“If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.”
— Luke 19:42
Palm Sunday is often imagined as a day of celebration—crowds gathering, branches lifted high, voices rising in praise as Jesus enters Jerusalem. It feels triumphant, almost jubilant, the kind of moment we expect to carry only joy. And yet, in the midst of that celebration, the Gospel of Luke offers us something quieter, more tender: Jesus pauses, looks at the city, and weeps.
There, in the middle of welcome and worship, there is sorrow.
Because Jesus does not see only what is before him. He sees what could have been. He sees a city capable of peace, a people capable of love, a world within reach of something better—and he knows it has gone unrecognized. Peace was there, present and possible, but it was missed. And that is what makes his words linger, what gives them their ache: “If you had only recognized… the things that make for peace.”
For many LGBTQ+ people of faith, that longing feels deeply familiar.
We know what it is to search for peace—not as an abstract idea, but as something personal and urgent. Peace in our own hearts, where questions of identity and worth have sometimes been met with silence or shame. Peace in our relationships, where love has not always been affirmed as holy. Peace in the spaces that were meant to be sanctuaries—churches, families, communities—that instead left us wondering if we truly belonged. We have stood at those gates, hoping to be seen, to be known, to be embraced, and too often we have felt the quiet heartbreak of being overlooked.
Like Jerusalem, those spaces did not always recognize “the things that make for peace.”And yet, Palm Sunday does not leave us there.
Beneath the grief is a truth that is as gentle as it is powerful: Jesus still sees. He sees the missed opportunities, the moments when love should have been offered freely but was withheld. He sees the harm done in the name of righteousness, the ways people have been turned away when they should have been welcomed in. And he weeps—not because there is something wrong with you, but because you deserved peace all along.
His tears are not condemnation. They are compassion.
But this story is not only about what others failed to see. It is also an invitation—quiet, persistent, and deeply personal. Because after enough rejection, it becomes easy to internalize the same blindness we have encountered. We begin to wonder if peace is really meant for us. We question whether love must be earned, whether we are too much or not enough, whether there is something about us that keeps us just outside the gates.
And in those moments, peace can feel hidden from our own eyes. Palm Sunday invites us to look again.
To recognize that your identity is not a barrier to God’s love, but part of how you reflect it in the world. To see that your capacity to love deeply, honestly, and courageously—often forged through struggle—is itself one of the very things that makes for peace. To trust that Christ enters your life not with judgment, but with tenderness, with understanding, and with an unwavering presence that refuses to let you go unseen.
Even when others have failed to recognize your worth, even when peace has felt distant or obscured,
God has never missed it. God has never missed you.
And the peace Christ speaks of—the peace that was once overlooked, the peace that still waits to be named and claimed—is not lost.
It is still yours to receive.
Joe
The Closet Professor 
Thank you for commenting. I always want to know what you have to say. However, I have a few rules: 1. Always be kind and considerate to others. 2. Do not degrade other people's way of thinking. 3. I have the right to refuse or remove any comment I deem inappropriate. 4. If you comment on a post that was published over 14 days ago, it will not post immediately. Those comments are set for moderation. If it doesn't break the above rules, it will post.