Now What?

There is a kind of moment that happens in a crowd that you can’t really recreate anywhere else.

It’s hard to describe unless you’ve been in it, but it’s that feeling when something bigger than you is happening—and you can feel it in your body. The energy starts to build slowly at first: a murmur, a buzz, people looking around and sensing that something is about to happen. And then, almost all at once, it tips. The noise rises, people stand to their feet, voices get louder, and suddenly you’re not just an individual anymore—you’re part of something. Swept up in it. Carried along by it.

You’ve probably felt it at a game. The stadium is packed, your team is driving down the field, and everyone is on edge. Then the play breaks open—the pass is in the air, someone finds a gap—and in a split second the whole place erupts. Strangers are hugging. People are shouting. Hands are in the air. For a moment, it feels like nothing else in the world matters except what’s happening right there.

Or maybe you’ve felt it at a concert. The lights go down, the first chord hits, and thousands of voices sing the same words at the same time. There’s this shared sense of awe, of connection, of being part of something meaningful. It’s powerful. It’s emotional. It feels real.

And yet, as powerful as those moments are, they don’t last.

The game ends. The concert is over. The lights come on. And eventually, you go back to your car, back to your house, back to your normal routines. And whatever you felt in that moment—no matter how real it was—doesn’t necessarily translate into the way you actually live your life the next day.

You can be completely swept up in something and still not be shaped by it. You can feel something deeply and still not build your life on it.

And if we’re honest, that’s not just true in stadiums or concerts. It’s true in the spiritual life too.

Because there are moments when Jesus stirs something in us. Moments where his words land differently, where worship feels alive, where something in us says, “This matters. This is real.” And in those moments, it’s natural to respond—with emotion, with excitement, with passion, with praise.

But the question that lingers underneath those moments is this: what happens when the moment passes? What happens when the noise fades, when the crowd disperses, and it’s just you again?

Because last week, we heard Jesus say something that cuts right through all of that. Not everyone who hears these words and is moved by them builds their life on them. There’s a difference between hearing and doing, between admiration and obedience—between being caught up in a moment and being anchored in a way of life.

And Matthew tells us that when Jesus finished teaching, the crowds were amazed. Astounded. Overwhelmed by what they had just heard.

But Matthew doesn’t tell us what they did next.

And that silence leaves us with a question: is amazement enough? Or is there something more that Jesus is inviting us into?

And that’s where we find ourselves today.

This is the final week of our series, Upside Down, where we’ve been walking through Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount—a vision of life in the Kingdom of God that turns everything we expect upside down. Week by week, we’ve listened as Jesus has redefined what it means to be blessed, what it means to be righteous, what it means to live as people shaped by the love and authority of God. He has taken our assumptions about power and success and security and flipped them on their head, inviting us into a completely different way of being human, how to truly live the good life

And now we come to the very end of that sermon—the final two verses, where Matthew tells us how people responded.

Matthew 7:28–29 NRSV

Now when Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as their scribes.

They’re amazed. Not just interested or curious, but genuinely overwhelmed. There is something about Jesus—about his words, about the way he speaks—that lands differently. He doesn’t sound like anyone else. He speaks with authority, as if he isn’t just pointing to the truth, but embodying it.

And for a moment, the crowd is caught up in it.

They feel it. They recognize that something is happening here.

But again, Matthew leaves us without resolution. He doesn’t tell us whether that amazement becomes anything more.

Because as the story continues, the crowd shows up again.

But this time, they’re not just listening.

They’re shouting.

Matthew 21:1–9 NRSV

When they had come near Jerusalem and had reached Bethphage, at the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say this, ‘The Lord needs them.’ And he will send them immediately.” This took place to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet, saying, “Tell the daughter of Zion, Look, your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on a donkey, and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them; they brought the donkey and the colt, and put their cloaks on them, and he sat on them. A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

The energy has shifted. What began as amazement has now become celebration. What began as listening has turned into cheering. The crowd is no longer just responding internally—they are expressing it outwardly, loudly, visibly.

And on the surface, this looks like exactly what you would hope for.

Jesus has been teaching about the Kingdom of God. He’s been healing, restoring, challenging, inviting. And now, as he enters Jerusalem, the crowd responds. They move toward him. They honor him. They celebrate him.

It feels like recognition.

It feels like alignment.

It feels like this is the moment where everything he has been saying finally clicks.

They shout, “Hosanna”—“Save us!” They call him the Son of David, naming him as the long-awaited king. They quote the Psalms, placing him at the center of Israel’s story.

And it’s important that we say this clearly: they are not wrong to respond this way.

They see something real in Jesus. They recognize something true about him. There is genuine hope in their voices and real longing in their cries. They want salvation. They want God to act. They want things to be made right.

And Jesus receives their praise.

