Luke 19:28-40
After he had said this, he went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem. When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, saying, “Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.’” So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, “Why are you untying the colt?” They said, “The Lord needs it.” Then they brought it to Jesus, and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. Now as he was approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying,
“Blessed is the king
who comes in the name of the Lord!
Peace in heaven,
and glory in the highest heaven!”
Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.”
Parenthood is a lofty word — it sounds like the title of a novel or a sweeping state of being. Fifteen years ago, my first child was due to make her triumphal entry into the world on Palm Sunday. All throughout Lent, church people would ask me, “Are you ready for parenthood?” I usually answered, “Well, not until after the benediction.”
Who can ever really be ready for something like that? Parenthood isn’t one big thing. It’s millions of small things: folding onesies, rigging up the baby monitor and hoping you’re not on the same frequency as your neighbors, whispering a nightly prayer that they will survive — and somehow thrive — in this jagged, beautiful world.
If there’s ever been a parade where children tossed their binkies and blankies shouting, “Blessed is the one who comes for the late-night stomach bug” — I must have missed it. But every once in a while, there is a celebration, maybe a birthday or Christmas or vacation, when small details feel bigger. Past, present, and future compressed into candles, ornaments, or mental snapshot of a kid in the waves.
Today I am reminded that most of our big bracing words are like that —parenthood, ministry, patriotism, marriage, friendship and leadership — they are built on a thousands of small acts of love. Tiny actions, strung together by people who rarely know which one will be remembered, and which one will simply keep things going.
Today, we remember a real parade. Crowds flooded the streets of Jerusalem, throwing cloaks and palm branches on the road, shouting “Hosanna!” to welcome Jesus. “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” It looked grand. But Luke doesn’t dwell on the shouts or the palms. He spends more time on the details of the transportation: Where the colt is. What to say when you remove it. The small fact that it had never been ridden. It is weird, like describing a wedding by talking mostly about the trolley.
But today, I want to share two reasons why those details matter.
First, the Kingdom of God rides in on small acts of faith. Someone had to go find the colt. Someone had to untie it. Someone had to trust that God was doing something bigger than they could see.
I imagine the two disciples who were dispatched to secure transportation for Jesus might have had grander plans for their role that day. After all, they had just finished telling Jesus they wanted to be situated at his left and right hand in glory. And then their Jerusalem orders arrive: “You two — Donkey Detail.”
I picture them shuffling around the streets of Bethphage, untying the old rope of a stinky animal, hearing the distant sounds of the crowd forming, thinking, “Did we leave our nets for this?”
But this is how the Kingdom comes. Not in fireworks. Not in spectacle. Not with shiny swords or fancy titles. It is stitched together through humble and sometimes mundane acts of faith, courage, and trust.
In our Presbyterian ordination service, candidates are asked: “Will you in your own life seek to follow the Lord Jesus Christ, love your neighbors and work for the reconciliation of the world? Will you seek to serve the people with energy, intelligence, imagination and love?” Bracing words – The wind ruffles your hair when you hear them. Tom Long writes: “Such language implies that ministry is a brave white-water romp over the cultural rapids toward global transformation in the name of Christ.”
But never once in the service does it mention visiting someone in memory care who probably won’t remember who you are, packing a dinner for someone who is sleeping in the woods tonight, providing pastoral care to a grumpy HVAC system, being a faithful saint of the Sign-Up Genius, or, like the disciples, wrestling up a last-minute donkey.
I’ve spoken to a lot of people lately who feel overwhelmed by the times we’re living through. They wonder what grand strategy we’ll enact to meet the moment. What brave vision will appear like a yellow brick road to a future that anyone wants.
But what actually matters are the small acts of love done by people who don’t wait for the cavalry — but go fetch the donkey on the road to Calvary. People who go to the meeting. Work the polls. Take out the trash. Show up for the memorial service. People who—like the disciples—dole out loaves and fish they’re not sure will be enough, climb into boats they’re not sure will survive the storm, and secure transportation for Prince of Peace. Maybe in the grand scheme, we are all just donkey fetchers, but the Kingdom of God rides in on small acts of faith.
Second, the Kingdom of God rides in on quiet, subversive courage. Luke’s details aren’t just practical — they are political. This wasn’t a sweet children’s parade. It was a protest. A declaration. A different kind of kingdom was breaking in — quietly, steadily — under the nose of the empire.
