John 12.12-27
John 19.16b–22
Palm Sunday is noisy.
The story tells us of branches
waving in the air.
Crowds pressing in from every
side.
And pilgrims pouring into Jerusalem for the Passover festival.
The city is already full before
Jesus even arrives.
Every year people travelled
from across the region for Passover,
remembering the great story of
liberation,
the story of how God had
brought Israel out of slavery in Egypt.
It was a festival charged with
memory and hope.
The streets would have been
thick with people,
traders, animals,
pilgrims, and of course soldiers.
Rome always reinforced its
military presence during the festival,
just in case national memory
stirred national resistance.
And into that tense and crowded
city comes Jesus.
And suddenly the noise grows
louder.
People take palm branches and
wave them.
They spread their cloaks on
the road.
And they begin to shout:
“Hosanna!
Blessed is the one who comes
in the name of the Lord!
Blessed is the King of
Israel!”
It feels like a victory parade
for a popular all-conquering military leader.
And the energy of the moment is
contagious.
Something is happening.
Someone important has arrived.
And so the crowd recognises
Jesus, the teacher from Galilee
who has been healing the sick,
feeding the hungry,
and raising hope among
ordinary people.
Just a few days earlier he has
raised Lazarus from the dead,
and the story of that miracle
has spread like wildfire.
So when Jesus approaches
Jerusalem,
the crowd pours out to meet
him.
And they welcome him like a king.
The Palm branches they wave were
not random objects.
They carried meaning.
In the ancient world palms were associated with victory and celebration.
They had been used before in
Jewish history
to celebrate moments of
national liberation.
To wave palm branches was to
remember past victories and to long for new ones.
And so the crowd shouts,
“Hosanna!”
The word means something like
“Save us!”
It is a cry for deliverance. A
plea for God to act.
But it is also a shout of
praise.
A declaration that help has
arrived.
From the perspective of the
crowd, this is the beginning of something big.
The long-awaited moment may
finally have come.
The messiah is here.
The king has arrived.
But John, who tells this story,
invites us to see something deeper.
Because he does something
quite striking
with the way he tells the
story of Jesus.
John refuses to let us read
Palm Sunday on its own.
Instead he juxtaposes it with
another scene described later in the gospel.
A darker one. A quieter one.
A scene that takes place only
a few chapters later.
In that scene Jesus is no
longer riding into the city while crowds cheer.
Instead he is walking out of
the city carrying a cross.
The same city that shouted
“Hosanna”
now echoes with very different
sounds:
the clatter of soldiers, the murmur of a crowd watching an execution,
the hammering of nails.
Above Jesus’ head is a sign.
“Jesus of Nazareth, King of
the Jews.”
John tells us that the sign was
written in three languages.
Hebrew, Latin, and Greek.
The languages of religion,
empire, and culture.
In other words, the whole world could read it.
The king who was welcomed with
palm branches is now lifted up on a cross.
And John wants us to see that
these two scenes belong together.
The parade and the execution
are part of the same story.
In fact, in John’s Gospel the
cross is not the defeat of Jesus’ kingship.
It is the revelation of what
his kingship really means.
Palm Sunday therefore asks us a
question.
What kind of king is this?
Because the crowd that day thought they already knew the answer.
Israel at that time lived under
Roman occupation.
Rome ruled the region through
military power and political control.
Roman soldiers were everywhere.
Roman governors imposed taxes
and maintained order.
The empire projected strength and demanded loyalty.
For many people in Israel this
was deeply painful.
Their scriptures spoke of
freedom,
of God’s covenant with their
people,
of a future where justice and
peace would flourish.
But their daily reality was one of foreign domination.
So it is not surprising that
many longed for a messiah who would change that situation.
A king like David.
A leader who would restore
Israel’s independence and dignity.
Someone who would overthrow
the empire and bring national renewal.
Against that background, the
scene on Palm Sunday begins to make sense.
The crowd sees Jesus and hopes
he might be the one.
He has authority. He speaks
with power.
People gather around him
wherever he goes.
Stories of miracles follow him from village to village.
And now he approaches
Jerusalem
at the height of the national
festival of liberation.
If ever there was a moment for
history to turn, this would be it.
So the crowd waves their
branches and shouts their hopes into the air.
Hosanna. Save us.
Bring freedom again.
