HOSANNA: COME AND SAVE US
Little Johnny was sick on Palm Sunday and had to stay home from church with his mother. His father returned from church holding a palm branch. Curious, Johnny asked, “Why do you have that palm branch, Dad?” His father explained, “Well, when Jesus came into town, everyone waved palm branches to honor Him, so we got palm branches today.” Johnny sighed, “Aw, shucks… The one Sunday I can’t go to church, and Jesus shows up!”
Palm Sunday is a day of both celebration and reflection. It’s the moment we join the crowd in shouting “Hosanna!” But what does that word mean? The original Hebrew — Hoshia Na — literally means “Save us, please!” (Psalm 118:25). It was both a plea and a praise — a shout of desperation and hope all at once.
There’s a story of a boy who got stuck in a tree. He cried for help until an old lady stopped, took off her shoes, and climbed up to rescue him. After she got him down, he whispered, “I was hoping for Spider-Man…” Isn’t that just like us? We cry “Hosanna!” expecting fireworks. But God shows up on a donkey… with dusty feet… ready to wash ours.
By Jesus’s time, “Hosanna” had become a declaration of belief: “You’re the One we’ve been waiting for… now help us!” But the people in Jerusalem had expectations — they thought Jesus would defeat Rome, fix the system, and serve their vision. Instead, Jesus came to serve, not to be served (Mark 10:45).
“Hosanna” isn’t just a Palm Sunday word — it’s the cry of every heart facing despair, injustice, conflict, or fear. Refugees fleeing war zones cry, “Hosanna!” Families mourning after natural disasters cry, “Hosanna!” Young people struggling with anxiety and identity, victims of abuse, war-scarred civilians, isolated elders — all echo, “Lord, save us now.”
And so, on this Palm Sunday, as we join the crowds in shouting “Hosanna! Come and save us!”, our cry takes on a deeper, more urgent meaning. Just this morning Jerusalem time, missiles struck the Ahli Arab Hospital in Gaza—an Anglican institution of healing and hope—destroying its Genetic Laboratory, damaging its Emergency Department and Pharmacy, and even harming the neighboring church of St. Philip’s. Though we thank God that most lives were spared, a young child died during the rushed evacuation. This was the fifth attack on this hospital since the war began—and this one fell on the very morning we remember Jesus entering Jerusalem to bring peace. How bitterly ironic that a place of mercy was targeted on the day we celebrate the Prince of Peace. When we cry Hosanna! today, it is not just a word of praise—it is a plea from the rubble, a prayer rising with the smoke: Lord, come and save us. Come and serve your suffering people. Come and make all things new. Let our Palm Sunday not end with palms waved in comfort, but with hearts moved to compassion, to advocacy, and to peacemaking in Christ’s name. Palm Sunday isn’t just about palm branches — it’s about the power of a public cry for divine help. It’s not just a historical event; it’s a call to action. The cry of “Hosanna” is as relevant today as it was then.
Imagine if Palm Sunday happened today — Jesus might ride into town on a bicycle, and the crowd would wave smartphones, trying to get selfies with Him. It’s a funny image, but it reminds us to focus on worshiping Jesus, not just capturing Him.
Isaiah 50 speaks of the Obedient, Suffering Servant: “I gave my back to those who struck me…” This is not a Savior who avoids pain but one who enters into it, trusting in God’s help. In our world of retaliation — from Gaza to Ukraine, to violent streets and broken homes — what does it mean to follow a Savior who suffers with us and for us?
The servant’s endurance mirrors modern struggles for justice — whistleblowers, activists, marginalized communities. We must stand with them, crying “Hosanna” — and the Servant still hears.
Psalm 118 gives us the original cry: “Hoshia Na — Save us now!” This is worship that blends praise and protest. In times of crisis, singing becomes defiance. “Hosanna” is how we fight without fists — it is spiritual resistance. We trust that God can still deliver us from chaos and conflict.
Philippians 2 tells us, “Though He was in the form of God… He humbled Himself.” Jesus didn’t come down with a sword. He came with a towel, a cross, and compassion. In a world obsessed with power, He teaches us the strength of humility. To be great is to serve. To be powerful is to kneel.
Today’s cries come from the unseen — those under corrupt leadership, unappreciated workers, and silenced students. They don’t just want rescue — they want to be seen, valued, and loved. And Jesus sees them.
“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” Jesus rode in not to take power but to surrender His life. While the people wanted Rome defeated, Jesus came to conquer sin, fear, and death. Kings rode horses into war; Jesus rode a donkey — a sign of peace.
Jesus was saying, “I’m not the king you want. I’m the king you need.” He’s the King of towels, not titles. He rules with humility, not hype. Can you imagine a modern politician arriving at their inauguration on a donkey? CNN would crash. Twitter would explode: #DonkeyDiplomacy!
