Hope on a Donkey

Zechariah 9:9–12 NKJV

9 “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Shout, O daughter of Jerusalem! Behold, your King is coming to you; He is just and having salvation, Lowly and riding on a donkey, A colt, the foal of a donkey. 10 I will cut off the chariot from Ephraim And the horse from Jerusalem; The battle bow shall be cut off. He shall speak peace to the nations; His dominion shall be ‘from sea to sea, And from the River to the ends of the earth.’ 11 “As for you also, Because of the blood of your covenant, I will set your prisoners free from the waterless pit. 12 Return to the stronghold, You prisoners of hope. Even today I declare That I will restore double to you.

Hope

It’s the weekend when Americans celebrate freedom. 

Fireworks lit up the sky. Flags hang from porches. We remember the boldness of our founding fathers, the sacrifice of our soldiers, and the price of liberty. Independence Day awakens something deep within us. On the Fourth of July, we remember who we are. We remember who we want to be. 

But this year, we celebrate with a feeling of uncertainty.

It’s not just “patriotic” this year. It’s also anxious. 

Because while we want to celebrate this weekend, we can’t help but feel the world is holding its breath.

With the past two weeks, Israel and the United States coordinated a series of airstrikes on Iranian nuclear facilities in a brazen and dangerous gamble. We all just held our breath while the world waited to see what the Iranians would do next. Will they retaliate? Will this set off a whole new series of escalations? Will this spark something much, much worse? 

We watch a world already scarred by war.

You turn on the news and see cities reduced to rubble in Ukraine. The images of children torn from their homes. Families ripped apart. An entire generation of children who will know nothing but sirens and explosions as “normal.”

You hear of the bloodshed in Israel and Gaza. Days of airstrikes and rockets, hostages and ransom payments, and ever-escalating political chaos. Whose people will retaliate next? Whose cities will be bombed? Whose soldiers will die? And it feels like any of these conflicts could easily spill over, spark something even larger, and pull the whole world into deeper darkness.

We are living in an age of war—literal war, cultural war, and spiritual war.

And in times like these, human nature instinctively longs for the strong hand of force. For someone to come galloping in on a white horse, take control, and smash the enemy. That’s what we expect. That’s what we’ve come to believe if peace is to come on this earth.

It will take greater force. 

It will take more destructive weapons. 

It will take decisive retaliation. 

But then Zechariah sketches a scene so foreign, so unexpected, so naïve, that you have to stop and really read the words again.

“Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter of Jerusalem! Behold, your king is coming to you; righteous and having salvation is he, humble and mounted on a donkey…” (Zechariah 9:9)

A donkey? 

Not a warhorse. Not a chariot. Not an army of soldiers or a squadron of bodyguards. A donkey. 

You have no idea what a radical image this was.

Kings in Zechariah’s day rode stallions. Muscular, tall, animals with the power and majesty befitting a king. When a king came riding on a warhorse, it was a universal signal: here comes a man of military might who will win his victories by force of arms. But a king on a donkey? A king on a donkey was the sign of peace, of a ruler who would not come to vanquish the enemy but to reconcile a people.

The people of Israel had been beaten down by exile, confused by loss, and surrounded by enemy empires who threatened to stamp out their national identity. The people of Israel were waiting for a mighty deliverer. Someone strong enough to shatter their chains. Someone to trample their enemies and restore the nation of Israel to greatness. They wanted what we all still want today: they wanted the strong hand of God on their side.

But God says: I’m about to send a different kind of king.

A humble king. A king who will speak the words of peace instead of the battle cry of war.

A king who will set captives free and name them “prisoners of hope.”

A king who will ride into town not in royal procession, but in radical gentleness.

And this prophetic act is not a coincidence—it’s a divine arrangement.

Centuries later, Jesus rides into Jerusalem on the first week of Passover and how does He come?

On a donkey. 

Fulfilling this very word. 

Crowds shout “Hosanna!” throwing cloaks on the ground before Him, and all of Jerusalem wonders if this is the One to overthrow Rome. But He’s not that kind of king. 

Jesus doesn’t come to crush Rome—Jesus is come to conquer sin.

Jesus doesn’t fight with violence—he fights with love.

