Palm Sunday Reflection – Lent 6
READING: Matthew 21.1–11
A refusal to play by the usual rules of power.
I wonder… what kind of king we are expecting as we wave our palm crosses or branches today when we listened to the bible reading of that first Palm Sunday
The scene described is a joyful one . Cloaks laid on the road. Branches cut and lifted high. Voices raised in hope: “Hosanna — save us!” There is energy in the air, a sense that something is about to change.
And yet, we know how quickly this story turns.
In just a few days, the cries of “Hosanna” will give way to “Crucify.”
The road that begins with a donkey will end at a cross.
And perhaps the question for us this morning is not simply what happened back then, but:
How do we get from the donkey to the cross?
Because the truth is — it is not just one person’s doing.
It is easy to point to Judas, or Peter, or Pilate. But the Gospel invites us to look more deeply. The cross is not the result of one betrayal or one failure. It emerges from a whole web of human forces:
Envy — when others feel threatened by goodness they cannot control.
Enmity — when divisions harden into hostility.
Political manoeuvring — when maintaining order becomes more important than seeking truth.
And perhaps most recognisably, denial of responsibility —
It wasn’t me.”
Each person steps back just enough,
and in that space, injustice moves forward.
And if we are honest, we can recognise those same patterns in our own world — and even, at times, in ourselves. Moments when we stay quiet rather than speak. Moments when we protect what is comfortable rather than what is right. Moments when we step away and say, “This isn’t mine to deal with.”
So Palm Sunday is not just a story we remember.
It is a mirror we are invited to look into.
And at the centre of it all is this striking, almost strange image:
Jesus choosing a donkey.
Not a war horse.
Not a symbol of strength or victory.
But something small, ordinary — even a little vulnerable.
In the ancient world, this would have been noticed. A king arriving on a war horse came ready for battle. A king on a donkey came in peace.
So Jesus is making a statement — but not the kind people were expecting.
If anything, it feels like a kind of gentle protest.
A refusal to play by the usual rules of power.
And we recognise something of that in our own time. There are moments when people act in ways that are quiet but deeply unsettling — refusing violence, choosing humility, standing or kneeling in ways that challenge the systems around them.
These actions can look weak.
They can be misunderstood.
They can even provoke anger.
But they reveal another way.
Jesus is not entering Jerusalem to take power.
He is entering to redefine it.
Power, in his kingdom, is not about control.
It is about presence.
It is about truth.
It is about a love that is willing to be vulnerable.
And this is where the crowd begins to struggle.
Because they cry “Hosanna” — “Save us” — but perhaps they are imagining a different kind of salvation. A stronger king. A clearer victory. A quicker resolution.
And when that does not come — when Jesus does not meet those expectations — something shifts.
Hope begins to turn into disappointment.
Disappointment into frustration.
And frustration, eventually, into rejection.
And again, if we are honest, we know this movement too.
There are times when we want God to act in a certain way — to fix, to resolve, to intervene clearly and quickly. And when that does not happen, we can feel unsettled. Even disillusioned.
Palm Sunday holds that tension for us.
It invites us not just to celebrate,
but to pay attention.
Because this is not just the beginning of a procession.
It is the beginning of a journey.
A journey that will take us through misunderstanding, through conflict, through loss — and ultimately, through the cross.
And yet, the donkey tells us something essential before we even begin.
God does not arrive through force.
God comes gently.
Persistently.
Without coercion.
God does not overwhelm us into love.
God invites us into it.
And perhaps that is the quiet challenge of this day.
Not simply to wave our branches,
but to ask ourselves:
Are we willing to follow this kind of king?
A king who does not dominate,
but walks alongside.
A king who does not avoid suffering,
but enters into it.
A king who shows us that love is not always powerful in the way the world understands power — but is powerful in a deeper, more enduring way.
So as we stand at the beginning of Holy Week, we are invited not just to observe the story, but to step into it.
To notice where those same forces — envy, fear, denial — are still at work.
To notice where we are tempted to turn away.
And also to notice where the quiet, subversive presence of Christ is still entering our world.
Still choosing the donkey.
Still choosing humility.
Still choosing love.
And so perhaps we might carry this wondering with us into the days ahead: Where do we see that gentle, disruptive presence of Christ today —
and how might we walk that same road,
even when it leads us beyond comfort,
and toward the deeper work of love?
Image: Iva Rajovic| Unsplash.com
