Lenten Reflection – Day 42 of the Great Lent
Palm Sunday – The Sunday of Hosannas
The King Who Chose a Donkey: St. Mark 11:1–18
“Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the kingdom of our father David that is coming! Hosanna in the highest!” (11:9–10)
Yesterday Lazarus walked out of a tomb. Four days dead. Burial cloths still on. The voice of Christ louder than death. “Come forth.” And the dead man obeyed.
Today the same voice enters Jerusalem. Not on a war horse. Not in a chariot. Not with the trappings of the kingdom the crowds are expecting. On a donkey. A borrowed donkey. A colt that has never been ridden. And the city erupts.
Palm Sunday. The Sunday of Hosannas. Oshana Sunday. The day the Church waves branches and sings and processes and blesses the four corners of the world with olive and palm. The day that feels like a celebration. And is, in fact, the first step of the Passion.
The Sugitho hymn that opens the song of procession asks the question the whole day is built on:
“Who has made me to ascend the hills of Jerusalem?”
Who brought us here? To this Sunday. To this procession. To this moment between the fast and the Cross. Forty-one days of fasting, praying, confessing, stretching, climbing, walking toward pools in the dark, being shaped on the potter’s wheel, discovering the Spirit who prays when we cannot. All of it has been walking us toward this hill. The hill of Jerusalem. The hill where the hosannas ring. And the hill where, by Friday, the hosannas will be replaced by something else entirely.
The Colt That Had Never Been Ridden (vv. 1–6)
“And when they came near to Jerusalem, towards Bethphage and Bethany at the Mount of Olives, He sent two of His disciples, and He said to them, ‘Go to the village ahead of us; and as soon as you enter it, you will find a colt tied up, on which no man of the sons of men has ever ridden; untie it and bring it.'” (11:1–2)
Christ plans His entry. This is not spontaneous. He does not stumble into Jerusalem and happen to find a donkey. He sends disciples ahead. He knows where the colt is. He knows it is tied. He knows no one has ever ridden it. He gives specific instructions. The entry into Jerusalem is the most deliberately orchestrated event in the Gospel of Mark.
And the vehicle He chooses is a donkey.
The Sedro prayer for Palm Sunday explains why:
“Before His redemptive passion He asked for a dumb colt to ride upon, and it symbolized the people who were redeemed from the deception of evil spirits.”
The colt is a symbol. It represents the nations. The peoples who had never carried a king. Who had never been ridden by God. Who were tied up, bound, waiting for someone to untie them. And Christ sent His disciples to untie them. “Untie it and bring it.” The loosing of the colt is the loosing of the peoples. The same verb we met on Day 28 when Christ “loosed” the bent woman from her bondage.
The Bo’utho of Mor Jacob of Sarug, sung during the Palm Sunday service, adds:
“He loathed ornate chariots of the nobility, and instead chose a colt in His humility.”
The King of the universe had options. Every chariot in the Roman Empire was available to the One who made the iron and the wood and the horses that pull them. He chose a donkey. Not because a donkey was all He could get. Because the donkey said what a chariot could not say. I am not that kind of king. My kingdom does not arrive on war horses. My power does not need golden wheels. My authority is demonstrated not by what carries Me but by how I choose to be carried.
On Day 25, the rich young ruler could not release his wealth. On Day 36, Zacchaeus gave half of everything away. Today Christ demonstrates the ultimate release. He is the Lord of all. And He arrives on a borrowed donkey. The King who possesses everything (Day 39: “having nothing, possessing all things”) chooses to arrive possessing nothing. Not even the animal He rides.
St. Ephrem the Syrian, in his Commentary on the Diatessaron, writes that the untying of the colt is the beginning of the Passion. The colt that was tied and is now freed is humanity. Tied to sin. Tied to death. Tied to the post of the Fall. And Christ sends His word: untie it. Bring it to Me. I will ride upon it. I will enter the city on its back. The thing that was bound becomes the vehicle of the King. The thing that was useless becomes the instrument of salvation.1
They Spread Their Garments (vv. 7–8)
“And they brought the colt to Jesus, and they put their garments on it, and Jesus rode on it. And many spread their garments on the road; and others cut down branches from the trees, and spread them on the road.” (11:7–8)
The disciples put their cloaks on the donkey. The crowd puts their cloaks on the road. Others cut branches and lay them down.
The garments on the road are not decoration. They are enthronement. In the Old Testament, when Jehu was anointed king, the people immediately took their garments and spread them under him on the bare steps (2 Kings 9:13). The crowd is performing a coronation. They are making a royal carpet. They are treating the road from the Mount of Olives to Jerusalem as the aisle of a throne room.