They are welcoming a king.
But the problem is that they
are welcoming
the kind of king they already
understand.
A king who will defeat their
enemies.
A king who will restore
national power.
A king who will bring glory
back to Israel.
In other words, a king like
the kings of the nations.
But Jesus refuses that role.
And John tells us something
small, almost easy to overlook.
Jesus finds a donkey and sits
on it.
Not a horse but a donkey.
At first glance that might seem
like an odd detail,
but in the ancient world it
mattered.
Warriors rode horses. Generals rode horses. Conquering kings rode horses.
A horse symbolised military
power. Speed and strength.
The ability to dominate the
battlefield.
But a donkey told a different
story.
In the traditions of Israel, a
king who arrived in peace rode a donkey.
It was still a royal animal,
but it symbolised humility rather than conquest.
So Jesus rides into Jerusalem
in a way that quietly redefines kingship.
Yes, he enters the city like a
king.
But he does so without
military display,
without armed
supporters,
without the
symbols of imperial power.
He comes in humility and vulnerability.
It is already a gentle but
unmistakable challenge to the logic of empire.
Because empire operates
through domination, through coercion,
through the threat
of violence.
Empires secure peace by
demonstrating
that they are
strong enough to crush opposition.
But Jesus arrives without any
of those tools.
And almost immediately after
entering the city, he says something strange.
“The hour has come for the Son
of Man to be glorified.”
That sentence might sound
triumphant, but what follows is surprising.
Jesus does not speak about
victory over Rome.
He speaks about a seed.
“Unless a grain of wheat falls
into the earth and dies,
it remains just a single
grain.
But if it dies, it bears much fruit.”
It is an image from the natural
world.
Something simple that farmers
understood well.
Seeds must be buried before
they can grow.
Life comes through a process
that looks like loss.
And Jesus says that this is how
his kingdom works.
The kingdom of God does not
grow through domination.
It grows through self-giving
love.
The path to life runs through
the cross.
Which is why Palm Sunday
cannot be separated from Good Friday.
The crowd shouts “Hosanna!”
But a few days later Pilate
writes the inscription:
“Jesus of Nazareth, King of
the Jews.”
Pilate intends it as mockery.
A warning to anyone who might
challenge Roman authority.
This is what happens to kings
who oppose the empire.
But John hears something else
in those words.
Without realising it, Pilate
has told the truth.
Because the cross becomes the strange throne of Christ.
What looks like defeat becomes
the revelation of God’s glory.
And this is where the story
becomes quietly,
but unmistakably, politically
subversive.
Because Rome believed it
understood power.
Power looked like legions
marching in disciplined ranks.
Power looked like governors
issuing orders backed by military force.
Power looked like authority
enforced through domination and fear.
The Roman Empire ruled a vast
territory stretching across continents.
It maintained peace, but it
was a peace secured by overwhelming strength.
Everyone knew what happened to those who resisted.
Crucifixion itself was part of
the system.
It was not just a method of execution.
It was a public display of
imperial power.
Crucifixions happened along
roadsides, outside city gates,
where everyone could see them.
They were meant to send a message.
This is what happens to those
who challenge the empire.
This is what happens to those
who claim another king.
So when Jesus is crucified
under the title “King of the Jews”,
Rome believes it is making a
point.
The empire believes it is demonstrating its power.
But John’s Gospel invites us to
see something very different.
Because the cross does not
actually confirm the strength of empire.
It exposes its emptiness.
Rome can take life.
Rome can inflict suffering.
Rome can silence a voice that
challenges it.
But Rome cannot create life.
It cannot generate love.
It cannot produce justice or
reconciliation.
It can dominate,
but it cannot heal the world.
And so the cross reveals
something profound about the kingdom of Jesus.
The true king is not the one
who takes life.
The true king is the one who
gives it.
Jesus does not overthrow Rome
with violence.
He does not summon an army or
call down fire from heaven.
He does not seize the
machinery of power.
Instead he reveals an entirely
different way of being human together.
A kingdom shaped not by
domination but by humility.
Not by coercion but by
service.
Not by fear but by sacrificial
love.
This is the anti-imperial heart
of the gospel story.
Because the kingdom of God is
not simply a new version
of the old power
structures.
It is not the same system with
a different ruler at the top.
It is a completely different kind of kingdom.
