Do You Know Me? A Palm Sunday Reflection on Knowing Jesus

The question echoes through centuries, cutting through religious ritual and comfortable Christianity alike: Do you know me?

Not do you know about me. Not have you heard stories or attended services or nodded along with doctrine. But do you actually know me?

This is the question Jesus posed to His closest followers after walking with them, teaching them, feeding multitudes before their eyes, and healing the broken. Even those who witnessed miracles firsthand struggled to truly comprehend who stood before them.

There's something profoundly humbling about the incarnation. Jesus didn't need to leave heaven's perfection. He didn't require our validation or worship—He already existed in the fullness of glory, surrounded by the eternal praise of heaven. Yet He saw our need and responded with the most extravagant demonstration of love the universe has ever witnessed.

He came from glory for us.

When Philip asked Jesus to show them the Father, believing that would be sufficient, Jesus responded with words that should shake us from our spiritual complacency: "Have I been with you so long and yet you have not known me, Philip? He who has seen me has seen the Father."

How many of us have been "with Jesus" for years—attending services, reading devotionals, saying prayers—yet still don't truly know Him? We've turned relationship into ritual, encounter into routine. We've domesticated the King of Glory into a manageable religious figure who fits comfortably within our schedules and preferences.

When Jesus asked His disciples, "Who do people say that I am?" He received various answers. Some thought He was John the Baptist, others Elijah, still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets. These weren't necessarily wrong answers—they recognized something special, something prophetic, something divine. But they weren't the complete answer.
Then came Peter's revelation: "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God."

This wasn't intellectual knowledge. This was revelation—truth that flesh and blood didn't reveal, but the Father in heaven. Peter understood something that transcended human wisdom: the carved idols of Baal and Pan were dead and decaying, but they worshiped a living God, and Jesus was His Son.

On this confession, Jesus declared He would build His church, and the gates of hell would not prevail against it. Notice the imagery—gates are defensive structures. The church isn't supposed to be huddled behind walls, afraid of the darkness. We're meant to be on the offensive, bringing light into dark places, because death has no power to hold God's redeemed people captive.

"I am the resurrection and the life," Jesus declared. Not "I will bring resurrection someday" or "I know about resurrection." I am the resurrection. Present tense. Active. Here and now.
This is the truth that transforms everything. When Martha mourned her brother Lazarus, she believed in a future resurrection "at the end of the age." That's a long time to wait. But Jesus revealed that physical death doesn't interrupt our eternal life when we're connected to Him. He is life itself—the source, the power, the victory over every death that tries to claim us.

The foolishness of God is higher than the wisdom of humanity. His plans transcend our understanding. What seems impossible to us is simply another opportunity for Him to demonstrate His power. No prison wall He can't break through. No mountain He can't move. No broken body He can't raise. No soul He can't save. The darkest night becomes light in His presence.

This is the God of revival—the One who awakens people and cities, who breaks every stronghold, whose very presence causes chains to hit the ground.

When Jesus entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, the crowds shouted "Hosanna!" We often hear this as pure celebration, an exclamation of praise. And it is. But the word means something deeper, something more desperate: Save us.

Hosanna is both worship and plea. It's recognition that we cannot save ourselves, that our only hope comes from the One riding humbly on a donkey—the symbol of peace—while crowds wave palm branches—the symbol of victory.

They laid down their clothing, their most valuable possessions, creating a path for their King. They shouted so loudly that the sound carried over Jerusalem's walls. They were celebrating their victor, crying out for salvation, proclaiming that the answer to their prayers had arrived.

Many didn't fully understand what they were proclaiming. But they lined up with Scripture nonetheless, declaring truth that would echo through eternity: "Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!"