Palm Sunday Sermon

Matthew’s Gospel has been moving toward this moment from the start. Again and again, Matthew shows us Jesus announcing the kingdom of heaven—not as an abstract idea, but as a living reality breaking into the world. Along the way, Jesus has blessed the meek, welcomed the outsider, confronted the powerful, and taught his followers to imagine life under God’s reign rather than under the usual rule of fear, status, and domination.

By the time we arrive here, the tension is already high. Everything in Jesus’ ministry has been leading toward this moment when his vision of God’s kingdom meets the powers gathered in Jerusalem. So as we hear this text, we’re invited to listen for more than movement and celebration. We’re invited to listen for revelation: for what this moment discloses about the heart of God, the nature of true kingship, and the deep contrast between the world as it is and the world as God intends it to be. Let us now listen to the word of God in Matthew 21: 1-11 as it may speak to us in this time and this place.

When they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethphage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus gave two disciples a task. He said to them, “Go into the village over there. As soon as you enter, you will find a donkey tied up and a colt with it. Untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, say that their master needs them.” He sent them off right away. Now this happened to fulfill what the prophet said, Say to Daughter Zion, “Look, your king is coming to you, humble and riding on a donkey, and on a colt the donkey’s offspring.” The disciples went and did just as Jesus had ordered them. They brought the donkey and the colt and laid their clothes on them. Then he sat on them.

Now a large crowd spread their clothes on the road. Others cut palm branches off the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds in front of him and behind him shouted, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessings on the one who comes in the name of the Lord!Hosanna in the highest!” And when Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred up. “Who is this?” they asked. The crowds answered, “It’s the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.”

WORD OF LORD

Yesterday, millions of people poured into the streets attending No Kings rallies and marches throughout the country in what many observers say may have been the largest single day of protest in American history. I’m not here this morning to turn Palm Sunday into a commentary on yesterday’s news. But I’m struck by the parallels between yesterday and Palm Sunday - some inspiring, and some unsettling. Because every so often throughout history people pour into the streets because, deep down, they know that the world as it is cannot be the world as it must be. People have protested throughout history because they’re tired of being ruled by fear, tired of being told that domination is normal, tired of being told that violence is strength and cruelty is just realism. They gather because somewhere inside them there is still this stubborn conviction that another world is possible. And I think that’s what protest is at its best. It isn’t simply being against something. It’s the refusal to believe this is all there is. It’s the insistence that the world could and should be otherwise. And protest at its best is trying to offer a vision of what the world could look like.

That’s Palm Sunday. Palm Sunday isn’t just children waving branches and people laying down cloaks in the road. Palm Sunday is a public act of defiance. Jesus rides into Jerusalem in a way that exposes empire for what it is. He doesn’t come on Rome’s terms. He doesn’t borrow Rome’s symbols. He doesn’t answer imperial power with a bigger display of power. He comes on a donkey, surrounded by ordinary people instead of soldiers. No warhorse. No armor. No legions. Just a poor man from Nazareth, dusty roads, working people, children, palm branches, and the sound of hope. And in that moment he reveals the lie at the heart of empire: that this is just the way the world is and always has to be. Palm Sunday is Jesus saying, “No. There’s another kingdom. There’s another way. And you have a choice in front of you.”

But the real test is never whether people will join the parade. The real test is whether they’ll stay when the parade turns into the passion. Whether they’ll still choose the kingdom when choosing it gets dangerous. Whether they’ll still choose it when hope stops feeling exciting and starts requiring courage. Whether they’ll still choose it when following Jesus costs something. That’s the question this day puts to us. Not whether we admire Jesus. Not whether we can wave a branch. Not whether we can cheer for love, peace, justice, and mercy in the abstract. But whether we’ll choose his kingdom when the hard work begins. Because it is a choice.

We do get to choose what kind of world we live in. We get to choose what kind of world we help create. We get to choose whether this will be a world that honors and lifts up human beings, or a world that dehumanizes and tears them down. We get to choose whether we’ll live by fear or by love, by brute force or by soul-force, by domination or by mercy. The problem is that most of the time we don’t believe that. We think the world has already been decided for us by other people. We think power belongs to those who already have it. We think the terms have already been set. We think empire gets to tell us what is possible and what’s impossible, who matters and who doesn't, who gets protected and who gets sacrificed, who belongs and who can be cast aside. And after a while, if we listen to empire long enough, we begin to mistake its world for the only world there is. That’s how people become resigned. That’s how people become numb. That’s how people begin to accept as normal what should never have been normal in the first place.

And I’ll be honest with you, family—I’m tired of the consequences of the world we’ve chosen. I’m tired of living in a world where some people are made to feel, and are actually told, that it is somehow illegal for them to exist. I’m tired of a world where people are marginalized and alienated to the point of desperation. I’m tired of being told that I should always be suspicious, always be afraid, always assume the worst of the stranger, always believe that safety can only come through control. I’m tired of a world that wants to sacrifice the freedom, independence, and creativity of our children for the illusion of security. I’m tired of a world where privilege is confused for righteousness, where entitlement masquerades as freedom, and where people want us to believe that some lives are worth more than others. And I’m tired of a world that wants to insist that I hate people who disagree with me. I’m tired of the consequences of that world.

And if I’m being really honest, I think one of the clearest signs that something is broken is what this world is doing to our kids and to so many young people. We’ve handed them a world of fear, hyper-surveillance, isolation, and anxiety. A world where they’re told that danger is everywhere, that no place is really safe, that human beings are mostly threats to be managed rather than neighbors to be loved. A world shaped by digital intoxication and loneliness and fragmentation. A world where alienation has become normal. And then we wonder why there’s a mental health crisis. We wonder why so many feel powerless, disconnected, and adrift. Which world have we chosen? What world have we created?

