Palm Sunday Once Again

I’ve been writing these weekly reflections for over four years now, and every Palm Sunday, I seem to reflect on the same truth: this is my least favorite Sunday of the Church year. That hasn’t changed. But instead of wandering into a safer, related topic, I want to confront it directly this year. In prayer, I’ve been asking myself, Why does this day unsettle me so much? What is it in it that irritates me? Maybe God is trying to teach me something I keep avoiding.

I don’t like Palm Sunday because of the crowd’s fickleness. And yes, I know it was probably not the same crowd that gathered on Palm Sunday as the one that gathered on Good Friday.  But, where were they on Friday? Were they really silent?

It is painful to hear the Passion and watch how quickly loyalty evaporates. Jesus is hailed as King on Sunday and killed on Friday. Intellectually, I understand the disappointment of the people. Many expected a king who would gather an army and overthrow the Romans. On Palm Sunday, they believed they were ushering in a new era of power and freedom. By Friday, some realized the kingdom they longed for wasn’t coming in the way they imagined. They felt duped.

How little they understood, and how easy it is for me/us, two thousand years later, to judge them. What seems like disloyalty might have been heartbreak. Jesus not becoming the king they dreamed of — the king they were willing to die for — must have been devastating.

Maybe Palm Sunday is God’s invitation to release our own expectations of Him. Through the life and death of His Son, God shows us the limits of our understanding and the depths of His love even today. Palm Sunday calls us to openness. It urges us to let God be God, not the version we try to shape. Jesus knew the limits of the crowd’s vision. This day reminds us that God works in God’s way, not according to our plans.

Another reason I find Palm Sunday difficult is that I dislike reading the Passion in dialogue form during Mass. I don’t enjoy taking on the role of the “crowd.” I prefer not to hear my own voice say, “Give us Barabbas,” “We have no king but Caesar,” or “Crucify Him.” I don’t want those words to be mine.

But as Lent comes to an end, maybe I need to hear them. I want to believe I wouldn’t have shouted for Jesus’ death. Yet, what better time to examine my own choices? When do I choose temporary comfort over Christ? When do I stay silent in the face of judgment or cruelty, and by my silence, echo the crowd’s cry for Barabbas? I want to think I always stand with Jesus. But sometimes I choose the easier path. Sometimes I avoid conflict and don’t speak up for the Lord. And my silence speaks loudly. My silence says, “Crucify Him!”

So yes, I want to avoid Palm Sunday. I want to steer clear of seeing how fragile my faith can be — even with two thousand years of knowing and understanding the wonder of God that was incarnate in Jesus.  The crowd didn’t have that understanding.

It’s difficult to face our weaknesses, especially when they are hidden in silence. Silence allows evil to thrive.  

But I need Palm Sunday. I need to stand in that crowd, uncomfortable as it is, because only then can I hear the full power of Jesus’ words spoken from the cross. Only then can I recognize that His mercy reaches even those who failed Him. Only then can I hear those words spoken not just to the people of His time, but to me:

“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

In God’s Unending Love,
Gwen Coté