A number of years ago, I remember watching a royal visit replayed on TV—crowds lining the streets, people waiting for hours just to catch a glimpse. Flags waving, cameras ready, a sense of excitement in the air. There’s something about the arrival of a king or queen that draws people in. Do you notice that? It’s not just about the person—it’s about what their presence represents—honour, power, hope. But also distance. Even in the excitement, there’s a gap. You watch from the side of the road. You might catch a wave. But you don’t expect them to step down, walk over, and sit with you.
And then we come to Palm Sunday.
Matthew invites us into a scene that feels similar at first—crowds gathering, cloaks on the road, branches waving, voices crying out, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” But do you notice how different this arrival is? It’s striking, isn’t it? Jesus doesn’t ride in on a war horse. He doesn’t come surrounded by soldiers. There’s no display of political power. Instead, he comes gently, riding on a donkey. It’s deliberate. It’s intentional. Every detail is carefully arranged. So you have to ask—what kind of King is this?
Because if we’re honest, this isn’t the kind of king we expect. We tend to look for strength in obvious places. We want someone who can fix things quickly, someone who can take control, remove the chaos, make things right in ways we can see and measure. But Jesus comes in a way that almost feels underwhelming—quiet, humble, even unsettling. Because it means his kingdom doesn’t operate the way we think it should.
Martin Luther once said, “God’s true power is hidden under its opposite.” That’s what we see here—power hidden in humility, authority revealed through gentleness. A King who doesn’t demand attention but invites it. And that confronts something deep within us, because we don’t just want a king—we want a king on our terms.
You can see that tension in the crowd. They’re all in, shouting, celebrating, laying everything down before him. But do you notice—what are they expecting? What do you think is going through their minds? Many are hoping for political change, freedom from Rome, a restoration of national identity. They cry out “Hosanna”—“save us”—but the question lingers… save us from what?
And that question reaches us too. When you cry out to God—what are you asking him to do? Fix your circumstances? Remove the struggle? Make life easier? These are real, honest prayers. But what if Jesus is doing something deeper than that?
It’s striking how Matthew shows us not just that Jesus enters Jerusalem—but where he is going. Do you notice that? He is heading to the temple—the very place where God’s presence was believed to dwell, where heaven and earth meet. And yet, here is Jesus, riding into the city not just to visit the temple, but to redefine it.
As N.T. Wright puts it, “Jesus is acting out the truth that he himself is now the place where heaven and earth meet.” In other words, God is no longer confined to a building. God’s presence is not something people must travel to and earn access to. God is coming to them—in Jesus.
Isn’t that remarkable?
The King doesn’t stay distant. He doesn’t wait for people to get their lives in order before approaching him. He comes right into the city, right into the mess, right into the tension and brokenness. And he does it knowing exactly what awaits him.
Because we know how the story unfolds.
The same voices shouting “Hosanna” will soon cry out “Crucify.” The same crowd that celebrates will turn away. And Jesus knows it. Do you notice that? He rides into Jerusalem with full awareness of where this road leads. So why does he keep going? Why not turn back? Why not choose a different path?
Because this is the kind of King he is.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer once wrote, “Only the suffering God can help.” And here is Jesus—the King—choosing the path of suffering. Not because he is weak, but because this is how he saves. He doesn’t come to take life, but to give it. He doesn’t conquer through force, but through sacrifice.
It’s striking, isn’t it? The King rides into the city not to take a throne, but to go to a cross.
And this is where everything changes for us.
Because it means your relationship with God is not built on your ability to reach him—but on his determination to come to you. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to prove yourself. You don’t have to clean yourself up first. The King has already come. He has already moved toward you. He has already taken your sin, your failure, your brokenness upon himself.
This is what the crowd didn’t fully see. But it’s what we are invited to see now.
So let me ask you—what kind of King do you want? One who meets your expectations, or one who truly saves?
Because Jesus still comes. Not on a donkey through the streets of Jerusalem—but through his Word, through his promises, through the quiet, powerful work of his grace in your life. And do you notice—he still comes in humility. He still comes gently. He still comes not to take from you, but to give himself for you.
Augustine once said, “God is closer to you than you are to yourself.” That’s the reality Palm Sunday points us toward—the King who comes not to remain distant, but to be with you.
So maybe today, instead of standing at the side of the road watching the King pass by, we step into the story. We lay down more than branches. We lay down our expectations, our need for control, our assumptions about how God should work.
And we join the cry—“Hosanna… save us.”
And with clearer eyes, we see—he already has.
He is the King who comes to be with you… and to give his life for you.
