Welcoming the King

Estimated Reading time: 7 minutes · Written by Sarah Thomson

We live in a culture that’s obsessed with fame. The world seems to revolve around celebrity, constantly turning its gaze towards red carpets, flashing cameras, and the endless cycle of premieres and award shows. If you think of the most famous people today, chances are you can list them in an instant—faces that grace magazine covers, dominate social media, and fill our homes with their music or movies.

In our house, for instance, Taylor Swift is a firm favourite. My daughter absolutely loves her. We often have her music playing in the background, and there’s certainly plenty to choose from. Her recent Eras Tour made headlines across the globe for smashing records. Over the course of 149 shows, she performed to more than 10 million people across 21 countries and five continents, generating over $2 billion in ticket revenue. There were even reports of minor earthquakes caused by fans dancing with such energy that seismographs picked it up. Her global influence has been dubbed the “Swift Effect,” and she’s just one example of the kind of fame we so readily celebrate.

When we consider fame and power—what it looks like, what it means—we often picture this kind of celebrity. The ones with glittering careers, public adoration, and seemingly untouchable status. Yet, what happens when fame and power take on a completely different form? Palm Sunday invites us to consider a kind of celebrity that challenges everything our culture teaches us about success and significance.

A different kind of fame

Palm Sunday is a pivotal moment in the Christian calendar, marking the beginning of Holy Week, the most significant week in Jesus’s life. It’s a week that ends with crucifixion and resurrection, but it begins with a strange sort of parade. Jesus enters Jerusalem not with military pomp or political grandstanding, but riding on a donkey—a young colt, no less.

This is no accident. As we turn to Matthew’s Gospel, one of the four Gospels that tell the story of Jesus’s life, it becomes clear that every detail of this event is packed with meaning. Matthew wants us to see that Jesus’s story is not a one-off, but the continuation of a story that stretches all the way back to the very beginning of the Bible.

Created for relationship

The story starts in the Garden of Eden. God created humanity in His image, for relationship with Him, and gave them the earth to care for. There was unity, purpose, and peace. But humanity, dissatisfied with what God had given, believed the lie that they could do better on their own. They broke trust with God, and ever since, the world has borne the weight of that brokenness.

And yet, deep within us, there remains a longing. A desire for home—for Eden. As Ecclesiastes puts it, “God has set eternity in the human heart.” We ache for something more, and that ache, though we often try to satisfy it with success, wealth, or relationships, can only truly be filled by a return to the relationship we were created for.

A promise and a plan

In the Old Testament, we see God’s plan to bring His people back to Himself. He begins with one family—Abraham’s. Through Abraham and his descendants, God promises to bless all the nations. King David, a descendant of Abraham, plays a key role. Though flawed, he is described as a man after God’s own heart, and God promises that one day, a king will come from David’s line who will reign forever.

Through prophets like Isaiah and Jeremiah, God continues to speak of this coming king who would be a saviour to God’s people, otherwise known as the Messiah. Isaiah writes of “a shoot from the stump of Jesse” (Jesse being King David’s father), and Jeremiah says, “The days are coming when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch, a King who will reign wisely.” Then, after centuries of prophecy, there is silence. For 400 years, it seems God has gone quiet.

The arrival of the King

Then comes the announcement. An angel appears to a young Jewish girl named Mary with astonishing news—she will give birth to a son named Jesus, who “will save his people from their sins.” Fast forward 30 or so years, and Jesus is on the brink of entering Jerusalem on the day we call Palm Sunday.

By now, he has taught crowds, healed the sick, raised the dead, and yet, curiously, he’s asked those he healed to keep quiet. But now, the time for secrecy is over.

As Jesus and his disciples approach Jerusalem, they stop at the Mount of Olives. It’s nearly Passover, a festival commemorating Israel’s liberation from Egypt, and the city is swelling with pilgrims. The timing is deliberate. Jesus sends two disciples ahead to find a donkey and her colt. He tells them to bring them to him.

