Matthew 21:1-11,
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!”
When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, “Who is this?”
The crowds were saying, “This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.”
There is a stillness that comes right before a storm—a strange quiet in the air, a tension you can feel but you can’t quite tell what. You know something is coming, but you can’t quite see it yet. That is what Holy Week feels like. Palm Sunday is here. The crowds are shouting, “Hosanna!” with palm branches waving and cloaks laid out on the road. Jesus is entering Jerusalem, and everything feels alive with expectation. The people are cheering. The disciples are brimming with hope. This feels like the beginning of something glorious.
And in a way, it is. But not in the way they imagined.
Jesus isn’t riding into Jerusalem to claim a throne. He is not arriving with political power, armed guards, or force. He is riding a borrowed donkey (not even of his own). He is surrounded not by soldiers but by ordinary people: the poor, the sick, the curious, and the hopeful. He is not there to take power—He is there to lay it down. And he knows exactly what is waiting at the end of this road: betrayal, suffering, the cross.
Palm Sunday lives in that tension. It is the collision of joy and dread, of celebration and sorrow. And maybe, just maybe, that’s where many of us live, too.
Have you ever found yourself in a moment like that? If we are honest, we know what it is like to walk roads that lead us toward uncertainty. We know the feeling of trying to hold on to hope while life gets harder. Some of us may be living in that tension right now—between dreams and disappointments, between faith and fear, between what we hoped would happen and what is actually happening. That is why this story is more than something that happened two thousand years ago. It’s a mirror, and we are in it.
Picture yourself in the crowd that day. You have heard of Jesus. Maybe you saw him heal someone. Maybe you were there when he fed the multitudes or calmed the storm. Maybe you have watched him love people no one else wanted—tax collectors, sinners, outcasts, children. You don’t know everything about him, but something in you wants to believe. So you join the crowd. You shout his name. You wave your palm branch with the others. You say “Hosanna!” which means “Save us now!” But save us from what? That question matters.
Some in the crowd wanted Jesus to save them from Rome—from oppression, unfair taxes, soldiers in the streets. Others wanted him to save them from hunger or sickness or shame. Some just wanted their lives to mean something. Their “Hosanna” was layered with emotion. And so is ours.
Today, when we say “Hosanna,” we may not be facing Roman soldiers, but we are still looking for rescue. We are facing pressures and expectations we can’t meet. We are navigating broken relationships, battling anxiety or grief, or carrying secrets we don’t know how to talk about. We want to be strong, but sometimes we are barely holding it together. When we cry out “Hosanna,” it isn’t just a word—it’s a prayer. It as a plea: “God, I don’t know what to do next. Save me.”
And here is what is astonishing: Jesus hears it. Not just then—but now. He hears your voice in the crowd. He sees you. And he doesn’t turn away. He doesn’t wave from a distance like a politician at a parade. He rides toward you. He keeps coming, even knowing the road ahead will break him.
But this is where the story takes an unexpected turn.
Jesus doesn’t come to meet our expectations. He comes to transform them. The crowd expected him to take power. Instead, he chose humility. They wanted a warrior. Instead, they got a servant. They imagined the kingdom of God would come with fire and force. Instead, it came with forgiveness, foot washing, and a cross. Jesus didn’t come to give people what they thought they wanted. He came to give them what they truly needed. And he is still doing that today.
Sometimes, we ask for God to change our circumstances, and instead, God changes us in the middle of them. Sometimes, we want the miracle, but God is offering meaning. Sometimes, we pray for the storm to stop, and Jesus calms our fear instead of the waves. And that is harder to accept, isn’t it? We want rescue. We want clarity. But Jesus often offers presence—his presence—with us, even when the path ahead is steep.
Palm Sunday teaches us that following Jesus isn’t always easy. The same crowd that cheered on Sunday fell silent—or worse, shouted “Crucify him!” by Friday. Why? Because Jesus didn’t meet their expectations. Because the journey was harder than they imagined. And because staying faithful in the face of pain is never easy.
But here is the bold truth: the road of faith may be difficult, but it is never meaningless. Jesus walked that road not to avoid pain but to transform it. Not to escape death but to defeat it. And when we walk with him, even the hardest roads lead to new life if we hold onto faith.
Maybe today you find yourself walking through a hard place. Maybe it feels like you have been shouting “Hosanna!” but no answers have come. Maybe life is uncertain, your heart is heavy, your faith is fragile. If so, then this day—this Palm Sunday—is for you. Because Jesus is not afraid of hard roads. He doesn’t avoid our mess. He walks right into it.
He walks into grief and disappointment.
He walks into injustice and heartbreak.
He walks into your story—not just the parts you post on social media, but the parts you don’t tell anyone. He sees it all. And He doesn’t run. He stays.
And here is the hope we hold onto: even though the road ahead leads to the cross, it doesn’t end there. This journey doesn’t stop in death. It moves through death into life. Palm Sunday reminds us that no matter what lies ahead, God has already gone before us. We may not know what is coming tomorrow, but we know who holds tomorrow.
The world is still broken, but God is still healing. Life is still hard, but God is still faithful. We may feel stuck in Saturday’s silence, but resurrection is already stirring.
So today, let your “Hosanna” rise—not because everything is perfect, but because you trust the One who walks with you. Let it rise not as a shallow cheer, but as a deep cry of faith. Let it be bold. Let it be honest. Let it be full of longing and hope.
You don’t need to have it all together to come to Jesus. You just need to be willing to walk the road with him, to trust that he knows the way, and to believe that even in sorrow, there is glory ahead.
This is the road we walk. This is the Savior we follow. This is the hope we hold.
So wave your palm branches. Lift your head. And walk forward—not because the road is easy, but because the One who walks it with you is faithful, and he is making all things new.
Let us pray:
Lord Jesus,
You rode into Jerusalem with courage and love,
Knowing the road ahead would be hard.
We confess that we often want the joy without the struggle,
The crown without the cross.
But today, we choose to follow you—
Through the highs and the lows,
Through sorrow and through hope.
Walk with us this Holy Week.
Give us strength to trust you,
Even when the way is uncertain.
Help us to carry hope in our hearts,
Because you are faithful, and you are with us.
In your holy name we pray,
Amen.