Because Palm Sunday is Jesus standing in the middle of that kind of world and declaring that empire is not the only game in town. He enters the city as a parody and mockery of Rome. Instead of a warhorse, a donkey. Instead of soldiers, children. Instead of the polished symbols of elite power, the rough offerings of ordinary people. Cloaks. Branches. Dust. Hosanna. Save us now. Save us, we pray. It’s a parade of the marginalized offering a different vision of what a kingdom could look like. A kingdom where the lowly matter. A kingdom where children lead the way. A kingdom where the poor aren’t disposable. A kingdom where love matters more than law, mercy more than violence, and dignity more than domination. And I think what Jesus is doing there is not just performing a stunt. He is unveiling reality. He is telling the truth about God and the truth about us.

He’s saying: What if the empire is lying to you? What if violence isn’t strength? What if cruelty isn’t realism? What if domination isn’t order? What if the poor aren’t cursed? What if suffering isn’t a sign of divine rejection? What if every person really is precious to God simply because they exist? What if God is actually more interested in love than in preserving the systems that grind people down? What if another world is not only imaginable, but demanded by the heart of God?

Now of course, that all sounds naive to empire. It always has. There have always been people ready to say, “That’s beautiful, Jesus, but it’s not realistic.” There have always been people ready to say, “Turn the other cheek won’t stop a bad guy with a sword. Only a good guy with a sword can do that.” There’ve always been people ready to say, “We all like peace. We all like love. We all like mercy. But that’s not how the world works.” And maybe that’s exactly what some people said as the first holy week unfolded. Maybe that’s what some people muttered as the cheers faded. Maybe that’s what some people thought as the crowds thinned. Maybe that’s what some people believed as the empire finally did what empires always do when they’re threatened: it arrested him, beat him, mocked him, and put him on display.

Because that’s what empire does. It doesn’t just kill. It performs its killing. It turns violence into theater. It humiliates in public. It punishes in public. It crucifies in public. It wants everyone to see what happens to anyone who dares imagine another kingdom. That’s what the cross is in political terms: the empire saying, “This is what power looks like. This is what happens when you challenge us. This is what happens when you refuse to get back in line.” And that’s why Palm Sunday can’t just be about the parade. Because the parade is easy. The parade is moving. The parade is hopeful. The parade is the part where everybody wants to be there. The hard part is staying when it becomes clear what the parade was actually leading toward.

And as we enter this Holy Week, I keep thinking about that moment in the garden. Jesus sits there in the dark knowing what’s coming, knowing the soldiers are on their way, knowing he is about to be beaten, mocked, humiliated, tortured, and killed, knowing exactly what empire does to people like him. And he prays that the cup might pass. And of course, the cup doesn’t pass. The soldiers come. But here’s the thing: he could have run. He could have gotten up. He could have slipped away into the dark. He could have postponed the inevitable by at least a few hours or a few days. He could have chosen self-preservation. He could have chosen safety. He could have decided that the cost was too high. But he stayed.

And I used to think that what kept him there was courage. I used to think he stayed because he was braver than I can imagine, because he trusted God in ways I can barely comprehend. And I still think that’s true. But more and more I think the deeper truth is that he stayed because of love. He loved us too much to let us go. He loved us too much to abandon the work. He loved us too much to stop showing us what the kingdom looks like. He loved us too much to let empire have the final word about what is real and what is possible. He stayed because love stayed.

And that, I think, is the choice before us. Not whether we can cheer for Jesus when the parade is passing by. Not whether we can admire him from a safe distance. Not whether we can say nice things about justice, peace, inclusion, compassion, and mercy. But whether we’ll stay. Whether we’ll stay when it gets costly. Whether we’ll stay when the world tells us to be quiet. Whether we’ll stay when loving people becomes inconvenient. Whether we’ll stay when standing with the vulnerable becomes risky. Whether we’ll stay when it would be easier to retreat into cynicism, numbness, safety, or silence. That’s the choice.

And I know choices have consequences. I know choosing the kingdom isn’t safe. I know it can come with personal cost, professional cost, relational cost. I know that for Jesus it led to a cross, and for most of the apostles it didn’t lead to comfort either. Only one dies from natural causes. I know that when you refuse empire’s terms, empire rarely says, “Good point.” But I also know this: the world empire makes is killing us. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not all equally. Maybe not always visibly. But it’s killing us. It’s crushing the vulnerable. It’s distorting our souls. It’s teaching our children fear. It’s turning neighbors into threats. It’s convincing us that domination is normal and mercy is weak. It’s asking us to surrender the best parts of ourselves just to keep the machine running. And I’m tired of the consequences of that world.

I want to choose his kingdom. I want to choose his world. I want to choose his vision. I want to be in his parade, yes—but more than that, I want to be with him in the garden. I want to be with him on the hard road. I want to be one of the ones who stays when hope starts costing something. And when I look at my kids, when I look at the kids in this church, when I look at the children in our community, I understand more and more why Jesus stayed. He stayed because love doesn’t run when the beloved is at stake. He stayed because there are some things too precious to surrender. He stayed because the kingdom was worth showing us all the way to the end. He stayed because even if only a few people would ever really understand what he was offering - even if only a few would choose the kingdom over empire - it would still be worth it.

Family, we are given the choice. We choose which world we live in. We choose which world we help create. We can continue choosing the empire that kills the innocent, serves itself, and rules by brute force. Or we can choose the kingdom that lifts up the lowly, honors the marginalized, loves the abandoned, and serves all people as precious children of God. We have a choice. And don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.

Amen