Palm Sunday & The Lords Day

They Cried “Hosanna”… Then Chose Another Way — So if Christ was welcomed one moment and rejected the next… what does that reveal about how easily truth is replaced?

There are moments in Scripture that appear, at first glance, to settle everything, where what is right seems openly recognised, where the response of the people appears to align with what has been revealed, and where the movement of events gives the impression that understanding has finally taken hold, yet when those same moments are followed through, what seemed certain begins to give way, not because the truth has changed, but because what is being revealed was never as deeply received as it first appeared.

The entry of Christ into Jerusalem stands as one of those moments, recorded plainly in the Gospel of Matthew, where Jesus comes riding upon a donkey in fulfilment of what had been spoken, and a great multitude spreads their garments in the way, cutting branches from the palm trees and laying them before Him, crying out, “Hosanna to the Son of David: Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord,” words that carry the language of prophecy and give every appearance that the people have understood what has been placed before them.

And yet, even in that moment, something is already misaligned—not in what is being said, but in what is being held—for the people are not receiving Him as He has been revealed, but as they have imagined Him to be, shaping Him into the kind of king they desire, one who would deliver them from present oppression and restore their condition, and in doing so placing upon Him a role formed not by what has been written, but by what they hope will unfold, and it is here, beneath the surface of what appears to be honour, that the fracture already exists.

Because the issue is not whether they acknowledged Him, for they did, nor whether they spoke rightly, for they did, but whether they received Him as He is, and that is where the separation lies, for when Christ moves forward He does not take hold of earthly authority, nor establish a visible kingdom according to human expectation, but instead moves toward something entirely different—toward the exposure of sin, toward the uncovering of hypocrisy, toward a kingdom not built upon outward control, but upon inward surrender—a kingdom not of this world—and because of this, what begins as praise cannot endure, not because the truth has failed, but because it has not been received on its own terms.

Within days, what was concealed becomes visible, and the same city that had been stirred in apparent recognition becomes the place where rejection is voiced openly, where the cry of “Hosanna” gives way to the demand for crucifixion, not by a different people, but by the same world that had already spoken in His favour, revealing that what had been expressed outwardly was never rooted deeply enough to withstand the moment when truth stood plainly before them.

And this is what the event reveals when it is allowed to speak for itself—not a triumph of lasting faith, but the exposure of how easily the human heart can honour what it does not truly accept, how quickly words can align with truth while the life remains untouched by it, and how readily what appears to be devotion can give way when truth no longer conforms to expectation.

Yet what is now remembered often moves in another direction, for what is commonly called Palm Sunday has become a reenactment of that moment, where branches are distributed, processions are held, and Christ is symbolically welcomed as King, framed as a celebration of honour and recognition, and yet within that practice, the central failure of the original moment is ignored, for the question is not asked as to why those who once honoured Him so openly would so quickly turn away, and so the form is repeated while the warning is removed, and what is preserved outwardly is emptied inwardly of the very thing it was meant to reveal.

Here, the promise of a kingdom prepared by God is replaced with an expectation of an earthly inheritance that Scripture does not support, and what should lead to repentance instead settles into repetition, leaving the heart unchanged while the form continues.

Because to take part in the outward act without confronting the inward condition is not to honour the moment, but to stand within it, repeating not its truth, but its error, speaking what is right while remaining unchanged where it matters most, and in doing so carrying forward the same pattern under a different name.

And what follows in the record makes this unavoidable, for as Christ moves toward the cross, the world, having revealed its expectations, now reveals its condition, and when truth no longer aligns with what is desired, it is no longer welcomed, and what was once praised becomes resisted, not because it is false, but because it does not conform to what the heart has already chosen to hold.

And yet even here, something greater is unfolding, for the cross does not represent the failure of Christ to be received, but the failure of humanity to receive Him, and what takes place there is not the loss of His mission, but the fulfilment of it, as sin is brought fully into view and the cost of redemption is made plain, not through words, but through sacrifice.

And then comes the moment that stands at the centre of all that follows—the resurrection—which is often presented as the great public victory, the moment where everything is openly reversed and recognised, and yet when the record itself is followed, particularly in the Gospel of John, what is revealed does not match what is commonly assumed, for the resurrection is not presented as a public celebration shared by the same crowd that had once cried out in praise, but as a reality revealed first to a few, quietly, deliberately, and without the widespread acknowledgment that later tradition attaches to it.