Jesus doesn’t come with an army—Jesus comes to raise the dead.

And here is where this word cuts into our world today.

Because we still want a God who rides a warhorse. We want a God who will come into the chaos of this world with military precision and use force to set everything right. We want peace, but we want it on our terms. We want the kind of peace that comes by winning.

But the Gospel doesn’t work that way. 

The Gospel says true peace doesn’t come by domination, it comes by self-giving love.

True power isn’t built in tanks and missile silos—it’s seen in a King who lays down His life.

And this truth cuts even deeper in a world like this.

How do we talk about humility in a world where nations are dropping bombs?

How do we talk about peace in a world where people are getting shot in the streets?

How do we hold onto hope when it feels like the whole world is falling apart?

That’s where Zechariah’s word pierces into our lives.

He speaks into a broken world. 

He dares the people of God to call them to rejoice not because everything is okay, but because a King is coming. A different kind of King. A king who doesn’t avoid suffering, but who walks right into it and sets it right not through the power of violence, but through the mercy of God.

And then Zechariah hammers us with this phrase—a phrase that can only make sense in light of this strange kind of power:

“Return to your stronghold, O prisoners of hope… (v. 12)

That’s who we are. Prisoners of hope. 

Not captives of fear. Not slaves to despair. Not pawns in political games. 

We are prisoners of hope. 

Hope that the King who came once on a donkey will come again in power.

Hope that every broken place will be restored.

Hope that in a world that thinks it can only find strength through power, God’s greatest acts of power will come through humility.

So this weekend, between the sounds of war and the celebration of freedom, let’s ask ourselves:

What kind of King are we following? 

Because He’s coming. 

A King Who Comes Humbly

So the question before us today isn’t just what kind of world are we living in?—we already know the answer to that.

The deeper question is: What kind of King do we need?

When everything in us cries out for control, for vengeance, for strength that overwhelms… When our instincts and our headlines demand force…

God points us to a donkey.

He says, “Look again. Your King is coming—not with fire and fury, but with humility and healing.”

And so we begin where Zechariah begins—not with what the King does, but how He comes.

Let’s look first at the unexpected power of a King who chooses humility.

Zechariah 9:9 NKJV

9 “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Shout, O daughter of Jerusalem! Behold, your King is coming to you; He is just and having salvation, Lowly and riding on a donkey, A colt, the foal of a donkey.

When we think of a king, we think of power and majesty. We think of riches and authority. Kings don’t ask—they demand. They don’t bow down—they sit on thrones. They don’t walk—they ride on great horses. Kings lead with armies at their back and the expectation of loyalty and fear on their faces.

But the King we read about in Zechariah is not that kind of king.

He doesn’t ride into battle on a warhorse.

He rides on a donkey.

And He doesn’t just ride humbly—He is humble.

Yes, Zechariah says the King is “righteous and having salvation, lowly and riding on a donkey.” But the one thing “lowly” can also mean in Hebrew is “gentle,” or “afflicted.” Zechariah is painting a portrait of a King who is not just good and blessed, but also gentle, lowly, and approachable.

This is not weakness.

This is not passivity.

This is divine strength expressed through restraint.

Jesus is that King. This is not a Jewish cultural thing. This is a clear prophetic description of what the coming Messiah will look like.

Matthew 11:29 NKJV

29 Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.

When Jesus entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, He came as He said He would. It wasn’t a show or an image manipulation. It was a statement about who He is and what kind of kingdom He has come to proclaim.

Roman emperors were grandiose, coming into cities on horseback, with fanfare and armed escorts. Jesus came in on a borrowed donkey, with kids and common people around Him.

The world wanted a strong military king. But Jesus came to save us from a greater evil, the war in our own hearts.

And the honest truth is:

A lot of us still struggle with this King.

We’d rather have a Messiah that destroys our enemies and flexes some godly muscles.

We want justice—yes, we do. But we confuse justice with retaliation, and peace with power over others.

Jesus will not meet violence with violence.

He’ll subvert it with mercy.

He’ll take up our hatred with forgiveness.

He’ll break cycles of revenge with grace.

And that’s hard to practice, because the world around us trains us to be proud and self-protective and to dominate others. But this is what God is calling us to live into, to let Him make us like His Son.