Jesus and his disciples weren’t just making travel plans. They were making a scene. A coded, courageous, very public disruption. And notice, he tells them, “Go to this exact place. Say exactly this: ‘The Lord needs it.’” This is the language of people who know how to move in secret. Because when you live under empire, you learn how to speak in code. You learn how to be strategic. Precise. Careful. Otherwise there would have been no Palm Sunday. Donkey detail carried significant risk.
The Lord needs it? Suddenly, I picture the nuns in Sound of Music who messed with the cars of the Nazi officers so that that Von Trap family had time to escape. Pilate would’ve also entered Jerusalem that week — with warhorses and soldiers and Roman banners. To remind that large Passover crowd not to try any Exodus funny business that year. But Jesus rode in on a borrowed colt. Surrounded not by warriors, but by sacred stories, from Zechariah and the Psalms. This was a different kind of power and a protest against abusive power.
The Kingdom of God doesn’t march in with threats. It rides in with tenderness. It rides in with tears. But it also rides in with quiet confidence that even the stones will cry out if the people don’t.
A few weeks ago, one of you called me, very distraught by graffiti that had appeared around Burke. Someone had spray painted racist words on fences and Nazi emblems on utility boxes and even Burke Methodist’s sign. The next morning, a troubled 16-year-old was arrested. He confessed to 37 incidents of vandalism. These were small acts of darkness, fear, and rage. But people saw it and asked, who are we becoming?
Well, that is a theological question. A Palm Sunday kind of question. Are we telling a story of powerlessness and defeat or are we going to use all that God has given us, find our palm branches and scripture, to tell a store of redemption?
An occupational hazard of being a church pastor is that you learn the power of symbols, you feel responsible for your neighborhood, and you learn to speak not because you’re ready but because frankly its time. So, I emailed our Supervisor and the Police Chief to say, “if you need someone to speak out against this and tell a better story, I’ll do it.” I assumed I would get a boring, boilerplate response or none at all. Still, Jesus taught us the power of teachable moments.
So, that Sunday, children from BPC took home two pieces of chalk that Sunday so they could color their sidewalks with words of love. The teenagers that night at Youth Connections covered the whole sidewalk with hearts and made that great big sign you saw out front with scraps that Andrea Ham had creatively thrifted. It reads “You are loved.” The rain washed it away. I was disappointed. “Lord, the stones were literally crying out! What now?”
But other congregations in Burke, St. Peter’s in the Woods, Abiding Presence Lutheran, Adat Reyim, Antioch Baptist, and the Rumi Forum had also made posters and chalked their sidewalks. The police forwarded my email and on Monday the news started calling. WTOP. NBC 4. USA 9. Fox 5. WJLA. Thankfully, the Kaminsky kids re-chalked their sidewalk so we could get a photo. And with virtually no notice, a diverse group of clergy assembled in the Gathering Space along with our county Supervisor. And it wasn’t a colt or a donkey that arrived but a parade of white TV vans. For a brief moment, we could tell our story. How as a church we are not powerless. We have sidewalk chalk and fabric scraps and a big message of redemptive love to share. That if a teen or anyone for that matter feels deeply alone, we have places of belonging. That’s what we do. That’s how God works. The church can still be the stubborn transportation for the prince of
peace.
The phone kept ringing. The Mormons saw the story on the news and decided to partner with us for the hypothermia shelter next year. Last week, Adat Reyim sent over a team of teenagers to rake the historic cemetery and plant tulips to say thank you for speaking out in peace. Hosanna. This is how it starts.
We know that Holy Week ended brutally for Jesus. All those people scattered in shame. There was a phony trial and public executions, for Jesus and two criminals. Pilate hung a sign that said “King of the Jews” on the cross, a little detail designed to mock that power one last time. But you know what… the stones did not forget their part. A few days later, one stone would roll away and resurrection in Jesus would parade on for eternity.
Maybe this is a season of joyful details in your life, maybe not. Maybe your car is packed for vacation or maybe you had to clear out your desk or clear an apartment where a beloved parent lived. At the end of the day, we are all donkey fetchers for Jesus Christ. And the Kingdom of God still rides in on small acts of love and advances through small acts of courage. So do your part. Joyful or scared. Do your part. Delighted or exhausted. God is in these details, and often we find ourselves asking, “What wondrous love is this?”