Palm Sunday has always been an uncomfortable paradox. A cheering crowd, a weeping Messiah, waving palms, and a humble donkey. A celebration with an undercurrent of betrayal. And at the centre of it all: a chilling chant — “Hosanna! Hosanna!”
But here in Kenya, another chant rings through the streets: “Ruto must go!”
And while this may seem politically loaded, it is not far from the biblical echo of the crowd that shouted in Jerusalem. This Palm Sunday, we must ask: what does it mean when the masses chant? What do crowds want? What does God see?
And more dangerously — when we say “Jesus must go”, do we mean “Go away!” or “Go ahead!”?
In Matthew, Jesus enters Jerusalem on a donkey, just as Zechariah had prophesied. It was a calculated move, not just symbolic but deeply disruptive. By choosing a donkey instead of a war horse, Jesus announced the arrival of a different kind of authority — not one that conquers by the sword, but one that conquers by sacrifice.
But the crowd didn’t understand that.
They threw down their cloaks. They waved palm branches — the nationalistic symbol of Jewish resistance. They shouted “Hosanna,” a word which, in the Old Testament context, means “Save us now!” In the New Testament, it takes on a more celebrative tone. But while “Hosanna” may have sounded like an act of worship on the surface, at a deeper level, it was a political demand. They longed for a Messiah who would overthrow Rome, reduce taxes, feed the hungry, and fulfill the promises that both the temple and the government had failed to keep. They weren’t shouting, “Take away my sin!” They were shouting, “Take away my oppressor!”
We too are a nation of chants. We chant in church: “Hosanna in the Highest!”And we chant on the streets: “Ruto must go!” One is liturgical. The other is political. But both are cries of longing — for justice, relief, and change.
Recently, I attended a youth worship concert. When a particular song played, young people moved from the pews to the front — dancing passionately, sweat dripping to the floor. What stood out? Whistles. They blew them with energy as they danced, turning worship into a full-body expression of faith. At first, I didn’t grasp the meaning—until I overheard one of them say: Filimbi kwa street na filimbi kwa church. (The whistle belongs to the streets and also to the church).
In church, the whistle became a sacred pulse—an electrifier. But on the streets, it’s an instrument of protest. These young people know both meanings. It started in the street and found its way to the sanctuary. They were saying: “Our worship is a protest too!”
Palm Sunday forces us to theologically interrogate chants. What is the heart behind the Hosanna? What does the Kenyan chant really mean when it demands the President must go? And what does it mean when the Church says “Jesus must go”? There are two meanings to the phrase “Jesus must go.” One comes from his enemies: “Get Him out of the way.”
The other comes from Jesus himself: “I must go — to the cross, to the tomb, to glory.”
When Peter picked up a sword to stop Jesus’ arrest, Jesus rebuked him: “Put your sword back. Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?” Jesus must go. Not to take power — but to give it up. Not to ascend a throne — but to climb a cross.
Palm Sunday was filled with a mixed multitude. Children shouting in innocence. Disciples obeying in confusion. Religious leaders fuming in anger. And, likely, crowds mobilised by whispers of a coming revolution. We see the same in Kenya. Crowds can be purchased. Movements can be staged. Emotions can be rented. We too have keyboard warriors, paid protestors, and manufactured outrage.
But truth is never loud. It rides quietly on a donkey. The true follower of Jesus is not the one who shouts loudest, but the one who follows even when the crowd turns away.
Palm Sunday forces a shocking comparison. God came on a donkey. Our politicians arrive in guzzlers. God entered to serve — they arrive to rule. God came lowly — they arrive in tinted motorcades. God dismounted at the temple — they head straight for high tables. The donkey was not just transportation; it was a rebuke to every politician and ruler who’s ever paraded through Kenya’s towns, flaunting power and authority. It stood as a challenge to those who use grand displays of wealth and might to assert dominance, reminding them that true leadership isn’t about earthly pomp, but humility and service to the people. Jesus was making a statement: Power must bow to humility. Leadership must submit to sacrifice.
Gen Z and the Cry of the Children
In Matthew’s account, the children keep shouting “Hosanna!” Disturbed religious leaders ask Jesus: “Do you hear what these children are saying?” But Jesus defends them: “From the lips of children and infants, you have ordained praise.”
Gen Z is the prophetic child — like the Butere Girls. Unfiltered. Unafraid. Unbought. They are shouting their Hosanna — not to the church, not to politicians — but to truth. They are being told to keep quiet, to fall in line, to respect systems. Let the country beware — when the young shout truth and the system moves to silence them, it is not the youth who are out of order. It is the State that has forgotten how to love, listen to and serve its people.
So yes — Jesus must go. He must go into State House, Parliament, Social Health Authority boardrooms, Competency Based Curriculum dark rooms, Kenya Revenue Authority tax kitchens, and Police “mindyards.” But he does not go alone. Jesus moves through faithful, informed, and fearless followers — people who refuse to worship at the altars of comfort, silence, and status quo.
One of the great tragedies of Palm Sunday is that the same crowd that shouted “Hosanna” on Sunday cried “Crucify Him” by Friday. That’s the power — and the peril — of a crowd. Crowds shift. Crowds forget. Crowds betray. But Jesus does not. He goes — even when it costs Him everything.
So make your Palm Sunday political pick: Will you ride with Jesus — toward cross-birthed service, truth-telling, and costly love? Or will you ride with the guzzlers — toward self-made thrones built on the backs of the broken?
Jesus must go. The question is not if — but with whom. Will we go with Him — or will we get in His way?
By Rev Edward Buri