The story begins in the street.
There are palms in the air, voices rising, a crowd gathering with energy and urgency. People are shouting, “Hosanna!” Save us!  It feels like a parade, but it is more than that. It is a collective public moment. A unified cry. A movement filled with hope.

Palm Sunday was not only a celebration. It was a confrontation. A protest. A disruption. It was a moment when hope got loud, and the systems of power began to push back.  And then… the story turned. The cheers quieted. The urgency slowed. The journey Jesus began in the streets leads us into the garden, a place of fear, prayer, and hard choices. Here, everything begins to change.

This is why a Sunday of Palms to Passion matters.  Because we are not choosing to skip from parade to resurrection.  We are choosing to sit in the tension.   
The question these stories ask of us is not only what happened back then, or what they did in that moment.  The question is: what happened next, and what do we do now?  How do we respond?

Holy Week unfolds like a kind of choreography, or a symphony, with distinct movements that carry us from one emotional landscape to another. It begins with “Hosanna in the highest!” but it does not stay there. The story keeps moving into uncertainty, into intimacy, into fear, into betrayal, into grief.
From “Surely not I, Lord?” to “Take, eat; this is my body.” to “Let this cup pass from me.” to
“I do not know the man.” to “Let him be crucified.” to “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
And finally, after all of it:   “He is not here.”

This is not a simple story. It is an encapsulated journey.  It is a story full of emotion, full of change, full of movement. And today, let us resist the temptation to rush past the hard parts in order to get to the good news. Instead, let's practice staying with the story, even when it becomes uncomfortable, even when it asks something of us.  

Because this isn't' just an inspiring parade story from long ago.  It encourages everyone march. To begin a movement. Of people choosing love, justice, and peace. People willing to raise their voices, to embody hope, and to keep going even when the road becomes difficult.  Palm Sunday reminds us that faith is not passive. It is participatory. It is the first act that calls us into the story.  

Palm Sunday is only where the story begins.  The story is still unfolding.  And we are witness to it and a part of it now. 

A Prayer for Palm Sunday written by Rev. Sarah Speed
Holy One, 
Give us the strength to live like the crowds that day in Jerusalem.
Where they held palm branches,
may we hold a hand out to our neighbor.
Where they cried 'Hosanna,'
May we cry out for justice.  May we cry out with joy. 
Where they laid down their coats,
may we lay down our resources
our energy, our creativity, and our time,
so that we can build your promised day here and now.
We do not want to simply talk about our faith.
We want to act on it, so may this prayer be the first step.  Amen

Are you more of a wayward person or more rooted? 
I am definitely a rooted person.  I have lived within a very small radius for most of my life.  I can't imagine packing up, moving, and leaving the familiar place I call home.   I am certainly not adventurous or seeking out places to begin again.  

What does it mean to be wayward?  Think about GPS.  We travel now without always knowing exactly where we are. A calm voice tells us where to turn, when to merge, and when to continue straight ahead. Our sense of identity is often shaped by how we locate ourselves in the world.  By how we name where we are.  To be wayward is to trust that, even without perfect clarity, you will get where you are going.

But what does it mean to be rooted?
In ancient Hebrew tradition, human beings are understood as soil that is divinely animated. We are creatures of earth and breath. Rooted beings who find place, identity, and purpose in the land where we settle.   Rootedness gives us belonging.  It grounds our story in a particular place.

But what happens when we have to begin again? What happens when rooted people are called, or forced, to become wayward?

Right now, across our world, many people are uprooted. They carry what they can: medicine, technology, documents, the essential tools for survival.  Anything that might help sustain life on the journey ahead.  Their lives are packed into what can be carried across borders.

Our scripture (Genesis 12:1-4) tells the story of Abram, whose beginning again looks a bit different.
Abram was wealthy.  He was called, not forced.  He traveled with an entourage of family, servants, livestock, and all that sustained his household.  He traveled with a tribe. 

Still, I find myself wondering what path did they take? What did they carry across the borders they crossed?  Did they bring tools for navigation? Knowledge of the stars and shadows?  What did they bring that would help them re-root themselves? What did it mean for Abram to leave what was known and begin again?    And what does it mean for us?

Faith formation is, in many ways, learning to listen through the haze, through clouded realities and uncertain paths for the quiet call of God.    A call to begin again, to navigate, to adjust course, to persevere, to become a blessing where we take root. 

God’s promises were expansive at the first awakening of faith, and they remain expansive still.  They unfurl before us whenever and wherever God calls us forward.  To begin again is to respond to the wayward call and to trust in being rooted again.