“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who… emptied himself, taking the form of a servant…” (Philippians 2:5–7)

God’s greatest victories are won through humility.

Think about it:

David defeats Goliath not with armor and a sword, but with a sling shot and faith.

Gideon’s army wins with 300 men, not 30,000. God defeated Midian through weakness.

Jesus conquered sin and death not by running from it, but by taking up the cross and going to the cross.

God is glorified when His people humble themselves.

This King doesn’t roar from on high—He whispers among us.

He doesn’t call us to His banner with threats—He wooed us with love.

And this has huge implications for how we live.

If our King comes in humility, we ought to live in humility.

In our relationships: Are we trying to win every argument and fill every silence with our voice?

In our politics: Are we looking for ways to dominate others or representing Christ even when it’s costly?

In our homes: Are we serving and listening and forgiving?

In our hearts: Are we trying to hold onto our own pride or letting the Spirit form Christ’s humility in us?

The proud make room for no one.

The humble make room for God.

So which are we?

Let me ask you:

Are you following a King who rides on a donkey or are you looking for a war horse?

One is calling you to take up arms and fight for your own kingdom.

The other is calling you to lay down your sword and surrender to His.

A Kingdom That Speaks Peace

But you can’t say the King comes lowly without also mentioning the sort of king He is and the sort of kingdom He came to rule.

He’s not just coming to offer you inner peace. He’s not just coming to calm the storm in your heart. He is coming to bring peace. Real peace. Peace between nations. Walls torn down. Violence stopped. Cycles of vengeance and destruction shattered. Wounds bound up and healed. 

Zechariah 9: 9 doesn’t just tell us how the King will come. He tells us what the King will do.

Zechariah 9:10 NKJV

10 I will cut off the chariot from Ephraim And the horse from Jerusalem; The battle bow shall be cut off. He shall speak peace to the nations; His dominion shall be ‘from sea to sea, And from the River to the ends of the earth.’

This is no lowly king.

This is not merely the restoration of Israel.

This is the reconciliation of the world. 

And the thing that makes this kingdom different from all the others is not its borders or its armies—but its message: a peace that is proclaimed, not imposed. Not by conquest but by the word of the King who speaks peace.

So let’s consider what this kind of kingdom means, and what it says about the way we think about power and violence and nation and how we understand what it means to follow Jesus.

Zechariah paints a beautiful scene for us.  But it’s not just how the King comes—it’s also what He does.

He shall speak peace to the nations. 

Not force peace. 

Not negotiate peace with threats or conditions. 

Not demand peace at the edge of a sword.

He speaks peace. 

And that phrase should stop us in our tracks.

Because if we’re honest, most of the peace in our world is kept by violence.

By sanctions. By military power. By strategic threats. Peace, as we understand it, is usually the space between wars. A pause. A fragile ceasefire. A balance of terror. 

But the King in Zechariah doesn’t keep the peace—He makes it.

And He makes it with His words, not with weapons.

He speaks it into being. He declares it over nations. 

This is the same God who, in Genesis, spoke creation into existence.

The same God who said, “Let there be light”—and there was light.

Now He says, “Let there be peace.” And His Word will not return void.

It’s a powerful reminder that the Kingdom of God is not like the kingdoms of this world.

Jesus tells Pilate in John 18:36, 

“My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight… But now my kingdom is from another place.”

This is a spiritual kingdom that transforms earthly realities.

It is not established by tanks and treaties, but by truth and grace.

It stretches “from sea to sea”—global in scope, but personal in impact.

And that means it comes into your heart… just as much as it reaches across borders.

When Jesus came, He didn’t just fulfill Zechariah by riding a donkey.

He fulfilled this part too—He spoke peace wherever He went.

To the storm, He said: “Peace, be still.” And the wind and waves obeyed.

To the woman caught in adultery, He said: “Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.” 

To His disciples after the resurrection, He said—again and again—“Peace be with you.”

And to this world, still spinning in violence and vengeance, He says:

“Come to me… and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

This is not a sentimental peace. This is not feel-good optimism. This is the Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9: 6), speaking into the chaos and calling forth a new way to live.

