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 i
