Palm Sunday brings us to the threshold of Holy Week, and it does so with a striking contrast. We begin with welcome and praise, with palms raised in honour – and we move quickly into the solemn reading of the Passion. Joy gives way to suffering. Acclamation turns into rejection. At the centre of this great movement stands that haunting cry from the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mt 27:46). These are not easy words to hear. They echo something deep within human experience. Many people, at some point in life, have known moments like this – times of loss, confusion, or silence, when God seems distant or absent. It may come in grief, in illness, in regret, or simply in the quiet weight of loneliness.

What is striking is that this cry comes from Christ himself.

Jesus does not stand apart from suffering. He does not offer comfort from a distance. Instead, he enters fully into the human condition. In Gethsemane, he prays, “My Father, … let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will. (Mt 27:49). There we see fear, struggle, and trust held together. On the cross, that struggle reaches its deepest point. His suffering is not only physical – though it is severe – but also emotional and spiritual. He experiences abandonment, betrayal, and desolation. Nothing that belongs to human suffering is left untouched. This matters, because it changes how we understand the cross.

We might imagine a different kind of story. We might think of a version where Jesus passes through suffering untouched – where the pain is only apparent, where he remains inwardly unaffected. But such a story would not bring hope. It would leave human suffering unredeemed, still isolated and unanswered. Instead, Christ’s suffering is real. And because it is real, it reaches into every part of human life. There is no experience of sorrow, failure, or fear that lies outside his understanding. Saint John Paul II reflected deeply on this mystery. He taught that suffering, united with Christ, becomes a place where redemption is made present. It is not simply something to be endured – it can become something that draws us into communion with him. The prophet Isaiah had already spoken of this long before: “Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows” (Isaiah 53:4). These are not distant or abstract sufferings. They are ours – personal, known, and real. And then comes the promise: “with his wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5).

Notice how that healing comes. Not by avoiding suffering, but by passing through it. Not by denying it, but by transforming it. This helps us understand why Holy Week begins as it does. It begins not in triumph, but in vulnerability. Not in strength as the world sees it, but in apparent weakness. Because that is where Christ chooses to meet us. The cross is not the end of the story. We know that. We know that resurrection will come. But before the light of Easter morning, there is the darkness of Good Friday. And that darkness is not meaningless. It is filled with a love that does not turn away. So when we hear that cry – “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” – we are hearing more than despair. We are hearing a prayer spoken from the depths of human experience, a prayer that reaches into every life. And because Christ has prayed it, no one who speaks those words ever speaks them alone.

This is where Holy Week begins – and already, quietly, it is the beginning of hope.

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