On a Sunday, we raised our Hosannas
And we cried aloud His name;
But on a Friday, the Hosannas faded
As we watch Him walk a path of shame.

Once, there was a brother and a sister. Their mother took them to church every Sunday all of their lives. That is five and six years. The sister loved going to church. The brother? Not so much. He felt he was "coming down with a cold", at least that was his story. He gave a dramatic cough and pretended to have a fever. A bit shameful, but when his mother checked on him, she suggested he stay home this day. He missed church on Palm Sunday, of all days. Miraculously, by the time his mother and sister returned, he was feeling much better. His older sister came home with great excitement, jumping up and down, waving her palm frond in the air, singing, “Hosanna in the highest.” When she came to check on her little brother he didn’t seem amused. He looked at her and pointed, asking, “What’s that?” She answered smugly, “We wave these in the air and then put them on the ground to welcome Jesus. He came riding on a donkey.”

The boy started wailing and fled out of the room. When his mother held him close and asked him what was wrong, he said through his tears, “The one Sunday I don’t go to Church, Jesus showed up!”
We smile, but there’s something true in that.

We need to be sure we see Jesus for who He is. Because sometimes, we think He hasn’t shown up at all. More often than not, the problem is not His absence, but our expectations. We imagine what Jesus is supposed to look like, how He is supposed to act, what He is supposed to do, and when He doesn’t meet those expectations, we miss Him entirely. Much like those days in Jerusalem. We come, as they did, to see for ourselves who this man is. And perhaps, like them, we are surprised that He shows up at all. There were tensions, after all—conflict between His movement and the religious authorities. And yet, there He was, entering the city. They had no flags. No confetti. Only palms. And still, they waved them. For the King of kings, the Lord of lords, was coming. Jesus showed up. But how many who shouted “Hosanna!” on that narrow street followed Him all the way to Golgotha?

On a Sunday, we cried aloud His name,
But on a Friday, we watched Him walk a path of shame.

How is it that we travel such a distance in so short a time? From triumph to tragedy, from praise to crucifixion? The Passion is not just a story, it is an emotional distance. A movement from fame… to shame.
Centuries ago, the Church understood this well. Long before it was commonly called Palm Sunday, this day was known as Passion Sunday. The Church spread across lands—Italy, France, Germany, Syria, Egypt—recognized that what we begin today must carry us all the way through the week. For this is not merely a celebration—it is a journey. And if we stop at the palms, if we leave before the Passion unfolds, we miss something essential. We miss the cross. We miss the moment when Jesus, hanging there in agony, cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
These are startling words. Difficult words. Words that unsettle us. For here is the Son of God, feeling abandoned. This is not the triumphant king many expected. This is not the one who came to overthrow earthly powers with force. Instead, He is brought low, humiliated, crucified in a way meant to warn others: step out of line, and this will be your fate. And yet, it is in that very moment, this scandalous, painful moment—that something profound is revealed. Because those words do not simply speak of suffering, they speak to something deep within us.

Something deep was within Christ. A Flemish artist painted the scene of Jesus as a young boy who was in his father's carpentry shop. He on one side of this wooden dining table, Joseph on the other, carefully carving and chiseling. Mary was seen looking on, a dog resting on the floor among the wood chips. The light filtered in, but there, on the center wall where it did not touch, it formed the shadow of the Cross. When he came into Jerusalem on Sunday, he knew what waited for him on Friday. He always knew. The scene of his passion on the cross was playing out in his mind, all the while, “Hosannas” rung in celebration. Did he truly feel abandoned by the Father in heaven? Out of all the words he could have spoken, before he died, he chose well. “Wait, let’s see if he is calling Elijah”, maybe he will call upon the forces of God to bring all of this to an end. But, nothing. Just his last breath after those last words. On Friday, another evangelist tells the story and he has a slightly different ending. You’ll have to show up to hear that message. Why was this saying a gift to us?

Have you ever felt abandoned by God? Have you ever wondered if it was something you did, or failed to do? Have you ever felt the distance… the silence? We often speak of “wrath” as though it means anger. But at its root, it means something else: alienation. Separation. Distance between us and God. And that distance is not caused by God turning away from us, but by our failure to recognize that, in Christ, He has already come near. He has shown up. Even here. Even on the cross.

I do not know what image of Jesus you carry with you. I do not know what expectations you hold. But in that moment, hanging between heaven and earth, He bears the full weight of human alienation. Fully God. Fully human. And in that union, He enters even the deepest places of our separation. It is a bitter and brutal end. And yet, it is not empty. For His final words are not spoken in weakness, but in strength. They are given so that we might hear them… and recognize that there is no place we can go, no depth we can fall, where He has not already been. Even there, He has shown up. And that is His gift to us. Especially for those who have ever felt forsaken.

Now, to the children among us, who came today to wave palms and celebrate the joyful arrival of Jesus, you may feel as though the celebration was too brief. That it turned too quickly.
But this is the truth of life, isn’t it?
One moment, there is praise.
The next, silence.
One moment, joy.
The next, sorrow.
And still,…He comes. He shows up.

I believe Jesus rode into Jerusalem on that Sunday, humble and received with joy. And by Friday, He was lifted up on a cross. In His final moments, He called upon His Father, and He died.
This is the mystery we wrestle with. The tension we carry. The distance we feel.
And yet, even there, He remains. He shows up.
So we are left with the question:
On a Sunday, we cried aloud His name…
But by Friday, will we still be there,
when we see Him walk the path of shame?