A little boy once played the donkey in a Palm Sunday play. The next day, walking down the street, he looked disappointed that no one clapped. “I guess they don’t know who I am,” he pouted. His mom gently said, “They weren’t cheering for the donkey, son. They were cheering for the one riding him.” Let’s never forget — even when we serve, the spotlight isn’t ours.
The crowd spread their cloaks — a sign of surrender and reverence. But they didn’t fully understand. Jesus wasn’t coming to dominate but to die. And when people criticized the crowd’s praise, Jesus said, “If they keep quiet, even the stones will cry out” (Luke 19:40).
“Come and serve us,” they cried. But what kind of service were they asking for? Jesus didn’t come to tweak the system; He came to save souls. The true “Hosanna” isn’t “fix our politics” — it’s “heal our hearts.”
And today? The mother, praying for her addicted son, cries, “Hosanna.” The teen, whispering “Who loves me?” cries, “Hosanna.” The unemployed father, asking, “How will I feed my kids?” cries, “Hosanna.”
People affected by political decisions and war cry, “Hosanna!”
They don’t cry it casually — they cry it with trembling voices and tired hearts. From Gaza to Sudan, from refugee camps to border walls, in places where missiles replace music and ballots bring burden instead of hope — people lift the same ancient cry:
“Lord, save us… now!”
“Hosanna” is not just sung by children with palm branches. It’s shouted by those whose lives are torn apart by policies made in rooms they’ll never enter. It’s the groan of families torn apart by deportations, of civilians caught in the crossfire of someone else’s power grab. They may not have parades, but they have prayers — and God hears them all.
My seminary professor once joked, “Jesus would never win a modern election — no campaign ads, no promises of lower taxes. His slogan? ‘Take up your cross and follow me.’” Not exactly a crowd-pleaser.
People wanted a king on a throne. Jesus came as a king with a towel. Our Hosanna must embrace His kind of salvation — not flashy, but faithful.
What does “Hosanna” look like today?
“Lord, serve us… by healing us.” Bring your wounds to Jesus. He still washes feet.
“Lord, serve us… by leading us.” He doesn’t enter our lives to take orders — He comes to take over, in love and wisdom.
“Lord, serve us… by empowering us to serve others.” Imagine Jesus walking into church — we’d expect Him to head to the pulpit. But He’d probably go to the nursery… or the dirty dishes in the fellowship hall. He doesn’t come to sit. He comes to serve.
In the face of war — Hosanna, Lord, come and save us. We need peacemakers, not peace-talkers.
In the face of mental health struggles — Hosanna, Lord, come and heal us. You are welcome even in our anxiety and burnout.
In broken homes — Hosanna, Lord, come and restore us. Palm branches aren’t just decoration. They are declarations of hope.
In the Church — Hosanna, Lord, come and revive us. May we never be too religious to cry for help or too polished to get real.
As we prepare to leave this place, I want to share a true story—one I’ll never forget. It was Palm Sunday, not too long ago. We had just finished a joyful service—children waving palm branches, the choir lifting hosannas, and our hearts full of praise. I had barely sat down with a cup of tea when the phone rang.
“Father,” said the voice, “one of your parishioners—Deborah—has been arrested. Road rage.” I blinked. “Deborah? Arrested?”
I rushed to the station. And there she was—Deborah, looking shaken and embarrassed. The officer explained what had happened: She was behind a man at a green light. He didn’t move. Deborah honked. Then yelled. Then pounded her steering wheel. And all of this happened while a police cruiser was directly behind her.
The officer told me, “I saw her behavior, but what threw me off was the ‘Choose Christ’ license plate holder… the ‘Follow Me to Sunday School’ bumper sticker… and the palm branches in her back window. Naturally, I assumed she had stolen the car—because no real Christian would act like that!”
We all laughed about it later, but the truth is—it was a sobering reminder.
You see, waving palm branches is easy. Living like Jesus is hard. It's not enough to cry "Hosanna!" in worship if we forget to live it in traffic, in conversation, and daily stress. Deborah told me later, “Father, I learned my lesson: if you're going to drive a Christian car, drive it like Christ is watching.”
Friends, let your Hosanna be more than words on a Sunday. Let it be the cry of your heart—on the road, in your home, in your workplace. Let it be seen in how you serve, how you forgive, how you show patience and grace.
Jesus didn’t ride into Jerusalem to be admired. He came to save—and to change us. So as we shout, “Hosanna—Lord, come and save us!” let us also whisper, “Lord, come and shape us.”
And may we be the kind of Christians who don’t just wear the name but live it.
Amen.