I Think I Finally Figured It Out
Biblical Echoes, and the True House of Robbers
As a little American boy growing up under the quiet insistence of my parents, I spent every Saturday in German school. I actually liked the German language—its poetry, its dialects, the texture of it all, and especially its harsh fables.
What I didn’t like was the work of learning grammar. I was bad at it then, and I’m still bad at it now.
But the stories? They stayed with me.
One in particular—the tale of the Bremen Town Musicians—always captivated me more than any grammar lesson ever could. A donkey, a dog, a cat, and a rooster—each rejected, aging, or worn down by the world—banding together and heading off toward a dream that never quite materializes. Instead of reaching Bremen, they discover a house full of robbers, scare them off through sheer surprise, and make it their home.
It’s a tale of misfits turned musicians, losers turned legends.
For years, I carried that story around with me without quite knowing why.
But now, looking back through the lens of covenant and Scripture, I think I finally figured it out. Of course, it was only after a conversation with Jo, not long after October 7th, 2023, when I shared with him my strange theory about donkeys from what I also learned in my studies with him, plus my love for them, and that my dad would call me a ‘dummer esel’ (a dumb ass) and perhaps how it all tied into this fable or Pinocchio (I’ll eventually get to that story).
BUT! Something clicked. I began to see it—not just as a childhood tale, but as a prophetic parable.
So I turned to the great AI tools that are developing so quickly these days—tools I’ve come to lean on as I work through my own scattered mind. And I asked AI:
“Have you ever heard such an interpretation?”
She said: No.
Not so fast… she doesn’t have access to the testimony of the Trail of Blood.
Well, this is not just a fairy tale. It’s a hidden parable. A layered witness.
And the animals?
They aren’t random. They’re prophetic.
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The Donkey: The Peter Chamor
In the Torah, the donkey is the only non-kosher animal that must be redeemed (Exodus 13:13). The peter chamor (פֶּ֤טֶר חֲמֽוֹר), the firstborn donkey, must be bought back with a lamb. If not, its neck is broken. No other animal receives this strange requirement.
The donkey becomes a symbol of the outsider who bears burdens—one who can’t be sacrificed but must be redeemed. Think of the donkey carrying Yeshua into Jerusalem. Humble. Silent. Essential. Perhaps even unaware of the sacred weight he bears.
In the story of the Bremen Musicians, the donkey leads. It bears the others. It forms the base of the stack. It is the silent support on which the others stand.
But this image runs far deeper than we might think.
The peter chamor evokes Peter—Kepha—one of the “lost sheep of the House of Israel ” whom the Messiah came to gather (Matthew 15:24). Simon St. Peter , the bold but broken disciple, represents a redeemed remnant—called back from dispersion, marked by denial, but restored by grace.
And this restoration is not merely personal. It is covenantal. The donkey, like Peter, is redeemed by the Lamb—not sacrificed, but purchased for a purpose. The act of redemption dignifies what the world sees as unclean or disposable. It restores function to the forgotten.
This image even taps back into Ishmael, the son of Hagar—also a bearer of burden, also sent away, and yet blessed. He, too, is a child of Abraham. Though often cast to the margins of theological discourse, Ishmael represents a line of inheritance that God does not forget.
In this sense, the donkey is more than just an animal in a story—it is a theological cipher for all the children of Abraham who have been misunderstood, miscategorized, or misrepresented. It is the image of the covenant breaking back into history through unlikely figures, burdened bodies, and forgotten tribes.
The donkey doesn’t speak in the Bremen tale. But its place is foundational. And that, too, is part of the mystery: the redemption of the silent, the lifting of the lowly, the beginning of the music from the bottom up.
This photo was taken by Gloria’s Cousin Cecila with her puppy
who being from Peru like Gloria is a teacher but of German and Spanish.
Of course Ceci speaks grammatical German much better than I
and my beloved wife Gloria is more ‘German’ than I
The Dog: Caleb Grafted InIn Hebrew, the word kelev (כֶּלֶב), meaning “dog,” is etymologically close to Caleb (כָּלֵב)—the faithful scout sent into the Promised Land. But they are more than homonyms—they are theological opposites made visible.
Caleb, son of Jephunneh the Kenizzite, was not born an Israelite. He came from outside the camp. A Gentile by blood—but through faith and loyalty, he was grafted into the covenant. Scripture tells us he “had a different spirit” and “followed the Lord fully” (Numbers 14:24). For this, he received an inheritance among the tribes of Israel. He was not merely tolerated—he was loved.
