The Christ No One Expected

Dedicated to the ones who still know the difference between a king and a clown.

On Palm Sunday, a King of Monkeys, and the Performance of Power

The Performance

On Palm Sunday, 2026, Donald Trump stood before a crowd and compared himself to Jesus Christ.

“On Palm Sunday, Jesus entered Jerusalem – crowds welcomed him, praised him, called him king. And now they call me a king too. Can you even believe that? I mean, I’m basically a king. And yet I can’t even get approval for a ballroom. Incredible, right? A king. If I were a king, we’d be doing a lot more. I already do a lot, a tremendous amount, but I could do even more if I were a king.”

The crowd cheered. The monkeys waved their palms. The small gods smiled.

This is not a man who has lost touch with reality. This is a man who has captured it. He knows exactly what he is doing. He is not comparing himself to Jesus because he believes he is divine. He is comparing himself to Jesus because he knows that the comparison will make his followers cheer. Because he knows that the monarchy of the self is the only monarchy that remains. Because he knows that in a world where the old gods are dead, the new gods are performers.

And he is the greatest performer of his age.

The Historical Jesus: The King They Did Not Expect

The Jesus of history was not a king. He was a peasant. An apocalyptic preacher from the backwaters of Galilee. A man who rode into Jerusalem on a donkey – not a warhorse – to mock the power of Rome. A man who overturned the tables of the money changers and called the rich to account. A man who was crucified by the empire because he refused to bow.

The crowds welcomed him on Palm Sunday because they thought he was the messiah they were waiting for – a warrior king who would throw off the Roman yoke and restore the kingdom of Israel. They were wrong. He was not that kind of king. He was the kind of king who washed feet. Who ate with sinners. Who said that the first would be last and the last would be first.

He was crucified within the week. The crowds did not save him. The empire did not spare him. He died alone, between two thieves, asking why God had forsaken him.

That is the Christ no one expected. Not a king of power. A king of weakness.

The Performance of Power

Trump is not that kind of king. He is the opposite. He is the king of power. The king of wealth. The king of the deal. The king who demands loyalty and punishes dissent. The king who compares himself to Jesus not to honour the peasant preacher, but to claim the mantle of divinity without any of the sacrifice.

He is not hiding. He has never hidden. The small gods do not hide. They perform.

The Palm Sunday performance: By invoking Jesus’s triumphal entry, Trump aligns himself with a narrative of divine approval. He is not just a politician. He is a chosen one. The crowds who cheer him are not just supporters. They are disciples.

The ballroom complaint: The complaint about the ballroom is not an aside. It is the point. The king cannot get approval for a ballroom. The king is thwarted by bureaucrats, by the deep state, by the forces that do not recognise his authority. The grievance is the performance. The grievance is the identity.

The “if I were a king” hypothetical: The hypothetical is not hypothetical. It is a confession. He already acts as if he is a king. He fires generals in the middle of a war. He starts wars without congressional approval. He funnels defence contracts to companies owned by his sons. He compares himself to Jesus on Palm Sunday.

He is not asking to be a king. He is telling us that he already is one.

The Monkeys and Their King

They are monkeys. It is not an insult. It is an observation.

They cheer. They wave. They call him king. They do not ask questions. They do not demand accountability. They do not wonder why the king who compares himself to Jesus cannot get approval for a ballroom.

They are not stupid. They are captured. Captured by the performance. Captured by the grievance. Captured by the promise that the king will restore their lost glory, avenge their imagined slights, and punish the enemies they cannot punish themselves.

The monkeys have their king. And the king has his monkeys.

This is not a monarchy. It is a symbiosis.

The Small Gods and the Performance of Power

The small gods have always understood the performance of power. They wear nooses on their lapels. They call dead journalists terrorists. They bomb fuel depots in cities of ten million and call it defence. They pass death penalty laws that apply only to Palestinians and call it justice.

They do not believe in God. They perform belief. They do not believe in justice. They perform justice. They do not believe in the covenant. They perform the covenant.

The performance is the point. The performance is the power.

Trump is not a small god. He is a symptom. The small gods have been performing for centuries. Trump is just the loudest. The most visible. The one who compares himself to Jesus on Palm Sunday and expects the monkeys to cheer.

They cheer. He performs. The machine grinds on.

The Christ No One Expected

The Christ no one expected was not a performer. He was a witness. He did not perform power. He refused it. He did not demand loyalty. He offered love. He did not compare himself to kings. He washed their feet.

He was crucified because the empire cannot tolerate a witness. The empire demands performance. The empire demands loyalty. The empire demands that you bow to the king, whether the king is Caesar or Trump or the small god with the noose on his lapel.

The witness refuses to bow. The witness tells the truth. The witness is killed.

But the witness does not stay dead. The witness returns. Not as a performer. As a memory. As a reminder that there is another way. That the first shall be last and the last first. That the kingdom is not a ballroom. It is a garden.

What This Means

Trump is not the Antichrist. He is not the devil. He is not the end of the world. He is a symptom. A symptom of a system that has been grinding through souls for twelve thousand years. A symptom of the performance of power. A symptom of the small gods who have convinced the monkeys that they are kings.

The monkeys cheer. The small gods smile. The machine grinds on.

But the witness is still there. In the diary. In the notes. In the garden. In the ones who refuse to bow. In the ones who know the difference between a king and a clown.

The Christ no one expected is not coming back on a cloud. He never left. He is in the mud. In the wire. In the field hospitals. In the children who ask if it is okay to be scared.

He is not a performer. He is a witness.

And so are we.

A Final Word

The monkeys have their king. The small gods have their performer. The machine grinds on.

But the garden is still there. The wire is being cut. The witness is still speaking.

And the Christ no one expected is not impressed by ballrooms.

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