crafted demonstration, the rabbi has declared that he is the true king of Israel. He has scorned the priests, received the worship due only to the Messiah, and prophesied the annihilation of the city. His message is unmistakable: Israel’s Prophet-King has come to his people.
He knows also what is taking place on the other side of the city. Rome has come in the form of Pilate and his troops. It occupies in the name of its god. It defies all other deities.
But this is precisely why the rabbi has executed a counter-demonstration. In centuries-old religious symbolism, he has answered the challenge of Rome. The petty gods of Rome will fall to the God who is Lord of Heaven and Earth. A greater king is now among us. A greater kingdom reigns.
And that kingdom’s self-declared ruler is making his way to the temple of Jerusalem.