This might seem odd, as Jesus has walked everywhere up to this point, but riding on a donkey is deeply symbolic. Matthew quotes a prophecy from Zechariah: “Say to Daughter Zion, ‘See, your king comes to you, gentle and riding on a donkey.’” By entering the city this way, Jesus is making a clear statement: He is the long-awaited king, the fulfilment of centuries of prophecy.

An unexpected King

The crowd begins to respond. Many of them are Jesus’s followers, people who have seen the miracles, heard the teaching, and believe in who he is. They lay their cloaks on the road—expensive, personal items that would have been crucial for warmth and shelter. This is no small gesture; it’s a sign of honour, rooted in the Old Testament tradition of laying garments before a king.

Others cut palm branches and wave them, echoing ancient traditions of celebration. They shout, “Hosanna to the Son of David!”—a phrase loaded with messianic expectation. “Hosanna” means “save us now,” and by calling him the Son of David, they’re declaring him the Messiah that was promised.

Jesus doesn’t quiet them. In fact, he embraces it. The time has come for people to know who he truly is.

A kingdom not of this world

And yet, Jesus still surprises them. While the crowd expects a political liberator, someone to overthrow Roman rule and restore Israel’s sovereignty, Jesus has something entirely different in mind.

He’s not riding in on a war horse. He’s on a donkey, an act of peace and humility. In a few days, he’ll wash his disciples’ feet, performing the role of a lowly servant. And then, of course, he’ll be arrested, mocked, beaten, and crucified.

It doesn’t make sense to our human understanding of power. It’s upside-down. But that’s the nature of Jesus’s kingdom.

As he once told his disciples, “Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant.” He didn’t come to be served, but to serve—and to give his life as a ransom for many.

The ache we cannot ignore

Often, we come to God hoping He’ll fix our immediate problems. And He does care about those. He sees our pain, our brokenness, our need. But sometimes, what we think we need most is just a surface issue. Like the two blind men who called out to Jesus on the road, “Son of David, have mercy on us!”, we must admit our deeper needs too.

They weren’t just asking for money or food; they wanted to see. And Jesus, moved with compassion, gave them their sight. Their response? They followed him.

Jesus sees deeper than our temporary struggles. He came to solve the greatest problem of all—not Roman occupation, not career disappointments, not even physical suffering—but the separation between humanity and God. His mission wasn’t to set up a political kingdom. It was to make a way for us to be reunited with God forever.

A personal story of healing

This truth became deeply personal to me last year. Our family lost someone we loved dearly. It came suddenly—a diagnosis, followed by months of praying for healing, for peace, for strength. And in the end, he died, surrounded by loved ones.

In those final moments, though, God’s presence was unmistakable. We sang, we prayed, we cried, and through it all, there was this profound sense of peace. Looking back, I realise a miracle did happen. Not the one we’d asked for, but something deeper. My loved one was fully alive with Jesus. Fully healed. Eternally whole.

That’s the hope we hold onto. Because if Jesus had only come to heal physical sickness or solve temporary issues, it would never be enough. Eventually, something else would go wrong. Death would still come. But through Jesus’s death and resurrection, we have the promise of new life—now and forever.

The King who saves

Palm Sunday isn’t just a nice story about palm branches and parades. It’s a radical redefinition of what it means to be powerful, to be famous, to be king.

Jesus is the King we’ve been waiting for—the fulfilment of every prophecy, every longing, every ache of the human heart. But he’s also the King we didn’t expect. He doesn’t ride in with armies or wealth or flashing lights. He comes in peace. He comes to serve. He comes to die.

And in doing so, he offers us what no celebrity, no world leader, no cultural icon ever could—eternal life, restored relationship with God, and a place in his kingdom.

So the question remains: what is our response? Will we, like the crowds, lay down what is valuable to us and declare, “Hosanna”? Will we, like the blind men, admit our need and ask to see? Will we, like the disciples eventually did, follow him all the way—even to the cross?

Because Jesus has done everything needed. We just need to say yes.

The original teaching has been edited for clarity and brevity; This is not a transcript.