The week before Jesus rose triumphantly from the tomb, He left the comforts of Bethany and went to Jerusalem. Along the way, Jesus sent two of His disciples to get a colt that had not been ridden before, not a stately steed but a donkey, ready and willing to serve his master. Upon this humble animal the King of Kings rode.

A crowd of believers gathered to give Jesus a royal welcome. As He descended the Mount of Olives and entered Jerusalem, they laid clothes on the ground and waved branches of palm trees. They called out, “Hosanna: Blessed is the King of Israel that cometh in the name of the Lord.” His followers rejoiced with such loud voices that some Pharisees asked if He couldn’t quiet them. Jesus answered, “If these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out.” He was heralded as King of Heaven and Earth before offering His perfect life. He would bring victory over death, sin, and suffering. His was the greatest of all conquests. Although some passed by, preoccupied or skeptical, and gave Him no regard, those who had “eyes to see” saw their Saviour that day. They welcomed their King. And He received their praise. Humbly, ever so humbly, He accepted their devotion and fulfilled ancient prophecy.

The next day, Jesus cursed a fig tree for its hypocrisy. Its leaves, so healthy and vibrant, belied the fact that it bore no fruit. Unlike the fig tree, Jesus was everything He said He was. No hypocrisy was in Him. He Himself said, “I am the true vine.”

As our Lord entered into Jerusalem amid waving palm branches and shouts of adulation.  He made His triumphant entrance riding upon a colt over the carefully placed clothing of believers.  In His honour the great multitude cried, “Hosanna: Blessed is the King of Israel that cometh in the name of the Lord.” With celebrating crowds and pleas for deliverance, the Lord was surrounded by devoted followers who looked to Him for rescue and salvation.  But He was the only one who knew of the loneliness ahead; He alone understood that some of those who stood with Him one day could reject Him the next.  Just days later, His mortal life would end on the solitary, cruel cross of Calvary.

Sometimes, when all is well and friends abound, the tide can turn, people change, and, it seems, in an instant we’re alone.  Once we revelled in the support of friends; now we feel abandoned. We look around for those who will stay with us through thick and thin.  Many among us have felt the shallowness of the crowd, the fickleness of fans.  The athlete who is cheered on one play, is booed the next; the actor who wins the critics’ acclaim for one role is vilified for the next.  At times it may seem that no one can be counted on for long.

Fortunately, most of us know true loyalty because we’ve experienced it.  If not, we can sow seeds of loyalty.  We can be more trustworthy and reliable, welcoming these virtues into our lives.  Loyalty and all its associated qualities are to be cherished and nurtured: We can be faithful to family, friends, and others in good and not-so-good times. We can be steadfast in our devotion to truth. We can be fair and treat people mercifully. In word and deed, we can be loyal not only to those who are present but also to those who are absent.

Jerusalem stirred with passion that Sunday before the Passover. Travellers had clustered there bringing sacrificial lambs. Coins clattered in coffers where pigeons were sold and in the temple yard, merchants were busy earning silver off the celebration. But above the hubbub hung a question, “Would the prophet from Galilee come?” “What think ye, that he will not come to the feast?” they asked one another.

Even as they wondered, Jesus Christ’s apostles had fetched Him a young donkey for His entry into the city. It was to be His last, and so He paused for a moment at the Mount of Olives, looking across at the golden city, and He wept—not for Himself, though He knew His death was imminent, but for Jerusalem, a city whose walls and children would be ground into the earth. Then He proceeded.

Word spread ahead that He was coming and as He did, the babble of voices united into an uproar of adulation. “Hosanna, to the Son of David,” they cried. “Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord.” Even before He made it to the gates of the city, crowds were thronging the way, waving palm fronds and myrtle, spreading their garments in His path.

They were giving Him a Messianic welcome. For this moment, at least, they were His people, and He was their king. He came not with armies, but riding a gentle animal, and they believed they adored Him.

Where was this crowd just five days later when Jesus hobbled to Golgotha, bent under a cross? History does not tell us. Their shouts had been carried away on the wind, their palm fronds withered, and so Christ went alone to be crucified.

As we contemplate a lonely Saviour on a hillside cross, we may feel critical of this crowd whose love was so brief, but it should teach us something deeper. It is the human tendency for even the most righteous enthusiasm to wane. We are inspired, see with clarity and then the fog rushes in. We seek to proclaim our love of the Lord and then circumstances teach us forgetfulness. We mean to amend our character, and then the urgency leaves. We shout for the Lord one day and turn our backs the next. When we hope that we would have been one to rush out and carry His cross, we need to examine whether even now our shouts swell and ebb on a fickle wind.

He alone could descend below all and bring life and salvation to those who would humbly seek it. The Lord taught: “He that is greatest among you shall be your servant. And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.”He invites us to come unto Him, to taste the sweetness of forgiveness and “gather fruit unto life eternal.” His promises are sure, His peace everlasting.

Far from the pulsating, indecisive crowd is One who slumbers not nor sleeps as He watches over us.  His love is perfect, His fidelity unsurpassed.  Quietly, and with unwavering loyalty, we can let Him in.

By Samuel Enos Eghan