He doesn’t silence them. He allows the moment to unfold.

So this is not a story about a bad crowd doing a bad thing.

This is a story about a sincere crowd… responding in an incomplete way.

Because even though they are right about who Jesus is, they are still misunderstanding the kind of king he has come to be.

They are looking for a king who will overthrow Rome. A king who will bring power and control and victory in the way they expect. A king who will make their lives easier, safer, more secure.

But Jesus has just spent an entire sermon redefining what his Kingdom looks like.

A Kingdom where the poor in spirit are blessed.

A Kingdom where the meek inherit the earth.

A Kingdom where you love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

A Kingdom where righteousness is not about appearances, but about the transformation of the heart.

A Kingdom where you don’t grasp for power, but surrender in trust.

And now here he is, entering Jerusalem—not on a war horse, not with an army behind him, but on a donkey. A symbol not of domination, but of humility. Not of conquest, but of peace.

Everything about this moment is telling the truth about who Jesus is.

But the crowd is still trying to fit him into their expectations.

They are celebrating him—but on their terms.

They are praising him—but for the kind of salvation they want.

They are caught up in the moment—but not yet surrendered to his way.

And this is where it begins to press in on us.

Because it’s easy to look at this crowd and wonder how they missed it—how they could shout “Hosanna” one day and, just a few days later, fall silent as everything turns.

But the deeper question is not how they missed it.

The deeper question is how easily we do the same.

Because we can recognize something true about Jesus and still reshape him into someone more comfortable.

We can celebrate Jesus—as long as he aligns with our expectations.

We can sing the songs, say the prayers, show up for the moments—and still resist the kind of life he’s actually calling us to live.

We can want Jesus to save us… without wanting him to lead us.

And what Palm Sunday reveals is that there is a kind of response to Jesus that looks right on the surface—passionate, expressive, full of energy—and yet still falls short of the kind of allegiance he is inviting us into.

Because the issue was never that the crowd didn’t feel something.

The issue is that they didn’t allow what they felt to reshape what they believed about who Jesus is and what his Kingdom is like.

They loved the idea of a king.

They just didn’t recognize the kind of king who was standing right in front of them.

And this is where the story turns.

Because Palm Sunday feels like a high point.

It feels like momentum is building, like everything is moving in the right direction. The crowd is energized, hopeful, expectant. Jesus is being recognized, celebrated, lifted up. It feels like this is the moment where everything is about to change.

But what we know—and what they do not yet see—is that this road does not lead to a throne.

It leads to a cross.

Jesus does not enter Jerusalem to take power.

He enters Jerusalem to lay his life down.

And that is the part the crowd is not ready for.

They can celebrate a king who saves them.

But they struggle to follow a king who suffers.

They can shout “Hosanna” when hope feels near.

But they do not yet understand what it will mean for that hope to come through sacrifice, through surrender, through love that refuses to retaliate.

And so over the next few days, everything begins to unravel.

The same city that welcomed him will grow restless. The same voices that shouted his praise will grow quiet. The same expectations that lifted him up will give way to disappointment when he does not become the kind of king they were hoping for.

Because Jesus will keep moving deeper into the very thing they hoped he would avoid.

He will confront injustice—but not with violence.

He will challenge power—but not by seizing it.

He will stand in truth—but refuse to defend himself.

He will love… all the way to the end.

And it will not look like victory.

It will look like loss.

It will look like failure.

It will look like everything has gone wrong.

And that is why this week matters.

Because Holy Week invites us to slow down.

To not rush past it.

To not skip ahead to the empty tomb.

Because the way of Jesus cannot be understood apart from the road he chooses to walk—a road marked by humility, by surrender, by self-giving love.

This is the Upside Down Kingdom in its clearest form.

Not just in what Jesus says…

but in what Jesus does.

And so as we step into this week, the invitation is not just to remember what happened.

It is to pay attention. To watch closely. To notice the kind of King Jesus actually is.

To sit with the tension of a Savior who refuses to meet our expectations in the ways we might want.

And to ask ourselves, honestly:

Will we still follow him when the crowd grows quiet?

Will we still trust him when the path leads somewhere we did not expect?

Will we still call him King when his way looks like surrender instead of success?

Because it is one thing to shout “Hosanna” on Sunday.

It is another thing to walk with Jesus through the rest of the week.

Through the table.

Through the garden.

Through the trial.

Through the cross.

And that is where we are headed.

Not just as a story we remember…

but as a journey we are invited to enter.

So this week, do not just stand at a distance.

Walk with him.

Stay with him.

Let his way challenge you, reshape you, deepen you.

Because the same Jesus who enters Jerusalem to the sound of praise…

is the same Jesus who will stretch out his arms in love.

And somewhere between those two moments…

we begin to see what the Kingdom of God is really like.