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A Journey of Hosannas and Silence: Reflecting on Palm Sunday 2025
April 13, 2025, marks Palm Sunday, the gateway into Holy Week, a day both triumphant and heavy with the weight of what’s to come. As I sit with the Catholic readings for Year C today, I’m struck by the paradox they present: a king riding humbly on a colt, greeted with shouts of joy, only to face betrayal, suffering, and a cross. These scriptures—Luke’s account of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, Isaiah’s suffering servant, Paul’s hymn of Christ’s humility, and the long, vivid Passion narrative—invite us to walk with Jesus, to feel the dust of the road, to hear the cries of “Hosanna,” and to stand in the shadow of Golgotha.
The day begins with Luke 19:28-40, where Jesus approaches Jerusalem. He sends his disciples to fetch a colt, fulfilling prophecy with quiet intention. The crowd erupts, spreading cloaks and waving branches, shouting, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” It’s a moment of jubilation, a fleeting recognition of who Jesus is. Yet, even here, there’s tension. The Pharisees demand silence, but Jesus replies, “If they keep silent, the stones will cry out.” I wonder—what would I have done in that crowd? Would I have joined the song, or stood aside, skeptical and silent? Today, I feel challenged to raise my voice, to proclaim Jesus as king, even when the world prefers quiet conformity.
Then comes Isaiah 50:4-7, the voice of the suffering servant. “The Lord God has given me a well-trained tongue,” it begins, and I’m drawn to the image of someone who speaks truth with gentleness, who listens to God each morning. But this servant also suffers: “I gave my back to those who beat me, my cheeks to those who plucked my beard.” There’s no flinching here, no turning away. “The Lord God is my help,” the servant declares, and I see Jesus in these words—resolute, trusting, even as the path darkens. It makes me pause. How often do I shy away from difficulty, when Jesus walked straight into it, sustained by faith?
Psalm 22 echoes this tension. “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”—words Jesus will cry from the cross. The psalmist is mocked, surrounded, pierced, yet ends with hope: “I will proclaim your name to my brethren.” It’s a rollercoaster of despair and trust, mirroring the Passion itself. Reading this, I feel the sting of my own moments of abandonment, the times I’ve wondered where God is. Yet, Palm Sunday reminds me that Jesus entered those depths too, and somehow, praise still rises from the ashes.
Paul’s words in Philippians 2:6-11 lift my gaze. Jesus, “though he was in the form of God,” emptied himself, taking on humanity, humbling himself to death on a cross. Because of this, “every knee should bend” and “every tongue confess” his lordship. This is the heart of Palm Sunday: a king who reigns not through power, but through self-giving love. It’s a call to me—to let go of pride, to serve, to bend my knee not out of obligation, but awe. How often do I cling to control, when Jesus shows that true strength lies in surrender?
Finally, the Passion in Luke 22:14-23:56 unfolds like a slow, aching drumbeat. From the Last Supper to the cross, every detail pierces: Judas’ betrayal, Peter’s denial, the crowd’s shift from “Hosanna” to “Crucify him!” Jesus stands silent before Pilate, prays in agony at Gethsemane, and forgives even as nails pierce his hands. “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do,” he says, and I’m undone. The centurion’s words—“This man was innocent”—ring out as a quiet verdict over the chaos. Where am I in this story? Am I the disciple who flees, the bystander who watches, or the one who dares to stay near the cross?
Palm Sunday 2025 feels like an invitation to walk this road anew. It’s not just a commemoration; it’s a question. Jesus enters Jerusalem—and my life—humbly, purposefully, asking me to follow. The palms I wave today will become ashes next year, a reminder that triumph and sacrifice are intertwined. As Holy Week begins, I want to linger here, to listen to the stones crying out, to let my heart echo both “Hosanna” and “Father, forgive.” Because in Jesus, the servant, the king, the crucified one, I find a love that doesn’t flinch—a love that carries me through every crowd, every silence, every cross.\
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