Sometimes We Miss the One God Sends
Our scripture invites us into the streets of Jerusalem during Passover. Jerusalem is already crowded. The population of Jerusalem would swell from 50,000 up to 250,000 people during Passover. The streets were crowded. People pressing in from every direction. Travelers, families, merchants, animals. The city has been swelling for days.
The story of Passover, when God freed God’s people from slavery in Egypt, draws people in. Freedom remembered, and the promise that God’s people can still find hope in deliverance.
And in a city like this, people know what it looks like when power arrives.
Rome did not hide its power. Rome made sure you saw it, heard it, felt it. Rome is who ruled the city of Jerusalem and the surrounding area during the time of Jesus. Pontious Pilate usually resided at his beach house, made a point to come to town for big celebrations like Passover, in the name of ‘keeping the peace.’ He would come into town in military procession called a Triumph. These were huge parades with ordered lines of soldiers moving together, metal armor and weapons catching the light, giant war horses stepping in rhythm and lifting commanders above everyone else. Power and control were not separate ideas. Control was how power proved itself. The message was clear. Pilate is in power – pay attention.
When those processions came through, no one had to ask what was happening. The message was carried in the marching and war horses and glints of armor. You felt it settle in your chest before anyone explained it. This is what power looks like. This is what holds the world in place. Pilate is power, Rome is power.
So when Jesus approaches the city, the crowd begins to gather; they are not starting from scratch. They’ve seen this before. They’ve seen what it looks like when someone enters a city, and its in this gathering around Jesus that everything begins to shift. Jesus is entering not just on an ordinary day but among an atmosphere of memory. Memory of Passover. The promise that God acts. The hope that what has been done before can happen again.
Words from psalms begin to rise up from deep within the people:
“This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes.
This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Hosanna - save us, we beseech you, O LORD…
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the LORD.”
Someone starts shouting, “Hosanna.”
It catches. Spreads. Moves through the crowd faster than you can track. Cloaks come off of shoulders and hit the ground. Branches are cut and thrown down in the road. People press in close, walking with him, not standing back.
“Hosanna to the Son of David.”
“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”
They are not guessing. They are naming Jesus as savior. Reaching for words they have been given, words that have carried hope for generations. Save us. Come through. Let this be the moment things turn.
The hope in that moment is overwhelming.
No one is quiet. No one is holding back.
It builds in the body before it settles in the mind. You can feel it in the crowd, that rising certainty that something is finally happening, that this is the moment when things begin to change.
And Jesus is right there in the middle of it, fully aware of what they are expecting, fully aware of where this road leads.
“Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me.”
He is not swept up in the moment. He leans into it, but he does not mirror it. He steps into the expectation and begins to turn it. Not elevated above them. Not separated from them. Close enough to touch.
A donkey.
No armor. No weapon. No distance between him and the people shouting his name.
In the crowd, you can feel it building, not just around Jesus but inside each person. This is it. This is what we have been waiting for. This is how it happens. This is how things change. The right leader, the right moment, the right kind of power, finally taking hold.
You can almost hear the thoughts forming as they move together:
Now things will be set right.
Now the kind of power we know will finally be on our side.
They don’t say it out loud.
They don’t have to.
It is carried in the movement, in the shouting, in the way the moment begins to take shape in their imagination before anything has actually happened.
They skip to the good part.
And without realizing it, they begin to shape Jesus into the kind of king they already understand, the kind who takes control, proves strength, and secures the outcome.
This is human.
Across time, across places, across generations, this is how we move.
When hope rises, we reach for what we recognize. We look for strength we can measure, leadership that takes hold, outcomes we can point to and say, there, that is working. We want something decisive, something strong, something that doesn’t look uncertain or fragile.
And when something quieter unfolds, something slower, something that does not dominate or prove itself in obvious ways, it can feel like it isn’t enough, like it isn’t working, like something has gone wrong. Too emotional. Not strong enough. Not the kind of leadership that can actually get things done.
The crowd is not wrong for hoping like this. They have carried this story for generations, and when something begins to shift, they respond the only way they know how. They show up, they sing, they reach for the moment as it unfolds in front of them. But they move too quickly to define it. They reach the good part before it has time to take its own shape, and in that rush, they begin to remake Jesus into the kind of king they already understand.
Because of that, what comes next will not fit.
A table, where power looks like giving yourself away instead of securing your place.
A basin, where power kneels close and takes on the work no one else wants.
A cross, where power refuses domination and does not save itself through force.
The same pressures that surfaced with the Tempter in the wilderness do not disappear. They return here, not as a private struggle, but out in the open where everyone can see them take shape. We remember from the desert that Jesus will not grasp at outcomes that warp who he is.
Control is offered, and he releases it, even to the point of betrayal.
Spectacle is possible, and he refuses to perform.
Domination is within reach, and he walks in the opposite direction.
We will watch it unfold in real time.
On Maundy Thursday, at the table and the basin.
On Good Friday, at the cross.
What they are celebrating here will not unfold the way they imagine, and when that becomes clear, the ground shifts under them. Not because they were foolish, but because they skipped to the Good Part.
And over the course of this week, that becomes visible, not in grand display but in actions that are close, embodied, and easy to miss if we are still looking for something else.
Power is not control. It is love enacted in relationship.
And that begins to shift the question from who Jesus is to how we will live in response.
Do we reach for control, spectacle, and domination, the kinds of power that prove themselves by taking hold, or do we begin to live differently, shaped by trust, by connection, by a love that does not seize control in order to be real?
The crowd was close. They were involved. They were singing the right words, and still, they tried to make him into something he was not.
So we hold this moment with care. We do not lose the joy, and we do not lose the hope, but we resist deciding too quickly what kind of king we are welcoming.
“Hosanna.”
Save us.
And let this week show us what that really means, as we move into Holy Week with new eyes to see Jesus for who he is, not only who we expected him to be.
Want to Go Deeper?
Faith doesn’t form in the moments we wish would hurry up. It takes shape in the waiting, the wrestling, and the choices we make when pressure tempts us to move on too quickly. This reflection stays with those in-between places, asking what it means to resist shortcuts and practice justice, kindness, and humility in the lives we are actually living.
Some of these reflections are now shared through the Sacred Narratives podcast, while others continue in writing here and on Substack, each one tracing the same question from a different angle.
If you want to stay connected, the best way is to subscribe through my website. That’s where I share more personal reflections and where you’ll receive updates about upcoming classes, gatherings, and ways to take part in this work together.
If you want to keep walking this road without skipping the hard parts, I’d love to have you along.
