Today we started outside, waving palms, remembering that first Palm Sunday.
Picture it clearly. The streets are loud. People are pushing in, trying to see. Branches in their hands. Cloaks on the ground. The crowd was full of hope, but also full of expectation, waiting for a king to show them a new way
And then, Jesus enters Jerusalem, on a donkey. No dressed in power, not surrounded by soldiers or on a warhorse, but on a donkey, fulfilling the prophet’s words. And this humility is not weakness; it is the power that transforms. God’s strength does not crush; it transforms.
The people shout, “Hosanna.” Save us.
They are not just celebrating. They are desperate. They want change. They want relief from what is crushing them. They want freedom from what feels unjust. Their hope is real, but it is also shaped by what they are living through. They are expecting a kind of rescue that looks like power taking over power. And they think Jesus is about to do it their way.
But Jesus doesn’t come that way. And that is not a mistake. That is God already at work, choosing a different way to save.
And here is the tension: what they hope for is what we often hope for too. We want God to fix things quickly. We want him to remove the pressure, solve the problem, change the situation. We want something visible, something that makes sense, something that feels like winning.
But Jesus comes differently; in humility, without force, without spectacle. He comes close. Not to meet our expectations, but to meet us where we actually are. And if we are honest, that can feel frustrating, because humility looks weak in a world that values control. Yet this humility is the power that saves. God’s victory does not rely on force; it comes through love fully embracing our suffering. Suffering looks like failure in a world that rewards success. The cross looks like loss. From the humility of the donkey to the agony of the cross, God’s path is clear: He steps into suffering, not away from it.
Yet, we just heard the Passion story.
The betrayal. The denial. The silence. The mocking. The violence. The cross.
There is nothing clean about it. Nothing easy. Nothing distant. This is not things falling apart. This is God choosing to step all the way in.
Jesus does not avoid suffering. He walks straight into it, not because he lacks power, but because this is how he redeems the world. Not by stepping over our pain, but by stepping into it.
He takes on everything we carry but cannot name:
Our fear.
Our anger.
Our distance from God.
Our distance from each other.
He carries all of it. In his body. On the way of that cross. God is not waiting for us to clean it up. God is actively transforming it into grace.
And that is where the story hits us personally. The same crowd that shouted “Hosanna” is the crowd that turns. That is us.
We like to think we would stay faithful. But the truth is, we move back and forth.
We praise God when life is going well. And we pull back when it is not.
We trust when things make sense and we question when they don’t.
We are not steady.
But God is.
God does not move back and forth. God stays. God keeps working, even when we don’t see it. God keeps holding us, even when we let go.
And Jesus keeps going.
He sees betrayal coming and keeps going.
He knows denial is coming and keeps going.
He knows the cross is waiting and keeps going.
For you.
For me.
Not because we get it right. But because we don’t. That is the kind of love God chooses. Steady. Committed. Unmoving.
And this steadiness is exactly what God shows us in the promises he gives, like baptism.
Baptism is not about us being ready. It is God saying, “You are mine.”
Like a child who messes up and is still part of the family. The name is not erased.
God names us and holds us. Even when our is faith is shaky. Even when our life is messy. Even when we feel far from God. God’s hold does not loosen.
Just as baptism reminds us that we belong, the Lord’s Supper reminds us that God feeds us in the midst of life’s messiness. The Lord’s Supper is not a reward for people who have it together. It is food for people who are tired, who feels guilty, carrying regret, or just trying to make it through the week.
Jesus does not say, “Come when you are strong.”
He says, “Take and eat.”
This is my body.
Given for you.
God keeps giving himself to us. Again and again.
This week, as we remember, we are also invited to meet the same Jesus who comes toward us. He steps into our fear, our families, our communities, our world. He does not wait for things to settle. He comes now. Quiet. Steady. Present. So we don’t have to pretend. We don’t have to hold it all together. We can be honest. Because God is already here. Working. Holding. Redeeming us.
And here is the good news. because he is already here, we can trust that the story does not end in suffering. The story does not end at the cross. Death does not have the final word. The tomb is empty. Life breaks through. God is making all things new, even now. That is the power of God.
So as we enter these holy days, we remember the king we follow. He comes in humility. He does not turn away. He does not give up. He keeps coming closer. We walk this week not holding everything together, but trusting the one who holds us. And as we walk toward the cross, we walk with this promise: God’s last word is not suffering. It is life. It is resurrection. It is hope that will not be taken away. Amen.
