Rest a while

In the Piazza del Campidoglio, Rome, there stands a bronze equestrian sculpture of the emperor Marcus Aurelius.

The French artist Jean Baptiste Mauzaisse painted Napoleon Bonaparte crossing the Alps on horseback.

Throughout history, rulers riding on horseback have been a universal symbol of power, military might, and elevated status. Whether leading troops into battle or parading through a captured city, the sight of a monarch mounted on a strong steed demonstrated dominance and commanded the attention of their subjects.

This imagery spans countless empires and cultures. It remains a deeply embedded archetype in art, literature, and religious traditions.

So why, then, does the author of the Book of Zechariah — which we read from in our First Reading (Zech. 9:9–10) — have the king riding on a donkey?

“See now, your king comes to you; he is victorious, he is triumphant, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”

In biblical times, a horse was primarily a warhorse. A king or military leader riding a horse conveyed a readiness for battle and the assertion of divine or royal authority.

Conversely, riding a donkey or a mule symbolised a period of peace, humility, or a focus on civic duty rather than conquest.

When we read the passage from the Book of Zechariah, we note the many details symbolic of peace:

“Take away the chariots”: an end to the main vehicle of war.

“Take away . . . the war-horses”: no need for horses used in war.

“The battle bow will be broken”: no need for bows or arrows for fighting.

“He will proclaim peace to the nations”: his message will be one of reconciliation.

“His rule shall be from sea to sea”: the king will control extended territory with no enemies of concern (Zech. 9:10).

How different a picture to images of rows upon rows of armaments paraded in many capital cities.

The Moscow Victory Day Parade is an annual military parade of the Russian Armed Forces, held on Moscow’s Red Square on 9 May during the Victory Day celebrations. Horses have been replaced by tanks, missiles, and other armaments.

In Arlington, Virginia, and in Washington DC, a large military parade marked the United States’ Semiquincentennial celebrations. Again, horses were replaced by tanks and other armaments.

Here in New Zealand, we have our own military parade, known as Anzac Day. Horses have been replaced by wheelchairs, and other armaments by walking frames and crutches.

A final image to sit with: Jesus is in his local synagogue, sitting between his parents, when the synagogue official rises to his feet, unwraps the parchment, and begins, “A reading from the prophet Zechariah: ‘See, your king comes riding on a donkey . . .'”

The artwork is titled A Man Riding a Donkey by the Spanish painter José Moreno Carbonero (1858–1942).

“The Little Things” is a song written by the American singer-songwriter Bruce Springsteen and released on the box set Tracks II: The Lost Albums in 2025.

Long before the studio version was officially released, Springsteen performed “The Little Things” live on tour between 1995 and 1997.

The refrain reads: “It’s the little things that count, it’s the little things that count, it’s the little things.”

When I reflect on my own life, it is indeed “the little things that count.”

A glass of cold beer after an afternoon in the garden.

A hot drink on a chilly winter’s day.

A small posy of flowers, bought by another as a gift, that freshens the living room.

A bowl of potpourri — the fragrant blend of dried flower petals.

A birthday or condolence card carrying good wishes or support.

Living with a disability means I am regularly on the receiving end of many “little things that count.”

In today’s Gospel we are reminded: “And whoever gives only a cup of cold water to one of these little ones to drink because the little one is a disciple — amen, I say to you, they will surely not lose their reward.”

Each of us, no doubt, has their own list.

There is value today in sitting in a quiet space and recalling, as Bruce Springsteen reminds us, that “it is the little things that count.”

My immediate arrival at the seminary, where I was to begin formation for the priesthood, did not involve any talks about God.

Neither one nor three. Neither incarnate, resurrected, nor transubstantiated.

It did not involve reading the Scriptures and having them explained — what is known as exegesis (from the Greek, literally “to lead out”: drawing the meaning out of a text).

There were morning prayer, meditation and Mass, of course. But the structure of my day was determined by a viticulturist and a vintner.

The viticulturist manages the vineyard and the grapes as they grow. The vintner is responsible for making wine from those grapes. These two did not always see eye to eye.

The viticulturist wants the grapes off the vine as soon as possible, enabling the next stage of vine management to proceed. The vintner usually prefers the grape to stay on the vine as long as possible, for the greatest accumulation of natural sugar.

(Apparently UV exposure significantly increases the Brix and pH in the grape juice. If you have no idea what that means, you may well have a vocation to ministerial priesthood.)

The seminary where I studied was surrounded by grapevines, and the young men in the student body were a ready source of pickers.

Days were spent in the summer heat, moving along row upon row of vines, picking into a plastic baby bath pushed beneath each one. Hour after hour, hot and sticky — Pinot Noir, Pinot Gris, Chasselas and Riesling are names that come to mind.

(And if you knew where to look: Iona and Albany Surprise — shh.)

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, came the realisation: I am learning about God in this dusty, hot, sticky vineyard. This place is my classroom; these vines are my teacher.

• Here, there is barrenness awakening to fruitfulness.
• Here, there is emptiness emerging into abundance.
• Here, God is hot, dusty and sticky.

I had been looking so hard elsewhere that I was blind to what was immediately before me.