Hope

That’s the thing about hope. It doesn’t always feel like hope when you’re in it. Sometimes it feels like disappointment. Or silence. Or plain old grief. Sometimes it greets you as loneliness. Sometimes, despair.

So, here we are—Palm Sunday. The beginning of Holy Week. The week where everything gets turned upside down before it gets put back together in a new way.

For five weeks now, Lent has been slowly walking us to this space. And now we stand on the edge of the story that will take us not just to the cross, but into the tomb, and then to Easter.

What better way to celebrate than with a parade.

​Not one with floats and marching bands. But one that attracts people’s attention, and gets others to notice God's glory in their midst.

The next day the great crowd that had come to the festival heard that Jesus was coming to Jerusalem.  So they took branches of palm trees and went out to meet him, shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord-- the King of Israel!” Jesus found a young donkey and sat on it, as it is written: “Do not be afraid, daughter of Zion. Look, your king is coming, sitting on a donkey’s colt!” His disciples did not understand these things at first, but when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that these things had been written of him and had been done to him. So the crowd that had been with him when he called Lazarus out of the tomb and raised him from the dead continued to testify. It was also because they heard that he had performed this sign that the crowd went to meet him. The Pharisees then said to one another, “You see, you can do nothing. Look, the world has gone after him!”                                                                                                                                       ​John 12:12-19

 I have preached this story well over a dozen times. And still my favorite part is how Jesus chooses to rolls into Jerusalem on a borrowed donkey, because why not. He’s really not attached to owning things. They weigh him down. Of course, he’s also not into great fanfare and applause. But still the people give it to him - throwing him a parade. 
 
Which is really more of a lampoon of another parade happening downtown. A Roman general, on a mighty warhorse, marches his soldiers through the Main Street of Jerusalem. Their uniforms covered in blood from an uprising nearby.

More than a victory parade, it was a warning to anyone thinking about challenging Rome’s elite power. And then there’s Jesus in juxtaposition, quietly riding in without swagger or flex. He has no need to impress, because that’s not what love does.
 
Still, the people, his people, wave palm branches, shouting “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord – the king of Israel.” You could say it was a snub at Herod, the local king in Caesar’s pocket. But really this was a desperate cry for help. Hosannah literally means “God, help us!”

They know the risk of shouting this in public. They know Rome is watching. But they are at the end of their rope. They’re tired of being occupied. Tired of the crushing grip on their throats. They’re tired of being tired.

So, they show up. And wave Jesus in. Not because they’re certain he’s the one. But because they’re hopeful.
 
Yet, what they hope for isn’t exactly what they get, is it? They want a powerful leader. Not powerless servant. They want a general on his warhorse. Not a pacifist on a borrowed donkey. They want Game of Thrones. But get Golgotha.
 
The thing is, Jesus doesn’t come wielding power - but peace. His eyes are focused on a cross no one else can see yet. No one along that parade route gets it. Neither do his disciples. Or the Pharisees. No one gets it until after the resurrection, when the broken pieces start to form a picture of hope.
 
That’s the thing about hope. It doesn’t always feel like hope when you’re in it. Sometimes it feels like disappointment. Or silence. Or plain old grief. Sometimes it greets you as loneliness. Sometimes, despair.
 
Maybe you know this feeling when the job didn’t come through, the healing didn’t happen, the prayers get swallowed in silence. I’ve had those periods where it felt like God had ghosted me. It’s in these moments all I wanted to do was chuck my faith to the curb and walk away.

It's in these times, when I’m tired and broken, I find myself at the end of my rope joining that holy choir screaming, “Hosannah!” And on a borrowed donkey, through darkness and chaos, hope unexpectedly comes.
 
Because that’s what hope does. It always shows up. Because of that, we can rejoice.
 
I got a friend who, since the pandemic, has had a rough go at life. He lost his job. But was able to find an addiction. And this led him to be estranged to his kids, it also brought him closer to his regrets and pain. When I asked him how he’s holding on. He said, “All I got left is hope, but that’s enough.”
 