This is the hidden force behind the encounter in Matthew 15:21–28. A Canaanite woman cries out to Yeshua, and he responds, “It is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.” Her answer? “Even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.” And his reply is breathtaking: “O woman, great is your faith!”
This wasn’t an insult—it was a test. And her response revealed a truth long buried in the soil of covenant history: there are dogs who destroy, but there are also dogs who cling, who believe, who love.
In the rabbinic imagination, wild dogs—kelevei kiruv—were sometimes symbols of those who turn faith into manipulation, who devour truth, who masquerade as messengers but tear the flock apart. They are wolves in dogs’ clothing—dangerous, seductive, false.
But Caleb is different. Caleb is beloved. He is the image of the faithful outsider, one who watches, who waits, who doesn’t turn away even when tested. He is Israel’s inheritance made visible in Gentile flesh.
In the Bremen Town Musicians, the dog is cast aside because of age and weakness, yet he finds his place in the new fellowship. He is not leading, but neither is he abandoned. He is grafted into a new household, joined with others who, like him, were rejected—but not forgotten.
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The Cat: The Cat of Egypt
The Bible says little about cats, but ancient Egypt reverenced them. Cats were sacred to Bastet—goddess of protection, fertility, and the home. They were keepers of the house, destroyers of snakes, and guardians in the shadows. In this tale, the cat is elusive, clever, and poised—never dominant, but never absent.
The cat, to me, has become the image of a remnant from empire—a witness who survived its magic, mystery, and idolatry, yet was not swallowed by it. She escaped, but not without marks. She remembers. She walks softly, but her instincts are sharp.
Egypt’s redemption story begins in Exodus, where a mixed multitude left the house of bondage—led by a lamb, preserved by blood. The plagues were not just judgments on Pharaoh, but a dismantling of Egyptian gods—a divine confrontation with the powers of empire. And yet, Isaiah sees more. He sees a future in which Egypt is not merely judged, but blessed.
“Blessed be Egypt My people, and Assyria the work of My hands,
and Israel My inheritance.” (Isaiah 19:25)
This stunning prophecy envisions a highway of reconciliation—stretching from Egypt to Assyria to Israel. These are not just geographic regions. They are theological landscapes. Empire, exile, covenant—all braided together.
And here’s the hidden thread: both Egypt and Assyria became early homes of the faith. The mia/monophysite churches—Coptic in Egypt, Assyrian in the East—preserved a fierce, Kosher, mystical Christology long after the West fragmented.
While Rome became an empire again in religious robes, these churches—often persecuted, misunderstood, and eventually isolated—held fast to the mystery of God incarnate.
And they survived.
They endured the rise of Militant Islam.
They survived being labeled heretics by imperial councils.
They remain today, scattered and shaken, but still there.
The cat, then, is more than an animal. She is the survivor of empires. She is the whisper of theological memory. She is the church of Egypt and Assyria and Armenia—watchful, wounded, and wise.
In the Bremen tale, she neither leads nor commands, but she takes her place. She is not loud. She is not proud. But she is part of the redeemed assembly.
She knows how to slip through cracks.
How to hide from the destroyer.
How to survive when no one else remembers your name.
This is the cat of Egypt.
And she still stands and her Pyramids which are perhaps revealing more secrets.
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The Rooster: The One Who Crows at Betrayal
— Perhaps the Star of the Show?
This one is clearer. In the Gospels, the rooster crows—and Peter remembers.
“Before the rooster crows today, you will deny me three times.” (Luke 22:61)
It is the sound that shatters self-confidence. The moment where the illusion breaks. The cry that pierces betrayal—not to destroy, but to awaken.
In this way, the rooster becomes the voice of repentance. His crow is not condemnation—it is conviction. A call to return.
But the rooster does not only confront.
He also heralds the dawn.
He sings before the light comes.
He declares the morning while it is still dark.
This is what makes the rooster the true prophetic voice:
He sees what others don’t.
He hears what others won’t.
He cries out when others sleep.
The Rooster and the Reformation - In Protestant Germany, most churches don’t bear a cross on their steeples—they bear a rooster.
Why? Because the Reformation saw itself as a wake-up call—a crowing in the darkness of ecclesial corruption. The rooster became a symbol of conscience. A cry against spiritual betrayal. It stood in opposition to the Catholic basilicas and the heavy silence of empire.