And friends, that changes everything. 

What Kind of Kingdom Are We Living For?

This brings up an uncomfortable question:

What type of peace do we seek?

Are we looking for peace that comes from control, silence, and separation?

Or the kind of peace Jesus brings—peace that reconciles enemies, restores the broken, and requires humility?

Jesus calls us not only to receive this peace but to live as citizens of His peaceful kingdom.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.” (Matthew 5:9)

Peacemakers aren’t passive. They enter into conflict—not to win it, but to heal it. They don’t shy away from hard conversations. They speak the truth in love. They don’t retaliate—they forgive. They don’t settle for superficial calm—they pursue genuine reconciliation.

And that kind of peace requires courage. Because speaking peace in a war-torn world can feel like whispering into the wind.

But if Jesus could speak peace to storms…

If He could speak peace to a violent empire…

If He could speak peace even as nails were driven through His hands…

Then surely He can speak peace into our world, too.

And—here’s the challenge—He wants to speak it through us.

So how do we live as people of peace in a time of war?

In our conversations: Are we speaking peace, or stirring division? 

In our families: Are we modeling the humility and grace of Jesus?

In our social media posts: Are we amplifying outrage, or making room for healing?

In our prayers: Are we asking God to change them, or to soften us?

Let’s remember: peace isn’t just something God does for us.

It’s something He does in us—and then through us.

We’re not called to be passive observers of a broken world. We’re called to be active ambassadors of a different kingdom.

And the message we carry is not fear, control, or superiority.

It’s the message of the King who rides a donkey.

The King who speaks peace. 

The King whose words bring hope, even when the world is on fire.

Prisoners of Hope

But this is the truth:

Even though we live in a world that promises peace we don't get to avoid all the pain and chaos.

No, it’s that we live differently here.

We talk peace in the middle of war.

We follow the King of humility even when the culture shouts pride and power.

And sometimes—if we’re honest—it’s difficult.

Difficult to keep believing.

Difficult to keep waiting.

Difficult to keep hoping.

Especially when it seems like the darkness is growing only deeper and the headlines are only scarier with each new day.

But Zechariah doesn’t end with humility or with peace—he goes one step further.

He gives us an identity. A name.

Zechariah 9:12 NKJV

12 Return to the stronghold, You prisoners of hope. Even today I declare That I will restore double to you.

We may be surrounded. We may be weary. We may feel like prisoners to this broken world.

But God says: You are not prisoners of fear. You are not prisoners of despair. You are prisoners of hope.

Let’s get into what that means—because this may be the most powerful call of all.

Zechariah has just described a poor king riding on a donkey, making a world ready for peace. But now he turns to address God’s people themselves. And not as warriors. Or conquerors. But something far more surprising. 

“Prisoners of hope.” 

Talk about a strange phrase. Think about it. Prisoners are people who don’t have freedom. They don’t have control over their lives. They don’t have a future they can make or change. And yet, here God calls his people that. But he also flips the script. 

He doesn’t say “prisoners of exile,” though they had just recently come backfrom it.

He doesn’t say “prisoners of fear,” even though they were surrounded by threats and enemies.

He doesn’t even say “prisoners of the past,” though they had all been deeply wounded by it.

No, he says, “You are prisoners of hope.”

See that phrase isn’t about being trapped by despair or destruction. It’s about being held captive by something much better. By a promise. 

God is saying, “You may feel hemmed in. You may feel surrounded. But by what? What’s really holding you? It’s not your enemies. It’s not your trauma. It’s not even your politics. Hope is what holds you now.” 

And not just any hope—restoring hope. 

“I declare that I will restore to you double.”

In the Bible, the word “double” is used as a symbol for full, generous, overflowing restoration (see Job 42:10; Isaiah 61:7). It means God doesn’t just patch things up—He redeems and revives and restores more abundantly than we can imagine.

That’s the kind of hope Zechariah wants us to embrace.

And that’s the kind of hope we need today.

Because we all know what it’s like to be a prisoner of something—but usually it’s not hope.

We feel like prisoners of past mistakes. 

Prisoners of the mistakes others have made. 

Prisoners of broken relationships. 

Prisoners of fear for the future. 

