 Throughout history, military parades have served as displays of power and dominance. When ancient conquerors entered newly captured cities, they arrived with spectacular pageantry—war horses, armed soldiers, gleaming chariots, and overwhelming force. These processions weren't merely celebratory; they were calculated demonstrations designed to instill fear and demand submission. The message was clear: a new power had arrived, and resistance would be futile. Against this backdrop of human conquest and domination, the prophet Zechariah painted a radically different picture of a coming king: "Rejoice greatly, daughter Zion! Shout, daughter Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and victorious, lowly and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey" (Zechariah 9:9). This prophecy found its fulfillment when Jesus entered Jerusalem, not on a mighty warhorse surrounded by battalions, but seated on a young donkey. The crowd that gathered recognized something momentous was happening. They waved palm branches and shouted "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the King of Israel!" (John 12:13). Yet even as they celebrated, they misunderstood what kind of king was entering their city. Jesus embodied everything opposite to earthly power. Where worldly kings demanded tribute, Jesus gave freely. Where they accumulated weapons, Jesus promised to break battle bows and remove war chariots. Where they expanded territory through violence, Jesus proclaimed peace to the nations. Zechariah's prophecy continues with this remarkable vision: "I will take away the chariots from Ephraim and the war horses from Jerusalem, and the battle bow will be broken. He will proclaim peace to the nations. His rule will extend from sea to sea and from the river to the ends of the earth" (Zechariah 9:10). This king doesn't just arrive differently—he comes to dismantle the very systems of violence and oppression that characterize human kingdoms. His reign would be marked not by the sword but by peace. Not by taking captives but by freeing prisoners. Not by forcing submission but by offering grace. This is good news, though we often struggle to receive it. The tragedy of Palm Sunday is that it foreshadows Good Friday. In less than a week, the same crowds shouting "Hosanna!" would be screaming "Crucify him!" When pressed by Pilate about whether he should crucify their king, they responded with devastating words: "We have no king but Caesar" (John 19:15). What changed? The people realized Jesus wasn't the king they wanted. They had hoped for a military messiah who would overthrow Roman occupation and restore Israel to political glory. They wanted a king who would defeat their enemies, not one who taught them to pray for their enemies. They wanted power, not humility. A throne, not a cross. Victory through violence, not transformation through sacrifice. Even Jesus' own disciples struggled to understand. John's Gospel tells us plainly: "At first his disciples did not understand all this. Only after Jesus was glorified did they realize that these things had been written about him and that these things had been done to him" (John 12:16). The confusion is understandable. Jesus' identity represents a perplexing mix of glory and humility, power and service, kingship and sacrifice. He claimed authority over heaven and earth yet submitted completely to the Father's will. He spoke of an eternal kingdom yet allowed himself to be executed as a criminal. Our struggle to accept Jesus continues today. We want a king we can understand and predict. We want someone who will prioritize our desires, agree with our perspectives, and fight our battles on our terms. We want a God who puts us first. So we attempt to remake Jesus into the king we want rather than allowing him to remake us into the people he wants us to be. We emphasize the scriptures that comfort us while minimizing those that challenge us. We celebrate his grace while resisting his lordship. We shout "Hosanna" on Sunday but live the rest of the week with no king at all. Yet the uncomfortable truth is that Jesus doesn't force himself on anyone. He extends an invitation, not an ultimatum. The day will come when every knee will bow and acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord, but we currently live in a time of grace—a window of opportunity to voluntarily surrender to the King of Peace. Sometimes in life, we encounter persistent problems—broken relationships, recurring conflicts, patterns of bitterness or resentment. Like a faulty cable that only works when held at exactly the right angle, we develop elaborate workarounds to manage our brokenness rather than addressing the root issue. We justify our anger because we've been wronged. We nurse grudges because others deserve consequences. We engage in battles we have no business fighting while neglecting the real war happening in our own hearts. When harm comes to those who've hurt us, we feel a secret satisfaction, a whispered "they had it coming." But Jesus calls us to something radically different. He calls us to replace the broken cable entirely—to allow him to transform our hearts rather than simply managing our behaviors. He fights the battles we cannot win, particularly the internal ones where pride, bitterness, and unforgiveness take root. As we journey through Holy Week, we're invited to do more than simply shout "Hosanna" on Palm Sunday and "He is risen" on Easter. We're called to honestly examine the ways we've rejected this King who came in humility. The ways we've preferred our own kingdoms to his. The ways we've shouted, perhaps not with our mouths but with our lives, "We have no king but Caesar." Jesus knew exactly what he was doing when he entered Jerusalem. He wasn't confused or caught off guard. He deliberately walked toward the cross, thinking of you by name. He knew the cost of peace between God and humanity, and he paid it willingly because he desires relationship with you. This is the King we didn't ask for—but the King we desperately need. Not a temporary fix to our problems, but the complete transformation of our hearts. Not a ruler who demands our obedience through fear, but a Savior who wins our hearts through love. The question for each of us is simple: Will we allow Jesus to be King over every area of our lives—our emotions, relationships, finances, and futures? Or will we continue trying to make him into something more manageable, more predictable, more aligned with our preferences? True peace comes not from getting the king we want, but from surrendering to the King who gave everything for us.  