Peace Often Comes By Staying Through The Hard Parts

There’s something haunting about Palm Sunday if you really sit with it long enough.

At first glance, it looks like a victory parade. Jesus rides into Jerusalem and the people go wild—waving palms, shouting “Hosanna,” laying their cloaks in the road like he’s royalty. And for a fleeting moment, maybe he is. In their eyes, at least.

But this parade isn't heading toward power. It’s moving straight toward a cross.

And the same voices shouting “Hosanna” on Sunday will be eerily quiet—or outright hostile—by Friday.

That’s what gets me this year. Not the donkey. Not the palms. Not even the tears Jesus shed as he approached the city. It’s this simple, sobering truth: the crowd doesn’t stay.

They loved him for the miracles. They loved the possibility of liberation. They loved the story as long as it looked like triumph. But they didn't stay for the story that looked like loss.

I think about my own life. The times I’ve ridden the wave of someone else’s support until it grew inconvenient. The times people have cheered for me—only to fall silent when the ride took a turn they didn't want to follow. I think of the relationships, the faith circles, even my own inner beliefs that celebrated me while I was rising but disappeared when I was falling.

Jesus knew it would happen. He didn’t need the crowd’s affirmation to keep walking toward the cross. He didn’t need palms; he needed peace. A peace he brought with him.

He brought a peace that doesn’t rely on applause.

He brought a light that doesn’t dim when the crowd disappears.

He brought a love that stays.

That’s the difference between Palm Sunday and every other parade we’ve ever known. This was never about fanfare. It was always about faithfulness.

And I’m left asking myself: do I follow Jesus only when the story looks good? When I feel supported? When the crowd agrees? Or do I keep walking even when the cheers fade?

Because the truth is, this story—the one that starts with palm branches and ends with an empty tomb—requires something from me. It requires staying. Not just on Sunday when everyone’s shouting “Hosanna,” but on Friday when it feels like all hope is gone. It requires believing in light even when the skies go dark.

It’s easy to follow a king on a donkey when the crowd is celebrating. It’s much harder to follow him when he’s carrying a cross and the world turns away.

But that’s where real love begins.

That’s where resurrection is born.

So this Palm Sunday, I’m less interested in waving branches and more interested in asking myself: will I stay when the story gets hard? Will I walk with the one who walks straight into suffering—not to avoid it, but to redeem it?

Jesus didn’t ask for a parade. He asked for followers. And not just fans when the miracles flow—but followers who will carry peace into the places where love looks like sacrifice, where light looks like obedience, where hope looks like staying.

I want to stay.

Even when the crowd walks away.

Even when the cheers go quiet.

Even when it feels like death is winning.

Because I’ve come to believe that true peace only comes to those willing to walk the full story. Not just the palms. Not just the praise. But all the way to the cross.

And on the other side, life.

Real life.

The kind that no crowd can give—and no silence can take away.