Read

Zechariah 9:9 “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.”

Think

There’s a strange phrase in Zechariah that everybody misses. “Righteous and victorious, lowly and riding on a donkey.”

That’s not how victory usually looks.

If I told you a king was coming, what would you imagine? Probably horses. Probably an army. Probably swords and shields and the kind of power that can’t be ignored. You’d picture someone who enters a room and the room changes because of his presence and his force and his resources.

But Zechariah saw something different. He saw righteousness and victory, but also lowliness. And a donkey. Not a war horse. Not something that demands respect through intimidation. A donkey—a beast of burden. The kind of animal a carpenter might ride. The kind of animal that carries weight without complaint.

This tells you something crucial about what kind of king Jesus is. He’s not the kind of king who’ll work on your terms.

The problem is that we always try to reframe Jesus into something we understand. We do this all the time. You want a king who’ll make your life easier, so you imagine Jesus as some kind of cosmic problem-solver. You want a king who’ll take your side in your conflicts, so you imagine Jesus as someone who agrees with your politics. You want a king who’ll respect your independence, so you imagine Jesus as someone who asks nicely and accepts your “no.”

But that’s not the king who came.

Think about it like this. It’s like you’ve been living your whole life with a broken hand. Everyone says, “You just have to learn to manage.” So you’ve gotten really good at one-handed living. You’ve adapted. It’s your normal now. Then a doctor arrives—an actual healer—and says, “I can fix your hand.” And you say, “No, no, I’m fine. I’ve adapted. Just give me some better coping techniques.”

That’s what we do with Jesus. We ask him to work within our broken system instead of healing it. We ask for relief instead of redemption. We ask for comfort instead of change.

And we do it because change is terrifying. Real change means admitting that the way you’ve been living isn’t working. It means confessing that all the systems you’ve built to manage your life—the habits, the coping mechanisms, the walls you’ve constructed—they’re not keeping you alive. They’re keeping you comfortable while you slowly fall apart.

The donkey matters. A donkey is patient. A donkey is humble. A donkey carries burdens. And a king on a donkey isn’t demanding your allegiance—he’s inviting you to follow him into something you don’t fully understand yet.

Here’s the thing: Jesus didn’t come to take sides. He came to take over. Your political enemies aren’t your real enemies. Your financial struggles aren’t your deepest problem. Your relational failures aren’t what will actually destroy you. Your separation from God is. That’s what he came to address.

Did you notice the word “peace” in the hosannas? They thought peace meant the absence of trouble. They thought peace meant Rome going away. They thought peace was something external—a circumstance, a political reality, a feeling that comes when your problems disappear.

But the peace Jesus came to give isn’t the removal of problems. It’s reconciliation with God. You can have every external problem solved and still be at war on the inside. You can have the perfect job, the perfect family, the perfect house, and still feel like something is fundamentally wrong. Because something is. You were made for God, and until you’re connected to him, nothing else will fill that space.

Think about it like this. It’s like a building that’s perfectly designed on the outside but crumbling on the inside. New paint, nice windows, great landscaping. But inside, the foundation is failing. You can decorate it and maintain it and keep it pretty, but until you address what’s actually broken, you’ve just got a beautiful ruin.

That’s the human condition without Jesus. We look fine from the outside. We manage. We succeed. But on the inside, we’re broken in a way that only God can fix.

The king on the donkey came to address that. He didn’t come to take your side against your enemies. He came to take your place before God. He came to absorb the consequence of your rebellion, to reopen the way between you and the Father that sin had closed.

It’s been said that humility isn’t thinking less of yourself. It’s thinking of yourself less. The king on the donkey modeled that perfectly. He had every right to ride in on a war horse. He had every right to demand allegiance. Instead, he came low. He came gentle. He came as a servant.

And here’s what you need to understand: if you keep waiting for a king who looks the way you expect, you’ll miss the one who’s already here. The disciples kept waiting for a military leader. The Pharisees kept waiting for a political ally. The crowd kept waiting for a miracle worker who’d never stop performing. And Jesus kept being something none of them expected—a savior who saves through sacrifice, not spectacle.

You might be doing the same thing right now. You’re waiting for God to show up in a way that makes sense to you. In a way that’s comfortable. In a way that doesn’t require you to let go of anything. But the king on the donkey doesn’t work that way. He comes in weakness so that his strength can be made perfect. He comes in humility so that your pride can be dismantled.

So when you read about the king on the donkey, read it as an invitation. He’s not coming with an army to conquer your enemies. He’s coming with his own body to bear your punishment. He’s coming to make you something new, not to make your life more comfortable.

Apply

Where are you still asking Jesus to work within your broken system instead of letting him transform it? Identify one relationship, one habit, one attitude where you want his blessing but not his change. This week, instead of asking him to work around the problem, ask him to work through it.

Pray

God, I’ve spent so much energy trying to get you to fit into my life instead of letting me fit into yours. I want relief when you’re offering redemption. I’m tired of managing my brokenness. I’m ready to let you fix it. Make me willing to surrender what I’ve built, so you can build something real in me. In Jesus’ name. Amen.