We live in a world that often feels overwhelming. Turn on the news, scroll through social media, or simply sit with your own thoughts for a moment, and the weight of our chaotic reality becomes undeniable. Rising global tensions, climate concerns, economic instability, health anxieties, political division—the list seems endless. It's no wonder that many of us share a common impulse: the desire to hide. Remember playing hide-and-seek as a child? There was something comforting about finding that perfect hiding spot, tucking yourself away from the world, even if just for a few minutes. As adults, we still feel that pull—to run from our problems, to ignore the difficult phone call, to retreat into ourselves when life becomes too much. But what if our instinct to hide isn't entirely wrong? What if there is a place of refuge designed specifically for moments when the chaos threatens to overwhelm us? The writer of Psalm 27 understood this tension intimately. Surrounded by enemies, facing an army, confronting evil on every side, the psalmist penned words that still resonate today: "The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?" This isn't the voice of someone denying reality or pretending everything is fine. The psalmist acknowledges the very real dangers: "When the wicked advance against me to devour me... Though an army besiege me... Though war break out against me..." The threats are real. The chaos is genuine. Yet in the midst of it all, the psalmist makes an extraordinary declaration of confidence. Not confidence in their own strength or military might, but confidence rooted in something—or rather, Someone—far more reliable. What's fascinating about Psalm 27 is what the psalmist asks for in the midst of danger. We might expect a plea for military victory, for the destruction of enemies, for immediate deliverance from trouble. Instead, we find this: "One thing I ask from the Lord, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple." The psalmist's greatest desire isn't the removal of problems—it's the presence of God. The temple becomes a picture of hiding, but not hiding in fear. Rather, hiding in the shelter of divine love. The request is for proximity, for relationship, for the safety that comes from being in the presence of the One who cannot be shaken. This is revolutionary thinking. Too often, we approach God primarily as a problem-solver. We want the answer, the solution, the quick fix. But what if the greatest gift God offers isn't the removal of chaos, but His presence in the midst of it? The world is broken. Relationships fail. Parents disappoint. Friends abandon. Even the most well-meaning people in our lives will, at times, let us down. This is the painful reality of our fractured world. But the psalmist recognizes: "Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me." God's love is different. It's steady. Constant. Unchanging. While human love fluctuates with circumstances, moods, and misunderstandings, divine love remains unshakeable. It's not one-sided or controlling. It's not distant or conditional. It's deeply relational, inviting us into intimate conversation. Consider this stunning reality: the Creator of all things desires a relationship with you. Not blind obedience. Not religious performance. But genuine, open, honest conversation. The kind of relationship where you can sit at the table and share not just the highlights, but the struggles, the failures, the fears. "My heart says of you, 'Seek his face.' Your face, Lord, I will seek." This is the language of relationship, not religion. God doesn't want our fear-driven compliance. He wants our hearts. He wants conversation. He wants us to come close enough that we can see His face, that we can know Him intimately. But real intimacy requires vulnerability. It means sitting at the table even when we'd rather eat alone. It means confessing the ways we've contributed to the chaos in our own lives. It means admitting our failures and receiving forgiveness. Many of us avoid this kind of closeness with God because it requires honesty we're not ready to offer. We'd rather keep God at arm's length, where we can maintain control and avoid the discomfort of being truly known. It's in this vulnerable place—in the honest conversation, in the open confession, in the willingness to be seen—that we find the guidance, strength, and peace we desperately need. The psalm ends with a declaration that has sustained believers through countless trials: "I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord." This is hope grounded in relationship. The psalmist doesn't promise that life will get easier or that the enemies will disappear. Instead, there's confidence that God's goodness will be visible even in the midst of difficulty. Even in "the land of the living"—this broken, chaotic world we inhabit right now. "Wait for the Lord" isn't passive resignation. It's active trust. It's choosing to remain in relationship, to keep seeking His face, to continue the conversation even when answers don't come immediately. Imagine for a moment that God is calling your name. Not with small talk or casual pleasantries, but with genuine interest: "Come, sit with me. Tell me what's really going on with you." This isn't about religious duty or checking a prayer off your daily to-do list. It's about relationship. It's about finding that place of refuge not by running away from life, but by running toward the One who offers stability in the chaos. The world will continue to be chaotic. The news will remain troubling. Circumstances may not change as quickly as we'd like. But in the midst of it all, there is a place of hiding—not from reality, but in the unfailing love of a God who will never abandon us, never fail us, and never stop inviting us into deeper relationship. The question isn't whether God is present. The question is whether we're willing to seek His face, to sit at the table, to open our hearts in honest conversation. Dinner's ready. Will you come? |
Welcome!So glad you're here. I'm a pastor who's been at it since 2013, and I just recently planted roots here in Houston. You can find me pastoring out in Atascocita, in the northeast part of the city. Consider this spot my digital notebook for afterthoughts from my Sunday messages. I'm hoping these reflections serve as a boost, helping to grow your faith and encourage you on your journey. |
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