And the Reformers were right to cry out. The Reformation was a genuine awakening—a breaking of silence.
But it wasn’t the last word.
Because while the rooster may have crowed, many Protestants still haven’t repented fully.
We have not turned all the way back.
We have not listened long enough to the Hebrew Scriptures.
We have not acknowledged that our own systems still carry supersessionism, theological imperialism, and an ignorance of Israel’s enduring role.
The Reformation rightly challenged the abuses of Rome.
But it often built its theology on the same replacement framework—abandoning the Jewish people and stripping the gospel from its native soil.
So the rooster still stands, crowing.
Not only over Peter’s denial,
But over our failure to return to the root.
It is not enough to reform.
We must be restored.
We must return not only to Scripture but to covenant, to the root that supports us (Romans 11).
The Rooster in the Bremen Stack - In the Bremen tale, the rooster takes the highest place in the stack—not to rule, but to see.
- He is the voice above, not because he is better, but because he cries out first.
- He warns of danger.
- He calls out betrayal.
- He announces dawn.
And today, perhaps, he is crying again—not just over empire or corruption, but over a Church that still refuses to return to Zion, to Torah, to the Jewish Messiah and His covenant people.
- He does not destroy. He awakens.
- He does not curse. He calls.
- And if we listen—truly listen—we might still hear his crow at the edge of dawn.
The Stack: A Prophetic Assembly - Now picture them together:
The donkey—redeemed by the lamb, carrying a sacred burden, misunderstood but foundational.
The dog—once an outsider, now beloved, grafted in by faith like Caleb, clinging to the promise.
The cat—marked by empire, scarred by exile, yet surviving with quiet endurance, a whisper of ancient churches still holding mystery.
The rooster—perched above, not as a ruler but as a watchman, the prophetic voice that calls out betrayal and heralds the morning.
- These are not just animals in a fairy tale.
- They are the exiled, the faithful, the hidden, and the prophetic.
- They are the unexpected witnesses of redemption.
They form a stacked assembly, not hierarchical but interdependent. Lifted, balanced, bearing each other’s weight—each one taking their place in a strange harmony that confounds the powers and terrifies the robbers.
And that leads us to ask:
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Who Are the Real Robbers?
In the Grimm tale, the robbers are common thieves, feasting in someone else’s house. But when we read this as a parable, something deeper emerges.
The real robbers are those who have taken what was not theirs:
- Those who occupy sacred space without covenant loyalty.
- Those who steal the inheritance meant for the humble, the exiled, the faithful remnant.
- Those who build empires, dress them up in theology, and silence the cries of the rooster.
They may look like scholars, priests or tele-evangelists. They may sound like reformers or kings. But their systems exclude the very ones God has chosen.
In contrast, the Bremen animals—like the faithful remnants of Scripture—reclaim the house not through violence but through presence. Through song. Through unity in exile.
They don’t burn down the house.
They restore it with testimony.
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The Song of the Redeemed
What if the Bremen Town Musicians is a mashal—a parable of the restored assembly?
What if the real song of redemption doesn’t come from cathedrals or councils, but from the margins?
It’s not the kings who sing the true song.
Not the theologians with palaces.
Not the empires or the architects of exclusion.
It’s:
- The donkey who is redeemed—burdened but blessed.
- The dog who is grafted in—once rejected, now beloved.
- The cat who slipped past empire—still watching in the shadows.
- The rooster who cries at dawn—still calling us back to covenant, to Zion, to the roots we’ve forgotten.
Together, they become an ‘eda’—a band of testimony. A strange fellowship.
A new house—no longer a den of robbers, but a place of praise.
Maybe the Goal Wasn’t Bremen After All
Maybe we don’t need to reach Bremen.
Maybe the dream isn’t a destination—it’s what forms along the way.
Maybe the song isn’t just a melody—it’s a testimony that shakes the false house to its foundation.
Maybe this story was always meant to show us that:
- The real musicians are the outcasts who find each other.
- The real reformation is not just a protest but a return—to covenant, to Israel, to mercy.
- And the real redemption happens when those the world rejected are lifted, healed, and joined together.
So maybe—just maybe—we are the musicians.
And the house will stand again.
But only if we remember the song.
What is the most frequent command in scripture?
Sing!
Even if it is a joyful noise!