There is no gathering in the city declaring what has taken place, no collective repentance from those who had demanded His death, no immediate reversal of the earlier cry, but instead a gradual unfolding, where truth is revealed to those willing to receive it, and from there carried outward, not through spectacle, but through witness, showing clearly that what God establishes does not depend upon human recognition, nor is it validated by majority acceptance, but stands whether it is received or not.

And yet what is now commonly observed again moves in another direction, for what is called Resurrection Sunday is marked by widespread celebration, by gatherings centred on joy and victory, and in doing so it becomes possible to celebrate what Christ has done while remaining untouched by what that work calls for, to speak of victory without entering into the life that it requires, and to honour Him in word while resisting Him in truth.

And here the connection returns, because the same pattern that was revealed in the entry into Jerusalem remains wherever acknowledgment replaces surrender, wherever celebration replaces obedience, and wherever what has been established by God is set aside for what has been shaped by man, for the crowd did not reject Christ because they lacked knowledge, but because what He brought did not align with what they wanted, and the same danger remains wherever Christ is approached in a way that allows Him to be honoured without being followed.

And so the question moves beyond the moments themselves and into the nature of worship, for it is no longer only how Christ is received in a single event, but how He is honoured in the life that follows, and whether that honour is shaped by what God has established or by what has been introduced over time and accepted without being tested, for Scripture does not leave this undefined, but calls plainly:

"Thus saith the Lord, Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein…”  — Jeremiah 6:16, KJV

The call is not to what is new, nor to what is widely accepted, but to what has been given, and where that is set aside, something else takes its place, not always openly, but gradually, as what is practiced begins to reflect what has been received from tradition rather than what has been commanded by God. And this is where the warning becomes unavoidable, for what God has established is not to be altered, not in part, not in practice, not in time:

"Ye shall not add unto the word which I command you, neither shall ye diminish ought from it…”  — Deuteronomy 4:2, KJV

Because when what has been given is replaced by what has been formed, the issue is no longer one of preference, but of authority, and the question becomes whose word defines what is honoured, and in that question the pattern that began with palms reaches its full expression, for it shows that it is possible to honour Christ outwardly, to celebrate Him openly, to take part in what appears to be worship, and yet to do so in a way that is not aligned with what He has established, and in doing so to repeat the same condition that once filled the streets of Jerusalem.

And so the moment remains, not as a celebration to be repeated, but as a warning to be understood, because the issue has never been whether Christ will be acknowledged, but whether He will be received as He is, followed as He has spoken, and honoured according to what God has established rather than according to what man has formed, for the life of Christ was not given as something to be admired from a distance, nor surrounded with ritual or ceremony, but as an example to be followed, a life lived in full alignment with what had already been revealed, not introducing something new, but restoring what had been lost, correcting what had been misinterpreted, and calling people back to what had been established from the beginning.

When He taught, it was not through display, nor through elaborate form, but with clarity and authority, showing that what He spoke was not separate from the Father, but in complete harmony, revealing that what had been given before had not changed, nor needed to be added to, and that no tradition formed by man could improve upon what God had already declared, nor replace it without consequence.

And it is here that the question moves beyond the moment and into the nature of worship itself, because if what has been established by God is set aside for what has been introduced by man, then what is being honoured is no longer defined by His word, but by human authority, and in that shift the same pattern is repeated, not in form, but in principle, where Christ is acknowledged, yet not followed according to what has been written.

And so even the day that is now widely called “the Lord’s Day” must be examined, not by assumption, nor by tradition, but by what Scripture actually establishes, for the resurrection itself was not given as a new command, nor as a replacement for what had been set apart, but as a confirmation of what God had already accomplished, pointing forward rather than redefining what had been given, for it is not the end of the work, but the assurance that what has been promised will be fulfilled in its appointed time.

For the same Christ who rose did not call His followers to establish new forms in His name, but to remain faithful to what had been revealed, waiting not for a day shaped by man, but for the completion of what God Himself has declared, when sin will be brought to its end, and when those who have remained aligned with Him will be raised and gathered, not through human observance, but through divine fulfilment.

And in this, the resurrection stands not only as a moment of victory, but as a call to patience, to faithfulness, and to self-examination, not asking whether we celebrate, but whether we follow, not whether we acknowledge, but whether we are aligned, for what was revealed then remains unchanged now, and what is yet to come will not be established by tradition, but by God alone.

“But in vain they do worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.” — Matthew 15:9, KJV