Nine year old me was an ass at times—but not the right kind.
Yes, I believe there is a right kind. And no, I’m not talking about Winnie the Pooh’s friend, the Democrat mascot, and definitely not, you know…(get your mind out of the gutter!). I’m referring to the first-century mule that set the precedent of how humankind can find the most freedom and joy in God: by realizing we’re not the main character.
The Wrong Kind of…Donkey
2004 was when I first noticed my tendencies of being the wrong kind of…donkey. That year, my older brother was entering middle school, and it was a bit unnerving, to say the least, that he was taking some of the unbridled and well-deserved family attention away from me as the youngest child. Everyone was so excited that he was getting his own locker, starting school sports, and having the chance to get a real detention. Big whoop—I had just gotten glasses a year prior (I lied on my eye test to get them for attention), and no one caught me bragging (I often was).
This superfluous parade of affection for my brother, and by default my jealousy, reached their peaks at his sixth-grade orientation day that late summer. We walked into the school as a family, and I peered around for an opportunity to steal the show. Thankfully, my mother would soon grant me that wish.
Blissfully unaware of the length of her extremities, my mom proceeded to “accidentally” poke me in the eye while gesturing to the skylight above us in the school lobby. She claimed she never committed this heinous act, but my therapist believes me (and certainly not because I pay her). This was my time to shine.
Turning to my brother, I yelled out, “Look what mom just did to me!” and jabbed him in his cornea. Was it an accurate representation of the previous injustice? Depends on who you ask. But an eye for an eye felt like the right way to be noticed—and I needed to be noticed.
Immediately, my brother cried out in agony (like the middle schooler he was) and all eyes in the room turned toward me; my arm and index finger extended in the air like I was an NFL coach signaling for a PAT. I had taken the spotlight, alright.
At the moment, I remember feeling pretty crummy, and looking back, I feel even worse. In one of the prouder moments of my brother’s young life, I had turned it into a show about me. Rather than being happy for this next stage for him, I flipped the script, believing the story would turn out better if it had me as the main character.
It didn’t. Everyone, including me, was worse off. I was being an ass—and not the right kind.
The Right Kind of…Donkey
Back to that farm animal—the right kind of…donkey. His scriptural debut comes a week ahead of Jesus’ crucifixion in what the Bible describes as the “Triumphal Entry”—and what we now remember as ‘Palm Sunday’. It’s a moment you may have heard growing up in church, seen in a Biblical cartoon, or acted out in an Easter play—and it appears in all four Gospel accounts in Scripture. The short version is that Jesus mounts a donkey that his disciples have borrowed from a nearby village, rides it through the gates of Jerusalem, and welcomes worship and praise as those nearby lay down palm branches and their robes on the road in honor of him.
It can sound a bit silly reading it through our modern lenses, but the reality of the moment was nothing short of monumental. After years of dodging the spotlight and literally running from crowds attempting to crown him, Jesus finally gave permission for his name to be lifted up—but not out of insecurity or a scratching need for attention—rather to announce himself as the savior to a world he deeply loved, all on the back of a mild-mannered mule.
Now, if I were that donkey, who knows how different that story may have ended up? Based on the nature apparent in nine-year-old me, I could see myself bucking Jesus head over heels, ramming him into a storefront, or yelling as many “hee-haws” as I could, desperate for someone to look my way. I mean, this jack was carrying the Son of God…doesn’t he deserve some recognition? Some pets or pats on the back at the very least? Maybe a cup of oats?!
Alas, that plot twist never happens. There are no recordings of grunts, kicks, stamping, or even eye pokes from our mule friend. In fact, after its initial recruitment, the donkey becomes a background character. It’s never referenced again in the account, yet it held the closest seat possible (literally) to seeing Jesus announce the arrival of his Kingdom.
All because being chosen by Jesus was enough.
The Alpha and the Omega
OK, I know that in reality, this donkey was unbothered by the lack of attention because, well, it’s a donkey. It had no clue what was happening (unless it was the one from Numbers 22). But what if that same detachment from attention was how I went about my life? What if I didn’t care who was laying down palm leaves for me, but cared instead about who was doing so for Jesus?
Turns out childhood me and adult me are still learning the same lesson, all these years later: the story of life isn’t about me. It’s about God and his mission of love and rescue toward a broken people:
This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. 10 This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. 11 Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. (1 John 4:9-11).
Does God talk a lot about his people (meaning, us) in the Bible? Absolutely. We are made in His image, called to be inheritors of his Kingdom, and have been given an opportunity at the fullest life possible on this earth. But the main character in this story is God—who is the definition of love, the beginning and the end of everything, and the King of the universe.
That means God gets the glory, and it also means I am free of the burden of struggling to make the world revolve around me. Because the times I’ve lived my life out of that belief that the story of life is about Jesus, I have lived my freest: free of maintaining a certain reputation, free of twisting the spotlight to be aimed at me, and even free of trying to make the Bible a story about me.
This Easter and beyond, I’m going to try and be an ass (a free ass) that lets God get the palm leafs, robes, and praises. Me? The donkey who gets to ride along? I get his love. And that’s enough.
Disclaimer: This article is 100% human-generated.
At Crossroads, we major on the majors and minor on the minors. We welcome a diverse community of people who all agree that Jesus is Lord and Savior, even if they view minor theological and faith topics in different ways based on their unique experiences. Our various authors embody that principle, and we approach you, our reader, in the same fashion. You don’t have to agree with every detail of any article you see here to be part of this community or pursue faith. Chances are even our whole staff doesn’t even agree with every detail of what you just read. We are okay with that tension. And we think God is okay with that, too. The foundation of everything we do is a conviction that the Bible is true and that accepting Jesus is who he said he is leads to a healthy life of purpose and adventure—and eternal life with God.