The branches are the same. Palm branches were symbols of victory. They were waved at the re-dedication of the Temple under Judas Maccabeus (1 Maccabees 13:51). They were the flags of a liberated nation. The crowd is saying: the Liberator has arrived. The new Maccabeus is here. The kingdom is being restored.
But the Qolo hymn sung during the Palm Sunday service tells a different story about the branches. A story the Gospels do not record but the Syriac tradition preserves:
“Elders told the children to take stones and go out to receive the One who comes riding on a colt. They went with stones, but when they saw Him coming down from the Mount of Olives, they dropped their stones and instead took up palm branches.”
Stones. The elders sent the children out with stones. To stone Him. To reject Him. To treat Him the way Israel had treated the prophets. The religious establishment had already decided: this man is dangerous. Stop Him.
But the children, when they saw Christ descending the Mount of Olives on a donkey, dropped the stones. The weapons fell from their hands. And they picked up branches instead. The instruments of death were replaced by instruments of praise. The stones that should have killed became the songs that worshipped.
This detail, preserved in the Syriac liturgical tradition, transforms the entire scene. The hosannas were not inevitable. They were a reversal. The children were sent to destroy. They chose to worship. The elders planned violence. The children performed a coronation. The stones fell. The branches rose.
The Bo’utho of Mor Jacob continues:
The elders had refused to sing
Him those praises
Yet the youth were moved with wonder
and worshipped Him.
The young paid off
the debts owed by all the elders
And the acceptable praise was
established there.
The children paid the elders’ debts. The praise the adults refused to give, the children gave. The worship the religious leaders withheld, the little ones offered. And that offering, that childlike, spontaneous, stone-dropping, branch-waving worship, was the acceptable praise. Not the calculated theology of the scribes. Not the careful ritual of the Pharisees. The unplanned, unscripted wonder of children who saw their King and could not help but sing.
Hosanna! (vv. 9–10)
“And those who were in front of Him and those who were behind were crying and saying, ‘Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the kingdom of our father David that is coming! Hosanna in the highest!'” (11:9–10)
Hosanna. Hosha na. Save us. Save now. The word is a prayer before it is a praise. It comes from Psalm 118:25–26. “Save now, I pray, O LORD… Blessed is he who comes in the name of the LORD.” The crowd is quoting the Hallel psalms. The psalms sung at Passover. The psalms that celebrate God’s deliverance. They are placing Christ inside the story of the Exodus. The new Moses. The new deliverer. Save us now.
But what are they asking to be saved from?
Rome. Occupation. Poverty. Oppression. The heavy hand of Caesar. The taxes. The soldiers. The humiliation of being a conquered people in their own land.
Christ has come to save them from something far deeper than Rome. He has come to save them from sin and death. But they do not know that yet. The hosannas are genuine. The theology behind them is incomplete. The crowd wants a political messiah. Christ is offering an eternal one. The crowd wants freedom from Rome. Christ is offering freedom from the grave.
The Eniyono hymn for Palm Sunday captures the paradox:
“The One whom cherubim carry with fear, the colt carried to Jerusalem.”
The cherubim carry God with trembling. The seraphim cover their faces in His presence. The heavenly hosts cannot look at Him directly. And a donkey carries Him into Jerusalem. The mismatch is the message. The God who is carried by terrified angels chooses to be carried by an unbroken colt. The God whom the universe cannot contain chooses to be contained by a stable animal on a dusty road.
St. John Chrysostom, in his homiletical treatment of the triumphal entry, teaches that the crowd’s hosannas were true without being complete. They were right to call Him king. They were wrong about what kind of king He would be. They were right to say “blessed is He who comes.” They were wrong about what His coming would accomplish. Chrysostom says: God accepts incomplete praise. He rides into the city on the back of imperfect understanding. He receives the hosannas even though the people shouting them do not fully know what they are saying. Because the hosannas are true. Even when the people shouting them do not understand the full truth.2
For us on Palm Sunday, this is both comfort and warning. Comfort: God accepts our imperfect praise. He receives the worship we offer even when our understanding is incomplete. He rides into our lives on the back of faith that is still growing. Warning: the crowd that shouts “hosanna” on Sunday will shout “crucify” on Friday. Incomplete understanding is dangerous. Because when the King does not meet our expectations, the praise can turn to rage in the space of five days.
The Temple (vv. 15–18)
“And they came to Jerusalem and Jesus entered into the temple of God; and He began to cast out those who were buying and selling in the temple; and He overturned the trays of the moneychangers and the stands of those who sold doves… And He taught them, saying, ‘Is it not written, my House shall be called the house of prayer for all the peoples? But you have made it a bandit’s cave.'” (11:15–17)
The entry leads to the Temple. The coronation leads to a confrontation. The hosannas lead to overturned tables.
