There had to be a donkey to show the King was entering in.  Jesus knew what he was doing.  What he was doing wasn’t lost on people: wasn’t lost on the apostles, rejoicing and wary; wasn’t lost on the crowds, wondering; wasn’t lost on the priests and elders, seething and swearing vengeance.

What Jesus uses he returns.  He does not take without giving.  What we give up for him, he will return and restore to us.  What would it feel like to have Jesus say to you, “Thank you”?  Oh, we’d give just everything for Jesus.  What aren’t we ready to give?  What are we still reserving for ourselves, our little stash?  It’s so small, and we’ve given so much already!  Does Jesus really want us to be poor beggars?  If we give everything, if we surrender all, we’ll have . . . nothing!

The King, entering Jerusalem in peace.  The King, going up to the Temple.  The Son of David—which Jesus does not call himself; the Son of Man—by which Jesus often refers to himself.  The people know what the Son of David will do.  They had been wanting, needing the Son of David for centuries.  They do not know what the Son of Man will do.  Son of man was a Hebrew way of saying a mortal: one who must die, “for dust you are and to dust you will return” (Gen 3:19).  God addressed the prophet Ezekiel almost exclusively as “son of man.”  The angel Gabriel addresses Daniel by the same term.  And Daniel himself had seen a vision of “one like a son of man, coming with the clouds of heaven.  He approached the Ancient of Days and was led into his presence.  He was given authority, glory and sovereign power; all nations and peoples of every language worshiped him.  His dominion is an everlasting dominion that will not pass away, and his kingdom is one that will never be destroyed” (Dan 7:13-14).

Those awaiting the Messiah, the promised king and deliverer, knew that prophecy.  “[C]oming with the clouds of heaven” where?—coming to God in heaven?  Coming to earth? to God in His holy Temple in Jerusalem?  The presence of that Temple was immeasurably important to the Jews, but they also knew—Solomon a thousand years before already also knew—that the living God did not, would not dwell in any building of men, no matter how beautiful, grand, or sturdy.  Paul and the preacher of the book of Hebrews understood that the Ancient of Days dwelled in unapproachable light in His heaven.  God gave David the plans for the Temple, just as God had given Moses the plans for the Tabernacle in the wilderness.  Both were artful facsimiles of a garden, a well-watered garden, a place we had known, long ago, where we had dwelled with God in blessedness of Communion, fellowship, connection.  And even that pristine place was a physical expression and manifestation of a spiritual reality.

Daniel wrote of how, there in the presence of the Ancient of Days, the one like a son of man “was given authority, glory and sovereign power.”  That meant something glorious for God’s people, because the Promised One had divine authority, divine glory and power to govern here, govern for the blessing of God’s people—power to restrain and conquer his enemies and ours.  The faithful knew this, cherished and awaited this.  A beleaguered people in a hostile world, they trusted that their Invincible Defender would come.  What might have gotten pushed off to the side amid the excitement was why Daniel would say that the peoples of the nations would worship this Promised King.  Worship him?  That would be idolatry . . . unless . . .

Daniel wrote of an everlasting, indestructible kingdom.  When had such a thing ever been on earth?  Who was this Son of Man, that he should have everlasting, indestructible authority, that he should be worshiped?  And here was Jesus, being paraded into Jerusalem as some king come in peace, bringing peace, the victorious king bringing his people the gift of peace—the conflict done, the battle won.  Why come in victory if the victory is not yet won?  What victory was ever certain?

As the news obligingly reminds us almost daily, we live in a world where peace is precarious and precious.  I fear we typically take too much for granted the peace we enjoy here at home, the sense of security.  In a distant sort of way, we understand it can all be taken away, quickly, abruptly: accidents, disasters, an ugly crime, disease, loss of income, thoughtlessness, cruelty—the random and the intentional hurts that come.  And when our peace is gone, how we grieve!  How shall we ever be restored?  We sit with the shattered remains of our heart all around us, numb.  What sort of life is this?  What sort of world is this?  What sort of God is this?

What victory was ever certain?  How shall lost peace ever be restored?  Who was this son of man, whose victory meant unshakable peace forever?  A clue to all this might have been found in the eightieth psalm: “Let your hand rest on the man at your right hand, the son of man you have raised up for yourself” (Ps 80:17).  But that was just one small part of a longer song.  And, obviously, for God to “raise up” this mortal, this son of man, meant to be honored, given a distinct, signal honor: elevated, promoted.  What else could it mean, “raised up for Yourself”?  The priests, almost to a man, sternly taught that there was no resurrection.  If one were to be raised in this life, as David had been, as Moses had been, as the priests had been, that was prestige and the mark of God’s special favor in the world, the only world there was, the only life there was.  And I suppose there were many who accepted that as truth and gave the matter no further thought.  Death was death after all; then nothing, forever.  Moping around in shadowy Sheol seemed to many like a superstitious relic of a primitive past.

But there were those other, pesky suggestions throughout God’s Word, salting His sacred promise, that there was more, more to it: that God meant another sort of raising, and that it would all begin, all depend, upon the one He sent, in power and authority, the one He sent as a son of man.  Yet every mortal arrives but to die.  What was most common to every son of man if not death: suffering, loss, and death?  Not a cheery thought—hard, dark, terrifying—but in it, through it, what a glorious answer to our common lot!

There in the sun and dust, people were laying down their outer garments for the Promised King, humbling themselves, submitting themselves, honoring him.  Others waved palm branches or laid them down, as for a festive parade, a celebration up to the Temple and around the altar.  In the ancient world, there wasn’t much distinction between the civic and the religious.  A civic festival was a religious festival because all acknowledged their entire reliance upon divine favor.  None lived that entire reliance, but they acknowledged it.  Jesus was entering Jerusalem to go to the Temple.  The celebration led right to the Temple and, in the Temple, the altar: the heart of what happened in the Temple.  And for what purpose was the altar there?  Sacrifice.  And through sacrifice, atonement, peace and restored fellowship with God.

The people intuited, without quite understanding, that Jesus was entering in triumph to make a triumphal, victorious offering, to make his sacrifice.  What it would be, they didn’t know, but all rejoiced, knowing God would find that sacrifice most acceptable and they would be safe, secure, because of it.

Of course all around there was singing and shouts of “Hosanna”: “Hurray!”  But the term also had an earlier, an ancient meaning, a meaning that couldn’t be erased, changed, or forgotten: “O Lord, save us!”  Yes, Lord, save us!  Only, how?  What would salvation look like?  Jesus had tried telling people, but no one listened, no one wanted to hear, least of all his closest friends and followers.  They mostly wanted to keep the party going and see revenge finally visited upon all the wicked.