Matthew 21:1–11
1 As they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethphage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, 2 saying to them, “Go to the village ahead of you, and at once you will find a donkey tied there, with her colt by her. Untie them and bring them to me. 3 If anyone says anything to you, say that the Lord needs them, and he will send them right away.”
4 This took place to fulfill what was spoken through the prophet:
5 “Say to Daughter Zion,
‘See, your king comes to you,
gentle and riding on a donkey,
and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.’ ”
6 The disciples went and did as Jesus had instructed them. 7 They brought the donkey and the colt and placed their cloaks on them for Jesus to sit on. 8 A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, while others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. 9 The crowds that went ahead of him and those that followed shouted,
“Hosanna to the Son of David!”
“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”
“Hosanna in the highest heaven!”
10 When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred and asked, “Who is this?”
11 The crowds answered, “This is Jesus, the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee.”
What Kind Of King Is This?
It was the most wonderful time of the year. The air was filled with festive hymns. Every street was decorated with boughs and branches. Countless people traveled from great distances to meet with their families and celebrate the most important holiday of all… Passover!
Christmas may not be the closest equivalent to the Passover festival, but there’s certainly some overlap—even if I don’t describe it as vaguely as possible. Passover was a major Jewish holiday, with both religious and cultural significance. Families would travel from all over to gather in Jerusalem and commemorate the day the Lord had liberated all of Israel from slavery in Egypt. On this Sunday, just a few days before the feast, the whole city was already packed with pilgrims.
This year, there was even an impromptu “Passover Parade,” like something you might see downtown around Christmas time—although they had psalms instead of carols, and palms instead of pine trees. And at the centre of the procession, instead of a bearded guy in a red suit, rode a single man atop a young donkey.
The crowds, filling the streets, shouted praises to this regal figure, applying the words of traditional Passover psalms—psalms that spoke of the coming King: “Hosanna to the Son of David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!”[1] Hosanna—literally it means, “please save us!” A fitting petition to bring before the King of creation! Surely, they must realize who this rider, this Jesus, is.
But as fitting as those words were, the true significance was apparently lost on them. When all the city heard the hubbub and asked, “Who is this?”[2], the crowds responded: “This is Jesus, the… prophet. From Nazareth.”
It’s clear from the “red carpet” of cloaks and palm branches that those crowds at least wanted Jesus to be their king—but no one who saw Jesus would think he already was one; he was still “just” a prophet. The king they waited for would bring them liberation, the kind that the Passover festival celebrated: national independence, the downfall of their oppressors, awesome displays of God’s power. That’s the kind of king they wanted, whether Jesus fit that mold or not.
The crowds wrongly expected a king who would come to save them from all their earthly problems. But before we criticize their interpretation, isn’t that what we so often look for, too? A king like that could make life a lot easier, after all. We want a king who conquers, who shows the world who’s boss. We want a king who makes us feel superior, who proves once and for all that we’re right—so that we don’t have to deal with any discomfort or conflict for our beliefs. We want a king who rides in on a warhorse to strike down disease and break down barriers so that we can coast through life. Wouldn’t that be great?
Just like those Palm Sunday worshipers, we can find ourselves singing along with the right words, but missing the point. When the angels sang of “Peace on Earth” on Christmas night, they didn’t mean we could expect our lives to be conflict-free. Jesus is Immanuel, “God with us,” but having God on our side doesn’t mean he’ll go along with whatever we want. When the King says “Comfort, comfort, all my people,” he doesn’t guarantee us cozy winter evenings with family or lives free of pain and toil and disease.
Those thoughts of world peace and easy living might make us feel warm and fuzzy, but they don’t reflect the kind of king Jesus came to be. They reflect the kind of king we think we need—a king who only comes to solve all our earthly problems. And if that’s the king we expect, we may sing all the right words, but our hearts are far from him. In our hearts, we’re rejecting the King Jesus came to be. In our hearts, it’s a rebellion.
It’s the same rebellion that first began in the hearts of Adam and Eve, when they believed their need for knowledge surpassed the authority of God’s command. If we expect Jesus to rule in our lives by fixing whatever we think is most pressing, we’re silently asserting that our priorities should be the guiding principle of his reign—that if his agenda doesn’t match ours, it can wait.
This hidden rebellion might be hard to detect from our perspective—psalms and palm branches hardly seem rebellious. But God knows our hearts, not just our words. When we expect a king other than the one God sends us, it’s not an innocent, neutral act—it’s a rejection of one in favour of another. It may not begin as conscious, open rebellion, but God’s law doesn’t leave room for half-hearted acceptance.