Christ enters the Temple and finds commerce where worship should be. The moneychangers were converting foreign currency into Temple currency (at a profit). The dove-sellers were providing sacrificial animals for the poor (at a markup). The system was not illegal. It was exploitative. The poorest worshippers paid the highest prices. The house of prayer had become a marketplace. And the marketplace was rigged against the people who needed prayer most.
“My House shall be called the house of prayer for all the peoples.”
For all the peoples. The outer court where the merchants had set up shop was the Court of the Gentiles. The only space in the Temple where non-Jews were allowed to pray. And it had been turned into a bazaar. The one space dedicated to the prayer of the nations had been converted into a commercial zone. The outsiders had been pushed out of the last place they were allowed to stand.
Christ overturns the tables. Not politely. Not with a calm theological argument. With physical force. The One who entered the city on a donkey in meekness enters the Temple with a whip in fury. The humility and the anger are not contradictory. They flow from the same love. The donkey says: I am gentle. The overturned tables say: and my gentleness has limits. When the vulnerable are exploited in the house of God, the gentle King becomes a warrior.
On Day 34, Christ asked: “Is it lawful to do good or to do evil?” Today He answers His own question. In the Temple. With overturned tables. It is lawful to do good. And sometimes doing good looks like rage.
“And the high priests and the scribes heard it, and they sought how to do away with Him.”
The hosannas triggered suspicion. The Temple confrontation sealed the decision. By Sunday evening, the plot to kill Jesus is in motion. The entry that looked like a triumph was the trigger for the Passion.
The Hoothomo prayer at the end of the Palm Sunday service makes this connection explicit:
“You who are the Expectation of the righteous and the Seal of the words of the just, who by riding on a dumb colt declared Your invitation to the impure Gentiles; who by treading over the olive and palm branches granted them victory over the passions; who by the voices of the prophets who foretold of You saying, ‘Who came and will come in the name of the Lord,’ You left the hope of our resurrection at Your first and second coming.”
The entry into Jerusalem is not just about Palm Sunday. It is about two comings. The first coming: on a donkey, in humility, toward the Cross. The second coming: in glory, in majesty, toward the resurrection of the dead. The hosannas today are the rehearsal for the hosannas of the last day. And the branches we wave today are the same branches we will wave when He returns.
The Blessing of the Four Corners
The Palm Sunday service in the Indian Orthodox tradition includes a ceremony found in few other liturgical traditions. The Blessing of the Four Corners of the World. The priest turns to the East, the West, the North, and the South and blesses each direction with the branches that have been consecrated.
At each direction, the Trisagion is sung:
“Holy are You, O God! Holy are You, Almighty! Holy are You, Immortal!”
And after each Trisagion, the response:
“Hosannah in the Highest, Son of David, have mercy on us!”
East. West. North. South. The same four directions the Cross was lifted toward at Mid-Lent (Day 24). The Sleeba Aaghosham (Exaltation of the Cross) lifted the Cross to the four corners. Today the branches are blessed toward the four corners. The Cross and the branches. The wood of the Passion and the leaves of the triumph. Both directed to the whole world. Both claiming every direction.
On Day 24, the Cross said: the love of God reaches every corner of creation. Today the branches say: the kingdom of God claims every corner of creation. East. West. North. South. No direction is left unblessed. No corner of the world is outside the reach of the King who enters on a donkey.
The prayer of blessing over the branches says:
“Bless these branches and make them palms of blessings, guardians of homes, conquerors over Satan, and for the deliverance from all temptations.”
The branches are not souvenirs. They are weapons. Guardians. Conquerors. The palm that the child waves in the procession becomes the palm that guards the home from evil. The olive branch that is blessed in the church becomes the olive branch that conquers Satan. The liturgy takes the symbol and fills it with power.
St. Cyril of Alexandria, in his commentaries on the entry into Jerusalem, teaches that the branches represent the victory Christ has already won. The palm is the victory branch. It is given to the conqueror after the battle. But Christ receives the palms before the battle. Before the Cross. Before the death. Before the tomb. He accepts the victory symbols before the victory is won. Because in God’s economy, the victory is certain before the fight begins. The palms are not premature. They are prophetic. They announce the outcome before the outcome arrives.3
What Palm Sunday Means for the Fast
Palm Sunday is the most dangerous day in the Christian calendar.
Not because of what happens on Palm Sunday. Because of what happens after.
The crowd that waves branches today will demand blood on Friday. The voices that sing “hosanna” will scream “crucify.” The garments spread on the road will be gambled over at the foot of the Cross. The city that welcomed the King will execute Him.
