The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them;  they brought the donkey and the colt and put their cloaks on them, and he sat on them. A very large crowd[b] spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. 9 The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting,

“Hosanna to the Son of David!

    Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!

Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, “Who is this?”  The crowds were saying, “This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.”  (Matthew 21: 6-11)

 

“And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’”  (Matthew 25:40)

 Matthew tells us that as Jesus entered Jerusalem, “the whole city was in turmoil” (Matthew 21:10). That detail matters. Palm Sunday is often imagined as a cheerful parade: cloaks on the road, branches in the air, people shouting praise. But Matthew’s version holds more tension than triumph. The crowds cry, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” and at the same time the city trembles with the question, “Who is this?” Palm Sunday is not simply a celebration. It is a public collision between the way of empire and the way of God.

Jesus does not enter the city with military force or royal spectacle. He comes on a donkey, in humility, fulfilling prophecy and embodying a different kind of power. As writers at Working Preacher often note, this is not just a detail of transportation. It is theology enacted. Jesus comes not to dominate but to reveal the reign of God—a reign marked by mercy, justice, and peace.

That contrast has been sitting with me this week because I keep remembering an experience from my seminary days.

When I was a student at Queen’s, we hosted a visit by the Coptic Pope, Tawadros II. At the time, I knew very little about the Coptic Orthodox Church beyond vague impressions: ancient roots in Egypt, liturgy that looked “sort of Catholic,” and the fact that there is a Coptic monastery, St. Anthony’s, not far from here near Perth. My understanding was limited, and if I’m honest, so were my expectations.

Seminary students were recruited to help host the event, and most of us were glad to do it—especially when we learned there would be a chance to meet the Pope afterward. I was assigned to take tickets at the door of Grant Hall. I imagined it would be simple enough: smile, greet people, point them to their seats.

It was not simple.

There was significant security—not the usual campus kind, but serious security. Then the buses began to arrive. One after another, they came from all over Ontario. Families poured out. Clergy and seminarians in full-length black robes and enormous crosses stepped onto the sidewalk. The energy was intense, reverent, expectant. People had come not merely to attend an event, but to be near someone they regarded as a holy leader.

And when Pope Tawadros arrived, some people fell to their knees and wept.

I remember standing there, stunned. I did not know what to do with that level of devotion. In my own tradition, shaped as it is by Protestant reserve and a healthy suspicion of hierarchy, such veneration felt excessive, even unsettling. Later, during the question period, a little girl asked if she could become Pope. She was gently told no, that if she wished to serve the church her path would be to become a nun. I found that heartbreaking and infuriating.

And still, what stayed with me was not only my discomfort. It was the fervour in the room. The longing. The hope people had invested in a leader.

That memory returns whenever I think about Palm Sunday, because the crowds in Jerusalem are also full of longing. They are not simply cheering. They are aching for deliverance. They want rescue, justice, change. “Hosanna” means “save us.” It is praise, yes, but it is also plea. The crowd is crying out for the world to be different.

And isn’t that what we are doing too?

We live in a time when political leadership often leaves many of us dismayed. Decisions are made federally and provincially that seem to forget the vulnerable. Public discourse rewards cruelty, posturing, and self-interest. To our south, the spectacle of political devotion can feel especially alarming, as loyalty to power overwhelms concern for truth, mercy, or the common good. It is tempting to despair when leaders seem to lose any sense of moral responsibility.

But perhaps Palm Sunday invites us to ask a different question.

Not only Who is leading? but what kind of king are we looking for?

Not only Why are they failing us? but what has Christ asked of us?

In Matthew 25, Jesus says:

“Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these … you did it to me.”

That is the measure of faithfulness. Not charisma. Not spectacle. Not dominance. Not even religious fervour on its own. The true test is how we treat the hungry, the stranger, the sick, the imprisoned, the forgotten. The One riding into Jerusalem is the same One who identifies himself with the least. If we want to welcome Christ, we will find him among those the world overlooks.

This is where Palm Sunday becomes more than a story about Jesus long ago. It becomes a call to the church now.

We may not be called to govern a nation. We may not hold public office. But we are called to witness. We are called to say, with our words and our lives, that politics do not have the final word, that empire does not have the final word, that fear does not have the final word. We are called to embody another way.

We are the ones who keep crying “Hosanna” when the city is in turmoil.

We are the ones who keep making room for the humble Christ to enter.

We are the ones who keep insisting that the last shall be first.

We are the ones who say that children, women, the poor, the excluded, the stranger—all belong fully in the household of God.

Palm Sunday does not ask us to admire Jesus from a distance. It asks us whether we will follow him into the city. Will we walk with the one who rejects domination? Will we trust a king whose glory is revealed in humility? Will we align ourselves with the least of these?

That is our work. Not to worship power, but to follow love. Not to baptize every political agenda, but to bear witness to God’s justice and mercy. Not to wait for perfect leaders, but to become faithful disciples.

So yes, it is all right to be dismayed. It is all right to grieve the failures of public life. It is all right to feel the turmoil of the city.

But we do not stop there.

We wave our branches anyway.

We sing our hope anyway.

We welcome the Christ who comes anyway.

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.

And blessed are those who follow in that name—choosing compassion over contempt, courage over cynicism, and love over fear.

Hosanna, friends.

Remember you are Loved.

~Rev. Lynne