This optimism reminded me of something St. Augustine wrote: “Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage. Anger at the way things are. And courage to see that they do not remain as they are.”
 
Whether it comes in loud and large, or silently in the dark shadows, hope always shows up - so we can show up to life transformed, made new again.

Jesus doesn’t need a parade to prove anything or to threaten anyone. What he brings with him is something that’s more powerful than any promise given by any earthly king. That’s hope.
 
To borrow from the psalmist, “Where does my hope come from? It comes from the Lord.” Knowing this and believing this Jesus is able to see the world with the eyes of a compassionate heart…the very heart of Christ.
 
Through him, God hears our cries and comes to us, in the flesh, carrying peace instead of a sword. Offering grace instead of retribution. Forgiveness instead of revenge. In Christ, God pours love upon us whether we deserve it or not.

This is what salvation looks like in God’s Kingdom. A hope that leads to healing. A love that moves us from death to life.
 
This love, God’s love, has the power to change and transform everything. From the Roman centurion who watched Jesus die to Mary Magdalene who wept in the garden at the empty tomb. It even transformed Peter’s understanding of everything. And made him the rock Jesus said he would become.

As Henri Nouwen reminds us, “The resurrection is God’s way of revealing to us that nothing that belongs to God will ever go to waste.”
 
Sometimes this is hard to see or remember as we stare at the cross. But as I’ve been saying throughout lent…we don’t get Easter without Good Friday. The tomb can’t be emptied until the cross is occupied.

The way to resurrection is through the cross we are called to carry. But under its weight, we have hope.
 
If we’re going to follow this donkey-riding, cross-carrying, table-flipping Christ— then we have to step into that space between Palm Sunday and Easter where hope and heartbreak hold hands.

This is what a community of love looks like. One that continues the journey Jesus began. A community that knows the cross isn't just something Jesus dies on—it’s something he calls us to pick up so we can participate in the salvation of the kingdom of heaven, here and now.
 
To paraphrase Richard Rohr, “The kingdom of heaven isn’t a place you go to later—it’s a place you enter now. It’s a new way of seeing, acting, and being in the world.”
 
Jesus says, “Let your light shine.” And, according to him, the way we do that, is to “Love one another.” And he tells us “There’s no greater love than to lay one’s life down for a friend.”

To follow Jesus is to embody God’s love like he did. And become the living, breathing, walking “hosanna” to someone crying out in pain so they don’t give up hope.
 
And let me tell you this, you won’t have to look very hard. Just as Jesus saw the faces of the broken and blessed who lined those backstreets of Jerusalem, if we open the eyes of our hearts, we will see people aching for salvation and healing.
 
Queer folks and the marginalized tired of being oppressed and pushed down by power. Men and women, trapped in the various hells they’ve made for themselves. Brothers and sisters, neighbors and strangers, weary of the lies, worn down by the greed and selfishness that is suffocating so many of God’s children.

This world is tired of being tired. It’s aching for the kingdom that Christ ushers in. A kingdom where "the first will be last, and the last will be first." Where the poor, the meek, the peacekeepers, the merciful, and pure at heart are called blessed.
 
This is our call - our mission - as we build a community of love together in the space between what is and what can be.

It’s not a call to be perfect, but to just be willing to participate – knowing the resurrection isn’t just a onetime event. It’s an on-going way of life. The Way of Jesus, who is the Christ.
 
We can stand on the sidelines, waving palm branches. Or we can go out and love God, love others, and serve both. We can cheer Jesus on. Or we can embody his Christlikeness, making hope come alive all around us.
 
If we can be such an intentional community – a place where hope is deeply rooted in Christ – then maybe, just maybe, the world will come to see what we already know.

That God’s love has the last word. And that last word is resurrection.

With this word, we have hope.

When we have hope, we have all the power we need to transform death into everlasting life.