PALM PASSION SUNDAY REFLECTION 29TH MARCH 2026 

By Rev Dr Fei Taule’ale’ausumai 

Psalm 118 and Matthew 21 

The movie that Ben Gray invited us to attend last Thursday The Doctor’s Wife is a remarkable story of compassion, love and dedication.  It is the story of Dr Alan and Hazel Kerr and their lifelong commitment to the people of Palestine in the Gaza strip.  You see in the faces of Alan and Hazel and in the faces of those who live there the face of Jesus.  This is the context in which todays Palm Sunday procession and narrative occurred.  This film is about Jesus incarnate in the world today and it is a call and a challenge for us rethink our concept of what Peace is, to rethink what is important in our lives today.   

The opening words from Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29 “O give thanks to God, for God is good; God’s steadfast love endures forever.” set the tone for a song of praise that would have been familiar to pilgrims making their way into Jerusalem. It is a psalm filled with hope and expectation, a liturgical procession of people longing for deliverance, crying out for salvation, and declaring, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” These are not simply words of celebration; they are words charged with deep political and spiritual meaning. They arise from a people who know what it is to live under oppression and who dare to hope that God is still at work in their midst. 

When we turn to Matthew 21:1-11, we see this psalm embodied in a moment that is both celebratory and deeply subversive. Jesus enters Jerusalem, and the crowd responds with the language of Psalm 118. Cloaks are spread on the road, branches are cut and waved, and voices rise in unison: “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” The word “Hosanna” itself means “Save us,” and so this is not merely praise, it is a plea. The people are not just welcoming Jesus; they are placing their hopes in him. They are longing for liberation, for transformation, for a change in the systems that shape their lives. 

Yet what they expect and what Jesus brings are not quite the same. To fully grasp the depth of this moment, we must imagine the wider context of Jerusalem at Passover. The city is crowded, filled with pilgrims who have come to remember liberation from Egypt. It is a politically charged environment, one that the Roman authorities monitor carefully. And so, from one side of the city, the Roman governor enters with a visible display of imperial power—soldiers, horses, armour, and spectacle. It is a procession designed to communicate control, to remind the people who is in charge, and to discourage any thoughts of resistance. 

From the other side comes Jesus. There are no soldiers, no weapons, no show of force. Instead, there is a borrowed donkey, a small group of followers, and a crowd of ordinary people. It is a stark contrast, almost absurd in its simplicity, and yet profoundly intentional. This is not just an entrance; it is a statement. It is a living, embodied critique of empire. In this moment, Jesus presents an alternative vision of power—one that is not rooted in domination or fear, but in humility, justice, and peace. 

The crowd, perhaps without fully realising it, gives voice to a deeper truth when they echo the psalm: “The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.” These words, sung in hope, will take on new meaning in the days ahead. For Jesus does not conform to the expectations placed upon him. He does not seize power or overthrow Rome. Instead, he becomes the rejected stone, exposing the limitations and illusions of systems built on control and exclusion. What appears weak in the eyes of the world becomes the very foundation of something new. 

Palm Sunday reveals something unsettling yet profoundly hopeful: much of what we call power is fragile. Empires rely on spectacle, on fear, on the perception of invincibility. They depend on people believing that there is no alternative. But Jesus’ procession quietly dismantles that illusion. He reveals a different kind of power one that does not coerce, but invites; one that does not dominate, but restores; one that does not exclude, but gathers people in. 

This is not merely a story of the past. The same patterns of power continue to shape our world today. We see leaders who project strength through control and division, systems that prioritise profit over people, and societies that measure success by dominance rather than dignity. The forms may have changed, but the dynamics remain. And so Palm Sunday asks us a deeply personal and communal question: which vision of power are we aligning ourselves with? 

The cry of “Hosanna” still echoes in our world. It rises from places of conflict, from communities facing injustice, from those who are marginalised and silenced. “Save us” is not just a biblical cry; it is a contemporary one. It speaks to the realities of war, inequality, and exclusion. And yet, as in Jerusalem, the response of Jesus challenges our expectations. He does not offer quick fixes or easy solutions. He does not impose change from above. Instead, he invites transformation that begins within people and communities, calling us to participate in the work of justice and peace. 

There is also a sobering truth at the heart of this story. The same crowd that shouts “Hosanna” will soon cry out, “Crucify.” This shift reminds us how fragile human allegiance can be, how easily hope can turn into disappointment when expectations are not met. It is tempting to distance ourselves from that crowd, but if we are honest, we recognise something of ourselves in them. We, too, long for justice, but often on our own terms. We desire peace, but without disruption. We seek transformation, but without cost. When the path becomes difficult, it is easy to turn away. 

Palm Sunday, therefore, is not simply a moment of celebration; it is a moment of decision. It confronts us with two processions, two ways of being in the world. One is the way of domination, control, and fear. The other is the way of humility, compassion, and justice. To follow Jesus is to choose the latter, even when it is not the easiest path. It is to commit ourselves to standing with the vulnerable, to speaking truth in the face of power, and to working for a peace that is rooted in justice. 

If Palm Sunday speaks into our contemporary context, it does so as a call to reimagine the world we are building. Peace is not simply the absence of conflict; it is the presence of justice. It requires us to ask difficult questions about who is being heard, who is being excluded, and how our systems either sustain or diminish life. Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem embodies a vision of peace that is active, transformative, and inclusive. It is a peace that lifts up rather than tears down, that heals rather than harms. 

As the psalm declares, “This is the day that God has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Yet this rejoicing is not naïve. It is a rejoicing that recognises the cost of discipleship, the challenges of justice, and the reality of suffering. It is a rejoicing grounded in the conviction that God’s steadfast love endures, even in the face of rejection and loss. It is a rejoicing that looks beyond the immediate moment toward the hope of transformation and new life. 

So today, as we wave our palms and join in the ancient cry of “Hosanna,” we are invited to do more than remember a story. We are invited to choose a way of life. We are invited to follow the one who comes in the name of God, not by seeking power over others, but by embodying justice, humility, and peace. In doing so, we participate in the unfolding of God’s vision for the world.  A vision where the rejected becomes the cornerstone, where love overcomes fear, and where peace is made possible through justice. 

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord. And blessed are we when we choose to follow. 

Amen. 

Audio of selected readings and reflections

Audio of the complete service