There’s only one logical course of action when a powerful king is faced with rebellion—even a hidden rebellion. We would expect the King to come marching in with his angelic armies to crush our rebellious race. We would expect him to punish us as the law demands, by throwing us into eternal imprisonment for rejecting the King he came to be, for daring to think that we know better than him. That’s what the law demands, after all.
And yet, that’s not the kind of King we see either. Instead, we see the King no one expected.
What kind of king comes from Nazareth, raised by a simple carpenter? What kind of king fills his court with tax collectors and sinners? What kind of king rides straight into enemy territory without an army to back him up? What kind of king wears a crown of thorns?
It’s the kind of King we need. The kind of King who comes to you.
Your King comes to you—carried into Bethlehem by a young girl from David’s royal line. To be born as one of us. To obey where we rebelled.
Your King comes to you—gentle and humble, welcomed into Jerusalem by crowds who would soon reject him. To die a rebel’s death in your place. To remove your guilt forever.
Your King comes to you—undeterred by the restrictions and resistance we put up, determined to endure whatever it took to restore the relationship between you and your God. To put enmity back where it belongs, and crush the serpent’s head once and for all.
That’s the kind of King we have. One who came down not to punish us as we deserved, but to take on our punishment, and to rescue us from our own rebellion. To make us his allies, not his enemies. And to show us what kind of King he came to be.
When Jerusalem asked, “Who is this?”, the crowds were blinded by their wrong expectations—but Scripture gives us the perfect answer. Think of the psalm we sang this morning, Psalm 24: “Who is he, this King of glory? The Lord Almighty—He is the King of glory!”[3]
Those crowds despised the gentleness and humility of Jesus, turning their cheers to jeers as he chose the cross instead of an earthly crown. But through the eyes of faith, we recognize that’s the most glorious thing he could have done—and exactly what we needed. Now that he has redeemed us rebels and brought us into his kingdom, our gentle Saviour King still comes to us. He may still bear a humble appearance—words on the pages of Scripture, a splash of water in baptism, or a bit of bread and wine in communion—but don’t be mistaken; in each of those, he comes to you with glorious power to give you forgiveness and grace, to strengthen you as you serve him in faith.
Because we know who our King is, we look at our lives in a completely different way. As humble servants of the King, we honour and obey him—even when we don’t fully understand his plan. Every one of us could easily come up with a list of problems for Jesus to solve for us, problems way too big for us to handle ourselves. And while Jesus is fully aware and in control of those problems, he doesn’t promise to take them away at the snap of our fingers. That’s not the kind of king he came to be.
But he is the King who promises to sustain us with true and lasting comfort, to guard our hearts with peace that transcends all understanding. Our Second Reading assures us, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”[4] Entrust him with your troubles, serve him without fear, because if your King tells you not to be anxious about anything, you can trust that he will take care of you in everything.
We know who our King is, so we gather to worship him. We don’t need to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem—just a few steps to grab your Bible for a family devotion, or better yet, drive a few kilometers on Sunday mornings to hear his name proclaimed to you here in church, to receive forgiveness in his body and blood with the family of believers. It may be difficult to see evidence of his reign out in the world, but here, in worship, your King continues to come to you, to establish his reign of grace in your heart and realign your expectations according to his perfect will.
And because we know who our King is, we join in proclaiming his name. We sing these familiar festive songs not out of nostalgia, not because we prefer Bing to Bublé, not to spread Christmas cheer, but because we know our gentle and glorious King, who came to us, bringing not a sword but salvation. We proclaim his name, whether in Christmas carols or conversation, so that the King of glory may enter not only our hearts, but each tribe and nation—starting with our neighbours—as he turns enemies into allies and brings rebels into his kingdom by the power of his Word.
We know who our King is, so we know what to expect when he comes again. Not an earthly king who only saves us from earthly problems. Not a vengeful king who comes to punish us. But a gentle King who comes to us as our Saviour. A King who rules in our hearts and brings true comfort and peace and joy. And on the day of his coming, when he appears, not on a donkey, but brilliantly descending from heaven, no one will have to ask, “Who is this?” Instead, we and believers of all nations will welcome him with perfect, blissful understanding: “The Lord Almighty—He is the King of glory!” Amen.
[1] Matthew 21:9
[2] Matthew 21:10
[3] Psalm 24:10
[4] Philippians 4:6