The Animals of the Passion Speak

It was Friday evening, sunset and the crosses were bare. No more human flesh to suspend in agony. The limp broken bodies of the three convicts were rushed to the tombs in a nearby garden and hastily buried. Just across the valley beyond the walls seven animals found themselves huddled into an empty manger not unlike the one into which Jesus was born. It had a cave for the animals to escape the weather, lots of hay and a large dirt lot with pens separated by mossy stone walls. Each felt as though it was a prison sentence or a type of penence to be held there in the company of eachother. 

The young colt took the lead, breaking the ice to introduce himself to the rooster and the bulls. Having carried Jesus into the City of Peace together, the donkey already knew the little horse well, but the rest of the barnyard was a tougher crowd. Rex, the rooster, strutted past the newcomer with a haughty air, turning up his beak as if the colt’s scent were beneath him. Unfazed, the donkey simply waited for the bulls to weigh in—true to his stubborn nature, he was rarely in a hurry to be the first to do anything.

The bull of Bashan was contained in his own pen. Like prizefighters coiled in their corners, he lashed at the earth, his hooves striking the ground in a rhythmic display of confined fury. His coat was a shimmery, midnight black, draped in wire-like fur that bunched over mountainous shoulders. Above those shoulders sat a head shaped like massive stone cube—fearsome, unblinking eyes fixed forward, and ivory horns curving into lethal points, eager to impale.

Metaphorically, he represented men who acted like animals—fattened on power and possessed by greed, vengeance, and a dull-witted cruelty. Jesus had felt their breath his entire life; they were the shadows in the crowd that had reached for stones and sought to cast him from cliffs. He eluded their fury until now.

In his closing moments, he endured the physical storm of mockery—a flurry of kicks, punches, and spittle raining down upon the Lamb.

As the King and Suffering Servant stood broken before them, the ancient cry of the Psalmist echoed through his lips: "Many bulls surround me; strong bulls of Bashan encircle me."

The bull stepped forward first, a low, menacing snort escaping him. “I am your worst nightmare,” he growled and vigorously shook his head to ward off a cloud of buzzing flies, sending a spray of thick, mucusy slime flying across the manger walls.

Dorothy the Donkey finally broke in, “I was forced to carry what everyone thought was a king but who turned out to be a bust. And now I’m here stuck in the so-called city of peace. 

The bull responded loudly, “Kings ride warhorses not donkeys!”

Rex the Rooster:  Now perched on a stone wall, his eyes darting with sharp, nervous energy. He blurted out. “Well, I don’t think his kingdom is of this world. Something the bulls failed to see because they are blinded by guilt.”

The Bull: ‘It is done. Did you hear his bones creak? We circled him like a thicket of thorns. Power belongs to the strong, and he was nothing but a broken reed. It’s not a matter of guilt. It’s a matter of exposing the truth.

Rex the Rooster: "Guilty! Guilty! I saw it all from the courtyard. But don't look at the Bulls—look at her.” He said, pointing his wing tip toward the donkey. “Dorothy, you carried him in with palms at your feet just days ago, and then you stood by while your masters traded him for a murderer. You missed the moment, didn't you? You stubborn, slow-witted creature."

Dorothy the Donkey: "I... I am slow. I move when I am pulled and stop when I am tired. I thought he was just another burden to carry, another King who would eventually leave me in the stable. I didn't see the light because I was looking at the dust. Is that a crime, to be too dull to notice the veiled divinity of a mysterious King?"

Cyrus the Colt: Stepping forward, "It is more than a crime, Dorothy—it is a tragedy. I felt the weight of him, and it wasn't the weight of a man. It was the weight of the stars. I have never been ridden, yet I knew his touch. He didn't come to conquer like the Bulls, and he didn't come to judge like Rex. He came to be offered like a Lamb."

The Bull: Snorting in derision, "Offered? He was crushed! We represent the pride of the earth. We are the 'Evil' you speak of only if strength is evil. We tore at his peace because his peace made our fury look like weakness. We are innocent because we acted according to our nature—the predator consumes the prey."

Cyrus the Colt: “Prey? Ha! He may have endured death as a lamb; be he devoured it as a lion!” What about you Rex, why didn’t you intervene?”

Rex the Rooster: ‘It was I who called out the betrayal! I watched the one who claimed to love him shrink away three times before the sun even blinked. I point out the fault so the world knows where the rot is. I am the only innocent one here because I speak the truth of others' sins!"

Cyrus the Colt: "But Rex, you only use the truth to pierce others, never to heal. And Bulls, you use strength to mask your fear of his silence. We are all stained by this day. You by your rage, Dorothy by her indifference, and Rex by his pride."

Dorothy the Donkey: "I was stubborn. I waited for a sign while I was literally carrying the Sign on my back. I am guilty of the greatest silence."

Cyrus the Colt: "Then let us wait. I feel a shift in the wind—something that suggests that the victory the bulls claim will be reversed. You Bulls think you've won but, we know in the end, Jesus was a Messiah you cannot comprehend. He didn't die because of your strength, Bulls. He died because he chose to let go."

The Bull fell silent, looking at his hooves. Rex tucks his head under a wing, suddenly finding no one left to accuse. Dorothy stays rooted, finally awake to the weight of the world. 

Cyrus the Colt:  “In the end, we are all participants in his passion. We have all have fallen short of the glory of our Creator and are in need of redemption. Alas, we wait to see it unfold. It is not done. He will be back to set us free. Wait and believe.