And the terrifying truth is: the same people. Not different crowds. The same crowd. The same voices. The same hands that waved palms will be clenched in fists by Friday.
How?
Because the hosannas were conditional. The praise was based on expectations that Christ would not meet. The crowd wanted a warrior king. Christ was a suffering servant. The crowd wanted Rome overthrown. Christ would overthrow death. The crowd wanted a throne. Christ would give them a Cross.
When the King does not do what we want, the hosannas turn to curses. When the Messiah does not match our expectations, the palms become weapons.
The fast has been preparing us for this moment. For forty-one days, the fast has been stripping away our expectations of God. Our idea of how God should work. Our timeline for when God should act. Our definition of what victory looks like. The fast has been saying, day after day: God does not work the way we expect. The seed grows in secret (Day 9). The last shall be first (Day 18). The rich young ruler’s “doing” is not enough (Day 25). The unprofitable servant’s duty creates no claim (Day 26). The potter makes what the potter wants, not what the clay requests (Day 29). Having nothing is possessing everything (Day 39).
Palm Sunday tests whether the fast has worked. Can we wave the branches knowing that the King we are praising will not meet our expectations? Can we shout hosanna knowing that the salvation He brings will look like death before it looks like life? Can we celebrate the entry knowing that it leads to the Cross?
If yes, our hosannas are real. Not the conditional hosannas of the crowd that will turn on Friday. Real hosannas. The hosannas of a person who has spent forty-one days learning that God’s way is not our way. And that God’s way is better. Even when it goes through the grave.
For Our Journey Today
Wave the branch. Today, in the procession, hold the palm or the olive branch and wave it. Not as a performance. As a confession. We are declaring that the Man on the donkey is the King. That His kingdom is coming. That His way, which leads through a Cross, is the right way. Wave the branch knowing where the week leads. And wave it anyway. Because the victory the palms announce is real. Even though the battle is not yet fought.
Drop the stones. The Syriac tradition says the children were sent out with stones and dropped them when they saw Christ. Today, drop the stones. The stones of judgment. The stones of expectation. The stones of disappointment with God. The stones of anger at how the fast has gone. The stones of resentment at the people around us. Drop them. Pick up branches. Exchange the weapons for the worship.
Enter Holy Week. Palm Sunday is the gate. Behind us: forty-one days of preparation. Ahead: the most intense week in the history of the world. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. The Last Supper on Thursday. The betrayal. The trial. The scourging. The Cross on Friday. The silence of Saturday. And the morning of Sunday. We have been prepared. The fast has done its work. Now enter the week. With the branches in our hands and the hosannas on our lips. And do not let go of either. Not even on Friday.
Lord Jesus Christ, who entered Jerusalem on a donkey while the crowds waved branches and the children sang hosannas, enter our lives today. Enter on the donkey of our humility. Enter through the gate of our brokenness. Enter the temple of our hearts, even though the tables need overturning and the merchants need driving out. We wave our branches today. Not because we understand everything. Because we have spent forty-one days learning that we do not need to understand everything. We just need to wave the branch and follow the donkey. Into the city. Into the Temple. Into the week that changes everything. Hosanna. Save us. Save us now. Not from Rome. From ourselves. From the conditional hosannas that turn to curses when You do not meet our expectations. Save us from the crowd inside us that will scream “crucify” by Friday. Keep the branch in our hands. Keep the hosanna on our lips. Through Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. And into Sunday. The Sunday when the tomb is empty and the hosannas are eternal. By the prayers of the Most Holy Theotokos, and all the saints, have mercy on us and save us. Amen.
A blessed Palm Sunday. The Sunday of Hosannas. The King has entered the city. Not on a war horse. On a borrowed donkey. The children dropped their stones and picked up branches. The hosannas are ringing. And the week ahead will test whether the hosannas are real. Hold the branch. Sing the song. Follow the donkey. Into the Passion. Through the Cross. To the empty tomb.
Patristic References
- St. Ephrem the Syrian (c. 306–373). Commentary on the Diatessaron. ↩︎
- St. John Chrysostom (c. 349–407). Chrysostom’s teaching that God accepts incomplete praise and rides into the city on the back of imperfect understanding, and his warning that the crowd’s hosannas were true without being complete (right to call Him king, wrong about what kind of king), appears in his homiletical treatment of the triumphal entry across the Synoptic parallels. Edition: Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers (NPNF), Series I, Vol. 10: Homilies on the Gospel of Matthew, translated by George Prevost and M.B. Riddle (available at newadvent.org and ccel.org). ↩︎
- St. Cyril of Alexandria (c. 376–444). Commentary on the Gospel of Saint Luke, translated by R. Payne Smith (Studion Publishers, 1983; reprinted by Astir Publishing, 2009). ↩︎
