It began with joyful noise—hosanna—along those ancient streets where thousands now walk on pilgrimage. Palms waved. Cloaks were spread along the dusty road. Women and men chanted praises. Children played, ran, giggled, and reached out to touch what felt like glory passing by.
The cries of “Hosanna! Blessed is the King!” filled the air as Jesus entered Jerusalem—not on a warhorse, but on a colt. A symbol of peace. A quiet subversion. An unexpected aesthetic for a much-anticipated coming. Even at that moment of apparent triumph, the journey was leading somewhere else. Not to a throne in Herod’s palace, or to the marbled paths between Pontius Pilate’s seat and Tiberius Caesar’s court, but to the hill of the Skull.
The people cheered, but they didn’t truly understand. They longed for power, but he came to serve. They expected a warrior, but he came as a lamb. Like many of us, they wanted to ride the wave of a rising celebrity, to belong to his movement, perhaps even to benefit from it. But what they got was not what they hoped for. Their aspirations were disappointed.
The Tension
Hosanna and crucifixion? This tension threads through every Scripture reading on Palm Sunday—the glory misunderstood, the King who serves, the God who suffers. God…suffering? Unthinkable. And yet, he goes forward.
The prophet Isaiah had foreshadowed him—the servant who offers his back to beatings, who does not shield his face from insult and spittle. Still, he says, “The Lord God is my help… I have not rebelled.” If he had chosen another path—one that avoided the Skull—could it have been called rebellion? Perhaps not, if he’s the one who sets the terms. But he doesn’t take the easier road. He chooses to obey, to remain faithful, to see it through. It’s consistent to his character, steadfast love. Faithful!
This is not resignation. It is not the despair of a helpless man. It is the determined strength of one who knows his mission and will not be swayed. One who, having set the order, honors it. For in the faithfulness to that mission lies the revelation of his character.
Self-Emptying
Paul would later write that Jesus “emptied himself,” refusing to cling to divine privilege, humbling himself even to the point of death—death on a cross (Philippians 2:7-8).
Here is the mystery of kenosis (self-emptying), that lofty theological word that means something terribly beautiful: the King who surrenders, the God who bends down to wash feet, who bleeds, who is broken for us.
And what of us? We see him in the garden of Gethsemane, overwhelmed in agony, his sweat like drops of blood. It is gory, yes—but that’s what it takes. For those who live in this world, which is itself a divine gift, the sweat must fall before the glory can shine. The path he sets, he walks first.
Totally Yours in Love
We hear his voice: “Not my will, but yours be done.” Can we pray this way? Can we follow this path, even when it opposes our deepest desires? What if his will leads us to places where something in us must die—our ego, our comfort, our control? Would we still say yes?
Even when betrayed by a friend, denied by another, and abandoned by those who once swore loyalty, he does not change. He remains who he is: Love. Not a sentimental feeling, but a love that gives. Not comfort, but self-offering.
Covenanted Love
On the Cross, they mock him with the very title they once cheered: “King of the Jews.” And still, he forgives. Still, he loves. To the repentant thief, he promises paradise. And to us, he offers mercy and redemption.
This is the new covenant, not signed with ink but sealed with blood—the precious blood of the Lamb, whose wounds heal our own.
This is a new kind of power—not domination, but service. Not coercion, but gift. And here, everything converges. The King who enters in glory is the Servant who kneels. The Obedient One is also the Exalted One. The Crucified becomes the Source of Life. And we, the broken, are invited to be made whole through his love.
Palm Sunday holds the paradox in tension: Hosanna and Crucify. Glory and humility. Joy and sorrow. And somehow, through it all, love prevails.
This Holy Week, ponder the invitation to witness the Passion and to enter it. Let it speak to our pride, our longing for control, our fear of suffering, and our hunger for love.
And may we, in response, find the strength to say with him: “Not my will, but yours be done.”
