Sunday, April 13 Vicar Meagan Kim Sunday of the Passion / Palm Sunday, Year C Luke 19:29-44 The Things That Make for Peace
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What a scene we have in our Gospel lesson today?!
When our story begins, it’s picture perfect. Everything seems to be falling into place - Jesus sends out 2 of his disciples to find a young donkey for him to ride, he gives them the words to say, and they go without hesitation, without objection - they find it, they take it without incident and they bring it back.
It’s one of the few stories we have in the Bible where things go exactly as expected and there’s a noticeable absence of conflict.
This is the story that frames what we now call Palm Sunday.
Jesus on a donkey riding into Jerusalem amid shouts of praise and rejoicing.
This moment is the culmination of Jesus’ three-year earthly ministry. Three years have passed since he was baptized by John in the waters of the Jordan - when the sky opened, and the Holy Spirit came down on him and appeared like a dove.
Over these last few years, Jesus came face-to-face with the adversary and accuser, Satan. He traveled all over Galilee and Judea preaching and teaching about the nearness of the kingdom of God, telling people about a new covenant through faith, both inside of the synagogues and to the outsiders. He healed, he
raised from the dead, he performed signs and wonders, he proclaimed forgiveness from God, and he gathered his followers.
And people recognized him as someone with extraordinary power, extraordinary wisdom, there was something remarkable about this man.
And during this time, during these three years, Jesus is getting clearer and clearer on what’s ahead of him, of what’s being asked of him - and just as he is being prepared for that time, for this time, he’s trying to help those around him prepare for what’s coming. Today on Palm Sunday, as we read this story, Jesus no longer silences the crowd as he had done so many times over the last few years. He doesn’t order them to stop or swear them to secrecy. In fact, he tells the Pharisees: “If the people were silent, the very stones would cry out.” Now is the moment. Now, the time has come. When Jesus fi nally and fully steps into his identity—not just as Rabbi, not just as healer or prophet, but as Messiah. We celebrated with our young people earlier - waving palm fronds - calling Jesus King, blessing his name, giving him the highest praise and glory. It looked like a parade. It sounded like a coronation. And for a moment, it feels like the mission of God’s Kingdom on earth has been accomplished.
Jesus is embraced by the people. Fully seen and celebrated.
And yet this is a celebration with a shadow.
It’s a parade that eventually leads to a cross.
It’s a moment where Jesus foretells major destruction for the Jewish people - prophesying about the fall of the temple that will come just 40 years later, leading to war and upending their way of life.
We’re told that as Jesus approaches Jerusalem, the city of God, he weeps.
“If you had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace…But now they are hidden from your eyes.”
I mean, can you imagine? In the midst of this celebration, the one that you have come to honor is telling you that you’ve missed it.
Just when you think that maybe you’ve gotten it right, think again.
And not only have you missed it - but that now there’s nothing you can do to see it again. It’s gone.
It’s like when you look back on a broken relationship and think to yourself, “If only I had known what I know now. If only I had seen what really mattered. And said something different, did something different. But I didn’t. And now they’re gone.”
Or like the moments right after a tragedy—when people say, “There were signs. We should have paid attention. We should have done something.” But now it’s too late. The damage is done.
At the end of World War I, the world stood at a crossroads. It was a moment pregnant with possibility—a chance to choose healing over vengeance, restoration over retribution.
The war had been devastating. It’s estimated that as many as 22 million people died and at least that many military personnel were wounded. Cities lay in ruins. The global community had just endured the unimaginable. And in that moment, there was an opportunity—not only to rebuild what had been destroyed, but to rebuild relationships. To extend grace. To choose peace.
But in 1919, at the Treaty of Versailles, that opportunity was lost. Rather than reconciliation, the world chose punishment. Germany was held solely responsible for the war. They were required to pay what would be over $500 billion today. They took away territory and the morale of the Germans was crushed. They were humiliated and devastated. Now, I’m not here to downplay the role that Germany played in WWI or to excuse the murder and the devastation - but it’s interesting because what looked like justice to so many, what sounded like security would sow the seeds that would erupt two decades later into another world war—one even more deadly than the first.
Every time we choose punishment over restoration… when we center only our own pain and forget the humanity of others… when we refuse to reconcile, to see the image of God in our enemies — we sow the seeds of future violence. History has shown us this again and again.
And we’re seeing it unfold in our world right now — in the devastating conflict between Israel and Hamas. The suffering is staggering. And at the heart of it all is a profound and painful question: what does peace truly require?
Because the peace we long for — real peace — doesn’t come through domination or revenge. And we can’t see it - it’s hidden from us - it can only come from outside of us, from God.
And God’s peace always comes at a cost. It calls us to surrender something. To let go of our pride, our self-centeredness, the ways that we have to be right, the ways that we resist looking weak or foolish by the world’s standards.
And so we have to ask:
How many times have we chosen to win instead of choosing to heal?
How often do we demand justice for ourselves while forgetting mercy for others?
How often do we miss the way of peace — the way of Jesus — because we’re clinging too tightly to our own vision of what should be?
The people in Jerusalem thought they were celebrating the arrival of victory—but Jesus saw the brokenness beneath the surface.
They were honoring him as a king—but they didn’t understand the kind of kingdom he came to bring.
Even in their celebrating—waving palm branches, laying cloaks on the ground, shouting “Hosanna!”—even as it appears that they’ve gotten it right, Jesus sees through it.
He knows these cheers are fragile.
He knows that within days, the same mouths that blessed him will be silent—or worse, shouting, “Crucify him!”
And still, Jesus doesn’t turn back. He and his Father are one - he trusts God fully. Even in his sorrow, he stays the course.
Because this is what love looks like. Love doesn’t turn away when it gets hard. Love doesn’t demand to be celebrated. Love shows up, even when it’s misunderstood. Love lays down power. Love chooses a cross.
And that same love walks with us now.
Palm Sunday isn’t just about waving branches. It’s not just about songs of praise or shouts of “Hosanna.” It’s about recognizing how close God has come—how close God still comes.
It’s about asking ourselves: will we see Him?
Will we recognize what makes for peace? Will we let go of the kingdoms we’ve built—our pride, our assumptions, our need to be right, our need to be the center of
attention and be praised—and open our hands to receive the peace of the kingdom of God?
Peace that doesn’t come through might or military or revenge. Peace that doesn’t come through swagger or flash, it doesn’t come by having the loudest voice or stomping on others.
It comes through humility. Through meekness, gentleness, mercy. Through surrender. Through a God on a donkey. A Savior on a cross.
So may we not miss it. May we not be the crowd that cheers today but stays silent tomorrow. May we be the ones who walk with Jesus—not just when the parade is loud, but when the road gets hard. May we recognize the things that make for peace.
Because even in the heartbreak, even in the sorrow, Jesus stays the course—for us.
And that, friends, is our hope. Amen.