It was the beginning of the end, or better said, the beginning of glory.
The city of Jerusalem was swelling with pilgrims. Passover was near, and the streets thrummed with the tension of expectation. Whispers of revolution stirred in the shadows. Many were wondering, Would this be the year? Would the Messiah finally rise and shatter the Roman yoke?
And then, like a sudden crack of thunder, Jesus had entered the city, riding not on a warhorse but on a donkey’s colt. The people had erupted, waving palm branches and crying out, “Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!” They saw a King. A Deliverer. A Champion. But they had no idea what kind of King He truly was. This is a reality that we will discuss further on Palm Sunday.
Right in the wake of this public acclaim, something surprising happens. A group of Greeks, Gentiles from afar, approach Philip with a simple, yet perhaps most important request one can ever ask: “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.” The nations were beginning to knock on the door. And in that moment, Jesus knew it was time. The clock of divine destiny strikes. The hour has come.
But what Jesus says next silences the crowd and shatters their expectations.
He speaks not of victory in battle, not of thrones or armies, but of seeds falling into the ground. Of death. Of glory found in surrender. Of being lifted up, not to sit on a golden throne, but to hang on a Roman cross.
Here, in John 12, we are standing at the edge of a great divide. Jesus's public ministry is drawing to an end, and His march to Golgotha is beginning. He will not turn back. The King has come, not to claim the crown by force, but to receive it through the cross.
This is not just a turning point in a story. It is the unveiling of heaven’s greatest mystery: The King came to die, and in His death, He will bring life to the world.
The Hour Has Come (John 12:20–23)
There is a quiet power in the way John introduces this moment. After the palm branches and the praises, after the cries of “Hosanna!” have barely faded into the background, we are given a glimpse into something utterly unexpected. A group of Greeks come to Philip with a simple, reverent plea: “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.”
These are not Jewish leaders seeking signs, nor are they skeptical Pharisees trying to trap Him with words. These are foreigners. Strangers. Representatives of the nations. Their presence signals something deeper stirring in the divine timetable. It is as if the whole world has begun to lean in, to listen, to reach for the One they were not yet supposed to fully understand.
Philip doesn’t answer them directly. Instead, he brings the request to Andrew, and the two go and tell Jesus. But Jesus doesn’t respond in the way we might expect. He doesn’t say, “Yes, let them come,” or “No, it’s not time yet.” His answer bypasses the request entirely, or so it seems. Instead, Jesus speaks into the very heart of His mission, into the eternal moment that is now pressing down upon Him like a storm about to break.
He says, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified.”
For three years, we’ve read again and again that His hour had not yet come. He slipped away when the crowds sought to make Him king by force. He avoided public arrest because His hour had not yet arrived. Every step, every miracle, every teaching was carried along by the undercurrent of divine timing. But now, with the Gentiles knocking at the door, with the eyes of the world beginning to turn toward Him, Jesus declares the hour has now come.
This is no ordinary hour. It is the defining moment of redemptive history. It is the hinge on which the gates of eternity swing open. It is the hour when the eternal Son will be lifted up, not in triumph as men understand it, but in the agony of crucifixion. And yet, He calls it the hour of His glory.
Here is the great paradox of the kingdom: what man deems shameful, God deems glorious. What we flee from—suffering, weakness, humility—Christ embraces. Jesus does not define glory in terms of accolades or armies. He defines it in terms of the cross. His glory will not be in conquering by force, but in surrendering in love. The crowd cannot understand this. The Greeks cannot anticipate it. Even the disciples themselves will not fully grasp it until after the resurrection. But Jesus knows. He sees the cross as His coronation. The nails as His scepter. The crown of thorns as His diadem.
And there is something breathtakingly pastoral in how He embraces this hour. Jesus does not cower before it. He does not run from the pain or the shame. He sees the hour for what it is: His appointed purpose, the fulfillment of the Father’s will, the very reason He came. He meets the hour not with dread, but with resolve.
And here is the heart-piercing reality: this hour was for us. It was not the hour of abstract glory, but of glorious sacrificial love. The Son of Man would be glorified in dying because His death would become the fountain of life for the world. His suffering would make peace between God and sinners. His crucifixion would become the cornerstone of a kingdom not built by human hands but by mercy, truth, and grace.
It is no small thing to say that “the hour has come.” It is a declaration not just of timing, but of identity. Jesus is not a teacher caught in the machinery of politics. He is not a prophet tragically misunderstood. He is the King who knew exactly what the hour required, and who embraced it for the joy set before Him.
