Flip the table today.
Let’s talk about Monday. Yesterday was Palm Sunday—the cheers, the celebration, the palms waving, the big moment, the relaxation! You felt it. You lived it. Maybe it was a win, a breakthrough, just that one thing you’ve been waiting for or maybe just peace. And now? It’s Monday.
No crowd. No applause. No fanfare. Just you. Just the week ahead. Just the aftermath of the high.
Welcome to the Monday after your Palm Sunday. This is where the real work begins.
Palm Sunday gets all the attention—the triumphal entry, the crowd shouting “Hosanna!” But let’s pause for a moment and really think about it. Jesus wasn’t surprised by the cheers. He wasn’t blindsided by the palms. He didn’t wake up on Sunday thinking, “Wow, what a good day this is going to be.”
No, He already knew. Before He rode into Jerusalem, He had already made the decision. He knew Monday was coming. He knew Wednesday would bring betrayal. He knew Friday meant the cross.
And yet, He rode in anyway. That’s not just a celebration story. That’s a courage story. The crowd was cheering for a King. Jesus was carrying a cross. And the distance between the cheering and the carrying? One Monday morning.
We remember Palm Sunday. We reflect on Good Friday. We celebrate Easter Sunday. But what about Monday? Monday of Holy Week is the day Jesus walked back into Jerusalem, rolled up His sleeves, and got to work.
No palms. No crowd. No celebration. Just purpose.
The same Jesus who received worship on Sunday showed up on Monday ready to confront what was wrong, teach what was right, and move forward with intention toward the cross He already saw coming. That’s your Monday morning assignment. Because Monday doesn’t care about Sunday’s crowd. Monday only asks one question: Are you still moving?
Let’s be real—Monday can feel like a buzzkill. There’s this strange phenomenon that happens after every big moment. Athletes know it. Entrepreneurs know it. Anyone who’s ever worked hard for something knows it.
The summit feels smaller than you imagined. The launch feels quieter than you expected. The win feels shorter than it should. And then Monday shows up with its ordinary weight and whispers the most dangerous lie: “Was that it?”
But let me tell you something: That whisper is not wisdom. It’s the enemy trying to undo everything Sunday started.
Your Palm Sunday—your big moment, your breakthrough, your win—was never the finish line. It was the starting line disguised as a finish line. And Monday is where you find out which one you thought it was.
Monday isn’t punishment for Sunday. Monday is the proof of Sunday. Anyone can show up for the crowd. Anyone can rise for the celebration. Anyone can perform when the palms are waving.
But Monday? Monday is for the ones who meant it. Monday is for the ones who knew Friday was coming—and showed up anyway.
This is your Monday. The crowd is gone. The noise has settled. The moment has passed. And you? You’re still here. Still building. Still moving. Still showing up. That’s not ordinary. That’s Palm Sunday courage—dressed in Monday clothes.
If you’re wondering what to do on the Monday after your big moment, look at what Jesus did.
He went back in. Jesus didn’t stay outside the city, basking in Sunday’s reception. He walked back into Jerusalem. Back into the hard places. Back into the work. Your Monday mandate? Go back in. Back into the business. Back into the relationship. Back into the tough conversation. Back into the work that Sunday’s moment was always pointing toward.
He confronted what was wrong. On Monday, Jesus flipped the tables in the temple. He confronted the corruption and the compromises that had gone on too long. Your Monday mandate? Name what’s not working. That broken process. That bad habit. That compromise you’ve been tolerating. Monday is the day you flip the table.
He kept teaching. After flipping the tables, Jesus taught. He kept giving, kept building, kept pouring into people—even knowing what Thursday and Friday would cost Him. Your Monday mandate? Keep giving anyway. Keep building. Keep teaching. Keep pouring. Even when Friday looks hard. Especially when Friday looks hard.
Here’s the truth about Holy Week that no one puts on a motivational poster. The most important week in human history looked like a disaster from the inside. Monday—tables flipped. Tuesday—public confrontations. Wednesday—silence. Thursday—betrayal. Friday—the cross. Saturday—the tomb.
From the outside, it looked like everything was falling apart. But Sunday was already scheduled.
Your week ahead might look messy. It might feel like opposition, silence, betrayal, or even a cross. But if you’re still moving, still building, still showing up—your Sunday is already scheduled too.
Father, thank You for Monday. Thank You for the Palm Sundays You’ve given me—the wins, the breakthroughs, the moments. And thank You that they were never meant to be the destination. Give me Monday courage. The courage to go back in. The courage to flip the tables. The courage to keep teaching, building, and giving—even when Friday is visible. Help me remember that the most important weeks of my life may look like falling apart from the outside—while You are building something that Sunday will reveal. In Jesus’ name. Amen.
Monday is not the end of Palm Sunday. Monday is what Palm Sunday was always for. Go back in. Flip the table. Keep building. Your Sunday is already scheduled.