Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Today’s text

Mark 11:1-6

When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, close by the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples and said to them, 'Go to the village facing you, and as you enter it you will at once find a tethered colt that no one has yet ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone says to you, "What are you doing?" say, "The Master needs it and will send it back here at once." They went off and found a colt tethered near a door in the open street. As they untied it, some men standing there said, 'What are you doing, untying that colt?' They gave the answer Jesus had told them, and the men let them go.

Reflection

‘The master needs it.’

Sometimes you seem so large, Jesus. You speak and what you say is done. You make a request and soon receive what you ask.

You were always in possession of yourself, knowing what you wanted and what kind of statement you desired to make with each action. Even here, you make a command and your will is carried out. Your words open the door to your desire with simple immediacy.

Everything you have I seem to lack. I have little control over myself, and my emotions scurry about like scared chickens, running in every direction at once. Every direction, that is, but the one I most need at this and every moment.

I need my heart to stay on you with the same single-mindedness with which you sought to reveal the holy kingdom of God.

But what here do you invite us to know, other than your single-minded focus?

For no reason, I think of the colt, new, never ridden that will carry your weight into the city where people of no particular importance will welcome you with glad shouts.

I wish the beast had human consciousness to know that it carried the only human soul as gentle as first daylight, a soul through which flows the substance of God into this world.

Gentle beast, you carried the center of universe, the secret of eternity, the face of the Everlasting Mystery. But you know nothing; you just bear the weight of your burden without complaint or urgency, trudging slowly toward the city with the wonder of God on your back.

You knew nothing, but I am a little jealous. I would have loved to have felt Jesus’ weight leaning on me, his hand patting my back, urging me onward.

Sounds silly. But it’s true. Perhaps it is just a prayer to know and feel you near.

And I dare to believe that if I bear my load quietly and listen closely I just may be blessed to feel the weight of your presence.

Call it the hope of the beast.

Pr. David L. Miller