For the one who hears these words today, the question remains: Do you see the glory of the cross? Do you recognize that this hour was not only the apex of Christ’s mission, but the moment your redemption was purchased? The world may look for power and prestige, but the true glory of the King is found here. In the moment He chose to die, so that we might live.
This is the turning point, not just in the Gospel of John, but in the story of humanity. The hour has come, and everything will change.
The Seed Must Die (John 12:24–26)
Having declared that His hour of glory has come, Jesus now opens the window of heaven just a little wider, and what He reveals is stunning in its simplicity and staggering in its meaning.
“Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”
He speaks in parable, but the meaning is not hidden. The seed is Himself. The death He is walking toward is not a tragic end, but a necessary planting. Like a seed thrust beneath the soil, swallowed by darkness and decay, Jesus will go into the ground. But from that death, that burial, life will rise. Fruit will burst forth. A harvest will follow. The tree of death will become the tree of life.
There is no resurrection without death. There is no glory without the grave. And there is no salvation without the cross. What the world calls waste, heaven calls wonder. The death of the Seed is the beginning of a new creation.
This is the mystery of the Gospel: the cross, the Roman instrument of shame and suffering, becomes the tree whose branches will stretch out over every nation. The very emblem of defeat will be transformed into the sign of victory. And through the death of this Jesus, life will blossom for the many.
But Jesus doesn’t stop with Himself. He immediately invites His followers into this same pattern: “Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life.”
This is not poetic language, it is a summons. The call of the Kingdom is not merely to admire the dying Seed, but to become one. To follow Jesus is to walk His road. And His road goes down, into the furrows of humility and surrender, into the self-denial that leads to true joy, into the death of the old man so that the new might rise.
This is not just Christ’s path. It must become ours. For does he not say to us “take up your cross and follow me” (Matt. 16:24-26).
In this world, everything tells us to preserve our lives. Build your platform. Protect your comfort. Control your destiny. But Jesus turns it upside down. Love your life in this world too much, and you’ll lose it. Lay it down for Him, and you’ll gain eternity. Die to self and live forever.
And yet, this death is not a barren one. Jesus promises that those who follow Him in this downward path are not forgotten. “If anyone serves me, he must follow me… and where I am, there will my servant be also. If anyone serves me, the Father will honor him.” The One who dies for us now walks with us. The Servant-King shares His glory with His servants.
It is tempting to hear this call to die and think only of loss. But Jesus wants us to see what lies beyond the dying. He sees the seed sprouting. He sees the tree blooming. He sees the nations gathering under its shade, healed by its leaves (Revelation 22:2). The path of the cross is painful, but it is not hopeless. It is the only road that leads to life.
So He invites us: Come and die to self. Let the old life fall like a seed into the earth. Trust that the Father will raise in power what is sown in weakness. This is the way of the Kingdom. The Seed must die, but from His death comes life for the world.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the greatest fruit of that Seed is not only our salvation, but our transformation. When we, too, learn to live like Him, love like Him, and surrender like Him, for the life of others.
This is the tree of life: rooted in the cross, flourishing in the resurrection, and reaching out to heal the nations.
The Troubled King Obeys (John 12:27–30)
Jesus has just revealed the paradox of glory: that life comes only through death, and that the pathway to honor with the Father is marked by surrender. But as He turns His face more fully toward the cross, we are allowed a moment of holy intimacy. We are ushered into the interior life of Christ, the deep anguish of His humanity, and it is here that we behold the heart of the King.
“Now is my soul troubled.”
These words are not mere poetry. They are not exaggeration. They are the raw and honest expression of a heart bearing the full weight of what is to come. The Greek word translated “troubled” is deeply emotional—it means agitated, stirred up, distressed to the core. This is no stoic Messiah. This is the truly human Christ, wrestling in the shadow of the cross.
He knows what is coming. He knows that betrayal is near, that His friends will abandon Him, that nails and thorns and mockery await. But even more terrifying is the spiritual weight: the full cup of divine wrath, the crushing judgment against sin that He alone must bear. No other One has ever stared into the abyss of sin's cost with eyes so wide open. And yet, He does not flinch.
“What shall I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? But for this purpose I have come to this hour.”
This is the obedience of love, not the cold resignation of fate. Jesus could have turned away. He could have called for angels. He could have saved Himself. But He chose to obey, not merely because it was required, but because it was redemptive. The cross was not simply a duty for Him. It was His delight to do the will of His Father, even when it led to agony.
He does not pray to be delivered from the hour. Instead, He prays the deepest and most glorious prayer a man can pray: “Father, glorify Your name.” And in response, the heavens speak.
“I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again.”
