Can you give me a title for this Palm Sunday sermon: Tommy Cooper once told a joke: a man rings the swimming pool and asks, “Is that my local swimming pool?” The receptionist replies, “It depends where you’re phoning from.”
It’s a silly line, but it reminds us how easily people see things differently, how quickly we make judgements without knowing the full story, or worse, by inventing the story we want. Palm Sunday is full of that very human tendency. Crowds flock to Jesus as he enters Jerusalem. John’s Gospel places this moment just after the raising of Lazarus, so excitement is at fever pitch.
People have heard the stories - this miracle worker, this teacher with authority, this man who can even call the dead back to life. Surely this is the king they’ve been waiting for. Surely this is the one who will free them from Rome and restore Israel’s glory. They had already decided what they wanted Jesus to be. They had shaped him in their own image, created their own expectations, and whipped themselves into an emotional frenzy. When they heard he was coming, they grabbed palm branches and ran to meet him. If he could raise Lazarus, then surely he could overthrow Rome. Their minds were made up.
But in the background, other groups were watching. The Pharisees and religious authorities saw Jesus as a threat to their influence and stability. They had no interest in a popular preacher stirring up the crowds. And the Romans, for their part, simply wanted peace.
They had an uneasy but workable relationship with the Jewish leaders, and anything that threatened that balance needed to be dealt with swiftly. So Jesus enters Jerusalem to cheers and celebration. The crowds believe everything is about to change - and they’re right, but not in the way they imagine.
Within days, the same Jesus they hailed as king is condemned as a criminal. The same voices that shouted “Hosanna” now cry “Crucify him.” How did it happen so quickly? Part of the answer lies in the nature of human expectation.
When we want something badly enough, we can convince ourselves that God must want it too. We project our hopes onto Jesus, and when he doesn’t behave as we expect, we feel disappointed, even betrayed. The crowds wanted a king who would ride in on a war horse, sword raised, ready to defeat their enemies.
Instead, they got a man on a donkey, gentle, humble, and determined to bring peace rather than war. The Romans who carried out the execution. Pilate, the governor, authorised it. He didn’t think Jesus was particularly dangerous, but he cared more about keeping the peace than seeking the truth.
His attitude was one of indifference: if killing Jesus kept the crowds quiet and the Jewish leaders satisfied, then so be it. Peace at any price. The Pharisees and religious authorities acted out of fear and self‑preservation. They saw Jesus as a direct threat to their authority and their interpretation of the law. Their opposition was not subtle or hidden; it was open, determined, and relentless. They wanted him gone, and they made no secret of it. And then there were the crowds.
These were the same people who had welcomed Jesus with such enthusiasm. They had convinced themselves that Jesus was the Messiah they wanted: a political liberator, a national hero, a king who would make their lives easier. They ignored the scriptures that spoke of a suffering servant, a humble king riding on a donkey, a Messiah who would save not by force but by sacrifice. Jesus had already answered their expectations by choosing a donkey, not a war horse.
He came as a king of peace, not a military leader. But the people saw only what they wanted to see. When Jesus failed to meet their expectations, they turned on him with astonishing speed.
So who was most guilty? The Romans, with their indifference? The Pharisees, with their hostility? Or the people, with their fickleness? All played their part. But perhaps the people bear the heaviest burden - they used Jesus for their own ends, and when he didn’t fit their agenda, they cast him aside. Christians have always acknowledged our share of responsibility for Jesus’ death. We say, “He died for our sins,” but sometimes the words become so familiar that they lose their weight.
We forget that this was real - that Jesus suffered and died because of human choices, human failures, human sin. So how guilty should we feel? Certainly, not paralysed by guilt. Jesus does not want us crushed by shame. But in another sense, we should recognise ourselves in the story.
Like the Romans, we can be indifferent, choosing the easy path, going along with the crowd, avoiding the cost of discipleship. It’s not that we set out to oppose Jesus; we simply drift, we get busy, we let other priorities take over. Indifference is rarely dramatic, but it is powerful. It can quietly shape our lives without us noticing. Like the Pharisees, we can cling to power, comfort, or tradition - using rules to protect our own position rather than to serve God’s purposes. We can become anxious about change, defensive about our way of doing things, suspicious of anything that challenges our assumptions. The Pharisees weren’t evil; they were frightened. And fear can make us do strange things. And like the crowds, we can be fickle, sometimes turning to God only when it suits us, shaping Jesus into the saviour we want rather than the Saviour he is.
We can even try to claim God’s support for our own agendas, forgetting that God is not ours to manipulate. We want Jesus who blesses our plans, not who asks us to take up our cross.
So yes, we share in the guilt of Holy Week. Through our actions and inactions, we still hammer the nails. But Jesus does not ask us to wallow in guilt. What he wants is something far deeper: our love, our trust, our willingness to follow him. He wants us to pray more, to listen more, to read the Bible with open hearts. He wants us to enjoy the relationship he offers, a relationship built not on fear but on grace. He wants us to discover that following him is not a burden but a joy, not a duty but a gift.
Palm Sunday and Holy Week invite us to reflect honestly on our part in the story. But they also lead us towards hope. We know how the story ends. The cross is not the final word. Easter morning breaks through the darkness with new life, new beginnings, new possibilities.
Holy Week asks us to consider how we are serving Jesus, how we are deepening our relationship with him, and how we are helping others to discover his love. It invites us to walk with Jesus, not just to the gates of Jerusalem, but to the foot of the cross and beyond, into the joy of resurrection.
And perhaps most importantly, Holy Week reminds us that Jesus knew exactly what he was doing. He entered Jerusalem fully aware of what awaited him. He chose the donkey. He chose the path of peace. He chose the cross. He chose us. Not because we deserved it, not because we understood him, but because his love is deeper than our failures and stronger than our sin.
May this Holy Week be meaningful for each of us. May it open our hearts to the depth of Christ’s love. And may we emerge on Easter Day ready to follow more closely and to lead others toward our risen Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen
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