And that is where Palm Sunday
begins to confront us personally.
Because the crowd that day had
expectations.
They wanted Jesus to fulfil
their hopes.
They wanted him to act in ways
that made sense to them.
They wanted him to become the
king they thought they needed.
But Jesus refused.
He refused their script.
He refused their expectations.
He refused the temptation to
become a messiah
of military
victory or political domination.
And the same question that
faced the crowd now faces us.
What kind of king do we want
Jesus to be?
It is a question we do not
always ask ourselves honestly.
Sometimes we want a king who
guarantees our success.
A king who makes our plans
work out.
A king who protects our
comfort and secures our future.
Sometimes we want a king who
supports our politics.
A king who validates our
worldview.
A king who stands firmly on
our side of whatever argument
happens to be dominating the headlines.
Sometimes, if we are honest, we
want a king who defeats our enemies.
A king who proves that we were
right all along.
But the Jesus who rides into
Jerusalem on a donkey does not offer us any of those things.
Instead he walks steadily
toward a cross.
And he invites us to follow.
Which is why, in the middle of
this story,
Jesus says something that
sounds deeply uncomfortable.
“Those who love their life lose
it.”
That is not the kind of
sentence that wins applause.
It runs completely against the
instincts that shape most of our lives.
Because the world we inhabit constantly tells us something different.
Protect yourself.
Secure your position.
Build your reputation.
Win, if you can.
Our culture often assumes that
the goal of life
is to accumulate as much
success, security, and influence as possible.
And if that means competing with others,
outmanoeuvring them, or
leaving them behind, then so be it.
But Jesus tells a different
story:
Those who cling to their life
lose it.
Those who give their life
discover something deeper.
This is the paradox at the
centre of the gospel.
The seed must fall into the
earth before it bears fruit.
Life emerges through
self-giving love.
And that may look like
weakness to the world.
Empires always think it does.
But in the long run it is the
deeper power that transforms history.
The Roman Empire once seemed
unstoppable.
Its armies dominated the
ancient world.
Its authority stretched across
vast territories.
Yet today the empire exists only in ruins and textbooks.
But the story of Jesus
continues.
Because the power of
self-giving love
does something
that domination never can.
It creates new life.
It builds
communities.
It restores
dignity and hope.
Which brings us back to Palm
Sunday
and the decision it quietly
asks us to make.
Not just whether we will wave
the branches.
But whether we will walk the
road that follows.
It is easy to join the cheering
crowd.
It is easy to shout “Hosanna”
when the parade is passing through the city streets.
But the road of discipleship
leads beyond the parade.
It leads toward the cross.
And following Jesus along that
road reshapes the life of the church.
Because if the kingdom of God
really is an anti-imperial kingdom,
then the church is called to
embody that kingdom in the way we live together.
We are called to become
communities where justice matters more than power.
Communities where
reconciliation matters more than victory.
Communities that refuse the
logic of domination
that so often
shapes the wider world.
But that is not always easy.
We live in a culture obsessed
with prestige, achievement, and winning.
We are constantly encouraged
to measure success
in terms of visibility,
influence, and control.
But the kingdom of Jesus
invites us into something quieter and deeper.
A life shaped by service.
A life attentive to the
dignity of those who are overlooked.
A life that trusts that love,
even when it looks fragile, is stronger than violence.
And so we come back, finally,
to the cry that began this whole story.
Hosanna.
Save us.
The crowd shouted those words
because they longed for deliverance.
And Jesus does save.
But not in the way the crowd
expected.
He does not save by conquering
enemies.
He saves by exposing the
violence of empire and overcoming it with love.
He saves by showing us a
different way to be human.
A way grounded not in domination but in self-giving life.
Which is why today we join the
ancient crowd
in welcoming the king who
comes in the name of the Lord.
But we also know something the
crowd did not yet understand.
We know where this road leads.
From the cheering crowds of
Palm Sunday
to the shadowed hill of Good
Friday.
And yet, in the strange wisdom
of God,
that is where the true
kingship of Christ is revealed.
The king we welcome today
reigns from a cross.
And the kingdom he brings
grows quietly, like a seed in the earth.
Hidden at first.
Unnoticed by empires.
But alive.
And that kingdom, quietly and
stubbornly,
is still coming among us.
Hosanna. Hallelujah. Amen.
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