It is only the third time in the Gospels that the voice of the Father thunders audibly. First, at Jesus’ baptism: “This is My beloved Son.” Then, on the Mount of Transfiguration: “Listen to Him.” And now, here, as Jesus prepares to embrace the cross, the Father speaks again. This time, not just to comfort the Son, but to affirm before all the watching world: This is My glory. The obedience of the Son, even in suffering, is the radiant reflection of the Father’s heart.
What strikes us here is not only the majesty of Christ’s submission but its model for us.
We, too, will face moments when our souls are troubled. When obedience to God seems to lead not to ease but to sacrifice. When following Christ calls us into pain, into loss, into the relinquishing of our own will. And in those moments, we are invited to echo the prayer of our Savior: “Father, glorify Your name.” Not “make it easy,” but “let Your name be magnified, even in my weakness.”
This is the path of real discipleship. This is what it means to walk in the footsteps of Jesus. We are not called to carry crosses of our own design, but to yield to the will of God, trusting that He is working all things (Yes, even the dark things) for His glory and our good.
And in the end, we remember: the Father is not silent. Even when we cannot hear His voice with our ears, He speaks with His presence, His Word, His Spirit. And He is glorifying His name in us, through us, and sometimes, through the very suffering we long to avoid.
So let the troubled heart take hope. The obedience of the King in His agony becomes a means of strength in ours. He walked through the shadow of death with eyes fixed on the Father’s glory. And He walks with us still, giving us the help of His Spirit to guide us through.
The Cross as a Cosmic Triumph (John 12:31–33)
The words that follow are not whispered; they are declared. Jesus, having unveiled the necessity of His death and the anguish it will bring, now lifts our eyes to see what that death will accomplish. He draws back the curtain and speaks not just of His suffering, but of His victory. Here, in the shadow of the cross, Jesus proclaims His cosmic triumph.
“Now is the judgment of this world; now will the ruler of this world be cast out.”
These are not the words of a man resigning Himself to defeat. These are the words of a King announcing war and declaring victory. The cross, which from every earthly angle appears to be a failure, is, in truth, the turning point of history, the triumph of God over evil. The moment of Christ’s deepest humiliation is, at the same time, the moment of the enemy’s final undoing.
This world, which has been under the curse of sin and the dominion of darkness, now comes under judgment. Not the kind of judgment we expect—not thunderbolts and fire—but the judgment of exposure and reversal. The world that rejects its Maker reveals itself for what it is. And in that rejection, the Judge is not seated on a throne but lifted up on a cross.
Jesus says that “the ruler of this world”—Satan himself—will be cast out. Not with swords or legions, but by love nailed to wood. The serpent who deceived Adam in a garden is defeated by the obedience of the second and greater Adam in a garden of death. The accuser is silenced, not by counter-accusation, but by atonement. The one who held the power of death is disarmed by the death of the sinless Son.
And how? Jesus tells us: “And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.” John immediately adds, “He said this to show by what kind of death he was going to die.”
This is the gospel in its most staggering beauty.
Christ is lifted up. Physically, yes, on a Roman cross, between two thieves, as a spectacle of shame, but He is also lifted up in glory. Lifted up as the banner of salvation. Lifted up as the serpent was lifted in the wilderness, that all who looked upon it might live (John 3:14). Lifted up not as a helpless victim, but as a victorious Savior who would, by His wounds, draw a dying world to Himself.
The cross, then, is not just a place of suffering. It is the pulpit of divine love, the battlefield of cosmic war, and the place where judgment and mercy embrace. From that cross, Jesus reaches out, not to one nation, but to all peoples. Greeks and Jews. Men and women. Sinners of every stripe. All who look to Him by faith, regardless of background or baggage, are drawn in, not by fear, but by the irresistible force of His amazing grace.
And this drawing is not manipulative. It is not coerced. It is the powerful wooing of love. The crucified Christ calls to the weary, the broken, the proud, the doubting, the ashamed. He calls with blood-stained hands and eyes that still burn with compassion: “Come to Me and see the wounds poured out for you.”
Christian, do you see what this means? The cross is not just your forgiveness. It is your freedom. The enemy no longer owns you. The guilt no longer defines you. The world no longer holds you. The King has triumphed, and His triumph was not with spear and shield, but with thorns and tears.
This is the paradox and power of our faith: that the moment when all seemed lost was the very moment when all was won. The cross stands forever as the epicenter of hope, the shattering of Satan’s grip, and the invitation of God to the ends of the earth: Look to the Son. See Him lifted up. Come and live by embracing him as your Hope, Savior, King.
