Today is Palm Sunday. The beginning of Holy Week. The day Jesus rode into Jerusalem: the long-awaited Messiah, the one people had been hoping for, waiting for, longing for. And He arrived… on a donkey.
Not a noble steed. Not surrounded by splendour or ceremony. No polished display of power. Just a borrowed animal, plodding its way into the city. And still, the crowds cheered. They spread palm branches and cloaks on the road. Jesus had a reputation by this point, a healer, a teacher, someone who spoke with authority. People knew there was something different about Him.
But He didn’t use that moment to elevate Himself. He didn’t turn it into a spectacle. He chose the donkey.
That’s not how you expect a king to arrive. And I think that’s exactly the point.
Jesus never placed Himself at a distance from humanity, despite being fully divine. God didn’t remain somewhere far off and unreachable. He came close. He walked among us. He lived an ordinary life. So yes, He entered the city on an ordinary donkey.
I had breakfast with a friend this week. We were catching up, sharing some of the joys and the hard bits. Both of us know things aren’t always easy. She told me about her journey to work. Temporary traffic lights have made it longer, more frustrating. So she tried a different route. And that detour took her past ditches lined with primroses. She smiled as she said it: “It’s the little things that brighten our days.”
A week or so ago, I was feeling overwhelmed and anxious. I stepped outside for a moment. The sun was shining, finally, and the birds were singing in the trees. Nothing dramatic. Nothing extraordinary. But I paused. I listened. And I felt better.
The people in Jerusalem were expecting a warrior king. Someone powerful, decisive, unmistakable.
Instead, they got a man riding a donkey.
Sometimes, we’re not so different. We look for big signs that God cares. Clear answers. Obvious interventions. Something unmistakable. But so often, what we’re given is quieter than that. Primroses in roadside ditches. Birdsong in the middle of a stressful day. A moment of stillness when everything feels too much. Not loud. Not impressive. Easy to miss.
But maybe that’s how God so often chooses to come. Not in the spectacle, but in the ordinary. Not in the overwhelming, but in the gentle. Not always in the way we expect… but always closer than we realise.
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