Prisoners of the headlines that scream war and predict even worse to come.

Prisoners of burnout, and discouragement, and weariness, and uncertainty.

But God is speaking to us through Zechariah to say,

“That is not your identity. That is not your destiny. 

You are mine—and I call you prisoners of hope.”

Hope in the Bible isn’t the same thing as optimism or wishful thinking.

Hope isn’t just positive thinking or a pep talk.

Biblical hope is confident expectation. It is the sure and certain knowing that a future God has already promised will absolutely come.

It’s what kept Abraham moving toward a land he had never seen.

It’s what sustained the exiles in Babylon. 

It’s what empowered the early church to sing hymns in the prison cell.

And it’s what will carry you through whatever you’re facing right now.

But let me be clear: biblical hope does not remove struggle. 

It gives us strength in the midst of it.

That’s why Zechariah doesn’t say “you’re free and flying high.”

He says, “You’re still in the fortress—but now you know who holds you.”

And that stronghold isn’t just walls of stone—it’s the unshakable love of God.

Zechariah gives us an instruction: 

“Return to your stronghold, O prisoners of hope.”

The stronghold is the presence of God. The promises of God. The Word of God. 

God is saying: Run back to the place where your hope is rooted.

So let me ask you: When the world gets loud and scary, where do you go?

Do you run to control? 

Do you retreat into cynicism? 

Do you numb yourself with distraction? 

Or do you return to the One who speaks peace?

Do you return to the King who still rides a donkey?

Because even now—amid the war and the uncertainty and the ache of waiting—hope is not naïve.

It’s prophetic. 

It sees beyond what is, into what God is bringing.

And the promise is clear: 

“Today I declare that I will restore to you double.”

You may not be able to fix the world.

You may not be able to stop the wars.

You may not have the answers. 

But you can still be a prisoner of hope.

You can wake up each day believing God is not finished.

You can carry peace into anxious places. 

You can live like Jesus is King—because He is.

So yes, the world is still groaning. 

But so are we. 

And we’re not groaning in fear—we’re groaning in expectation.

Because the King has come. The King is coming again. And He’s bringing peace that no power on earth can destroy.

The Donkey Still Rides

So this is what Zechariah has shown us—what God is still showing us today:

The King comes humbly.

Not with power or military might, but with mercy and humility. A donkey instead of a warhorse. A cross instead of a throne.

The King speaks peace.

Not the kind of peace that’s enforced by force or violence, but the kind that brings healing and wholeness and speaks to the deepest unrest in the human heart.

The King makes us prisoners of hope.

He doesn’t just deliver us—He holds us in hope. Even in exile. Even in crisis. Even when it feels like the world is coming apart at the seams.

And this is the message we need—badly—not just because it’s a holiday weekend or because we’re proud to be Americans, but because the world is burning and broken and crying out for a different way.

As we wave our flags and celebrate the blessings of freedom this weekend, let’s not forget the greater allegiance we live under.

We belong to a different kind of kingdom.

We follow a different kind of King.

And we live under a different kind of power.

Not the power of missiles, but the power of mercy.

Not the power of pride, but the strength of humility.

Not fear-driven nationalism, but Christ-centered hope.

This is not the kind of hope that hides from hard things.

It’s the kind that stands in the middle of them—and still sings.

It’s the hope that says, “Even now, God is not done.”

It’s the hope that dares to believe that the King who came riding on a donkey will return—not in defeat, but in glory.

So return to your stronghold, church.

Not your political stronghold.

Not your emotional defenses.

Not your old coping mechanisms.

Return to the stronghold of God’s promises.

Return to the One who speaks peace.

Return to the only King worthy of your life.

Because when you do—when you trust the humble King, listen to His peaceful voice, and let Him name you as a prisoner of hope—you become a signpost of His kingdom in a world that desperately needs one.

Maybe you’ve been living like a prisoner of fear.

Maybe you’ve grown weary waiting for peace.

Maybe you’ve forgotten who your King really is.

Today is your invitation:

To kneel before the humble King.

To receive His peace in the middle of your storm.

To reclaim your identity as a prisoner of hope.

Because no matter what the world does next—the donkey still rides.

And our King is still speaking peace.