Two Processions (Palm Sunday)

There were two ways into the city.

Two winds moving through the same streets.

Two gospels already being believed.

From the West—empire.

Boots on stone.

Iron catching light.

Horses restless for violence,

their bodies remembering

what they were trained to do.

Standards lifted—bright, unquestioned.

Carried like certainty.

A kingdom fluent in power, calling it peace.

A kingdom drenched in blood, calling it righteousness.

A kingdom that names God

without fear of God.

Church—be careful what you call holy.

And from the East—no army.

Just a man

on a borrowed donkey.

Dust on his feet.

Breath in his lungs.

No performance.

No defence.

Just presence.

Just mercy.

God

refusing to become violence.

He does not ride above the earth—He feels it.

Each step

a kind of refusal.

He does not command destruction from a distance.

Does not name targets and call it justice.

Does not bless the bomb

or sanctify the strike.

He comes close instead.

Close enough to be wounded.

Close enough to be killed.

They shout—Hosanna.

Save us.

But salvation bends

to whatever we’re hungry for.

Some want safety.

Some want revenge.

Some want control—

just with God’s name stamped on it.

And here—something tears.

Because there is always a way

to take the name of Christ

and make it useful.

Lay it across the back of a warhorse.

Stitch it into a flag.

Call domination discipleship.

Church—remember.

Under Constantine the Great—

the cross found itself

standing beside the sword.

In the long shadow of the conquistadors—

the gospel arrived armoured

and called it mission.

In the churned earth of the great and bloody war

boys were blessed

before they killed boys,

and heaven was asked

to take sides.

And it hasn’t really stopped.

New language. Same hunger.

God invoked to secure the tribe.

The cross lifted to protect the self.

You can still see it—

in rooms where power is performed,

in talk of making nations great again,

in Bibles held high

while the way of Jesus is quietly set aside.

Church—do not confuse power with glory.

This is the lie that keeps coming back—

that God belongs to the strong,

that if you win, you must be right,

that might is somehow blessing.

But He will not ride with it.

He does not climb onto the warhorse.

Does not bless the blade.

Does not call down fire

to prove a point.

He will not be invoked over missiles.

Will not be named over drones in the night.

Will not sit above the blast

and call it peace.

He chooses the donkey.

Small.

Unarmed.

Nothing impressive about it.

A kingdom that cannot be enforced.

A kingdom that won’t defend itself

the way we expect.

A kingdom that would rather suffer

than become the thing it hates.

And still—we hover in between.

Palms in our hands.

Expectations in our bones.

We were told to look for a lion.

Something strong.

Unstoppable.

Something to deal with our enemies.

But when we turn—

it is a lamb.

Wounded.

Quiet.

Standing there

as though it has already been slain.

And if we’re honest—

we don’t quite know what to do with that.

And when He does not—

when He refuses to dominate,

to silence,

to win—

something shifts.

Not loud.

You could miss it.

But it’s there.

Disappointment.

A crack

running through belief.

Because when love

won’t take control—

we start looking

for something that will.

The palms loosen.

The songs thin out.

And somewhere

between hope and outcome—

coins

start talking.

The warhorse waits.

It always does.

Strong.

Certain.

Too easy to trust.

It offers clarity.

Victory.

A god we can manage.

But the donkey—

it just keeps going.

Into misunderstanding.

Into rejection.

Into the slow, stubborn work

of love.

Into a cross

that takes the violence

and does not give it back.

And we—

we’re still there.

We’ve always been there.

Between the horse and the donkey.

Between the flag and the cross.

Between the Christ we talk about

and the Christ in front of us.

Church—this is the moment.

Not in what we say.

Not in what we sing.

In the choices we make

when it actually costs.

Take up the cross.

Lay down the sword.

Not as an idea—

as a way of living.

Because one way crucifies—

it always has.

The other…

gets crucified.

And only one

shows you what God is like.

Only one

remakes the world

without becoming its violence.

Only one

walks through death

and still calls it life.

Only one

is the way of Jesus.

Rev’d Jon Swales

Easter 2026