“I don’t understand.” “This is not how I thought it would
be.”
Those words have probably never been spoken more than during
the first Passion Week. Have you ever had your dreams soar to their greatest
height, only to come crashing down, dead and buried, five days later?
As Jesus rode into Jerusalem on what we now call Palm
Sunday, the Jews surely thought the end was near. This man could well be their
long-awaited Messiah. Although he had come to earth the same way the rest of us
do and had spent the bulk of his life as a carpenter, a lot of them were
willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He could draw a crowd, for sure.
He could also heal them, feed them, and raise the dead to life. No one else had
ever done those things. He also talked in an entirely different way. He spoke
of the kingdom of God like it was something urgent, something near. And
wouldn’t it be just like God to unleash His glory and topple the Roman
government at the time of Passover, when all His people were gathered together
for their biggest celebration of the year?
Think of the excitement in the air. Their day was coming!
They had suffered and waited expectantly for centuries, and it looked like this
this Jesus could be the answer to all of their problems, the fulfillment of all
their longings. They couldn’t help but throw their cloaks down before him, to
wave palm branches at him, to give him a victor’s parade. “Hosanna!” they cried
at the top of their lungs. “Save us.
NOW!” It was as much a command as a plea. They were tired of living under
the paradox of being God’s chosen people yet enduring harassment and oppression
for generations. Tired of being merely tolerated and not respected. They were
tired of being afraid. Sick and tired of losing. And this man, one of them,
could be the game changer. I bet you could feel the air crackling with
anticipation that week.
Except the week ended with his arrest. Unexpected, but
surely this was part of the plan? He would pull out one of his miracles,
overcome his captors, and break free. What sweet satisfaction to see the Roman
guards humiliated by the likes of one of them. Except he didn’t escape. He
actually started to look weaker by the minute. Why didn’t he resist them? Why
was this man, full of words that could raise the dead, suddenly so quiet? Why
would he stand there and take that beating, almost willingly? Had he given up?
And if the one we thought would save us gives up, where does that leave the
rest of us?
Hopeless. The despair of hopelessness must have moved in so
quickly. What was worse—watching Jesus trudge up that hill, unable to even
carry his own cross, or watching the faces of thousands of people realizing
their dreams were dead? “I don’t understand.” “This is not how I thought it
would be.”
Some of them gave up right there. They couldn’t bear to
stick around and watch the end. Others held onto hope until the last breath,
but when Jesus himself said, “It is finished,” what more was there to believe
in? This Passover, full of such promise, would be like all the others—a
remembrance of an ancient time when God cared enough about His people to rescue
them. Except surely this one would be sadder.
Don’t you wish we could tell them? “Hang in there! Hold onto
hope! Sunday is coming! Your dreams aren’t dead—they’re just delayed! And what
you’re about to see will be so much more than what you could have dreamed
yourself. Jesus didn’t come to overthrow a government. No, not such a small
thing as that! He came to overthrow death
itself.”
This is why we hope. When children die, when jobs are lost,
when bills are due and money is scarce, when terrorists threaten, when things
don’t turn out the way we thought they would—we still have hope. God doesn’t do
what we think He’ll do. Our dreams go unfulfilled or even sometimes die. But
His dreams for us are so much bigger. They’re resurrection big.
Hang in there. Hold onto hope. Sunday is coming.