So let your heart not shrink back from the cross. Let it be the place you run to, again and again. For in that cursed tree, the power of darkness was overthrown, and the love of God was lifted high for all the world to see.
Walk in the Light (John 12:34–36)
The crowd had heard the thunder. Some thought it was an angel. Others couldn’t explain it. But the voice of the Father had spoken, affirming the Son. And now, Jesus’ words turn directly to them. To those standing in the tension between revelation and resistance, between wonder and unbelief.
“The crowd answered Him, ‘We have heard from the Law that the Christ remains forever. How can you say that the Son of Man must be lifted up? Who is this Son of Man?’”
It is a moment of confusion, but also of confrontation. The people had categories for the Messiah: an eternal ruler, a Davidic king, an unshakable throne. They expected power, permanence, visible strength. And Jesus, speaking of being “lifted up,” shattered those categories. The phrase itself—“lifted up”—was unmistakable. It was the language of crucifixion. Of Rome. Of shame. And so the question: How can the Christ, the eternal one, be crucified? Who is this Son of Man, really?
They are asking the right question, but from the wrong heart. They cannot reconcile a dying Savior with a reigning King. They want light but only on their terms.
And then Jesus, as He so often does, answers with a deeper invitation, not an explanation: “The light is among you for a little while longer. Walk while you have the light, lest darkness overtake you.”
There is urgency in His voice. The window of revelation is still open, but it is beginning to close. The hourglass is running out. “While you have the light, believe in the light, that you may become sons of light.”
Jesus is offering Himself. He is the Light of the world: a Light that exposes, that reveals, that heals, that guides. But the light does not linger forever. To reject the light is not just to remain in ignorance, it is to be overtaken by darkness.
Jesus is not simply urging them to understand. He is pleading with them to trust. The call to walk in the light is not about having all the answers; it’s about surrender. About letting the light guide your steps, even when the path leads to a cross.
There is something profoundly moving in the fact that Jesus, knowing the rejection that is coming, still offers this invitation. His heart is wide open. The light still shines. Grace is still extended. But it will not be extended forever.
For the believer, these words still echo with urgency and tenderness. “Walk while you have the light.” Don’t waste the moments when Christ draws near. Don’t harden your heart to His voice. Don’t let the questions of your mind paralyze the obedience of your soul. There is enough light for the next step, so take it.
To walk in the light is to live in the presence of Christ, to follow the One who is not only lifted up in death but also in glory. It is to live with open eyes and a yielded heart, allowing the radiance of the crucified and risen Lord to shape every part of your life.
To become a son of light. What a beautiful phrase. It speaks of identity. Of being born into the brightness of truth, adopted into the warmth of God’s love. Jesus doesn’t just want us to admire the light. He wants us to belong to it. To reflect it. To carry it into the shadows of the world.
Believe in the light. Become a child of light. For the Light has come into the world, and the darkness will never overcome it.
Coram Deo
As we draw near to the celebration of Passion Week in April, we close the month of March with our eyes fixed on a singular, soul-arresting reality: the King has come, and His hour has arrived.
Not an hour of applause, but of agony. Not the moment of worldly triumph, but the moment of eternal victory. Jesus, fully aware of the suffering ahead, does not hesitate. He does not shrink back. He sets His face like flint toward the cross. No turning back. No second thoughts. A greater love compels Him forward. A deeper joy strengthens His steps.
For the joy set before Him, He endured the cross, despising the shame... (Hebrews 12:2).And what was that joy? It was the glory of the Father. It was the salvation of sinners. It was for you to be ransomed, redeemed, and restored to God.
This is not the story of a martyr; this is the mission of the Messiah. The Seed fell into the ground and died, but from His death, life has sprung up for the nations. The Light entered our darkness, and the darkness could not overcome Him. The King was lifted up, not to escape death, but to defeat it. And in His being lifted up, He draws all people to Himself.
So what will you do with this King?Will you walk in the light while it shines?Will you believe in the One who died so that you might live?Will you follow Him, not just in admiration, but in surrender?
He calls us today not to safer religion but to deeper union. To walk the way of the cross. To lay down our lives and discover, at last, the eternal life that can never be taken away.
Beloved, do not rush past this moment. Let your heart linger here, at the edge of the hour, where glory meets suffering, where the King embraces His crown of thorns, and where love goes all the way to the end.
This is our Savior.This is our King.And this is His hour.
Walk in His light.Follow His path.And behold the glory of the King who came to die, so that we might live.
Amen.
The Pilgrim’s Interests is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Get full access to The Pilgrim’s Interests at pilgrimsinterest.substack.com/subscribe
