4/13/25 Sermon

Before we hear today’s Scripture, it’s worth remembering where we are in the story.

For ten chapters now, Luke has been guiding us along Jesus’ long road to Jerusalem—a journey that began back in chapter 9 when Jesus “set his face” toward the city. This moment has been building for quite some time. And now, as Jesus draws near to Jerusalem, the tension is thick. Hopes are high. The crowds are expectant.

Historically, this is a politically charged time: Passover is approaching—a celebration of God’s liberation from empire—and the city is swelling with pilgrims. Roman soldiers are on edge, religious leaders are cautious, and the people… well, the people are desperate for change. They’re ready for a Messiah, but many are expecting someone who will overthrow Rome, not ride in on a borrowed colt.

Literarily, Luke is pulling forward the prophetic tradition—echoes of Zechariah and the Psalms, gestures that signal Jesus is not just arriving, but entering as king. But the kind of king he is—and the kind of kingdom he brings—will challenge everything they hoped for.

So as we listen to this passage, keep that in mind: this is not just a triumphal entry. It’s the beginning of a holy collision—between expectation and reality, between human desire and divine purpose.

Let’s listen now for what the Spirit is saying to the Church at this time and in this place as we hear God’s Word in Luke 19:28–40

After Jesus said this, he continued on ahead, going up to Jerusalem. As Jesus came to Bethphage and Bethany on the Mount of Olives, he gave two disciples a task. He said, “Go into the village over there. When you enter it, you will find tied up there a colt that no one has ever ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say, ‘Its master needs it.’”

Those who had been sent found it exactly as he had said. As they were untying the colt, its owners said to them, “Why are you untying the colt?”

They replied, “Its master needs it.” They brought it to Jesus, threw their clothes on the colt, and lifted Jesus onto it. As Jesus rode along, they spread their clothes on the road.

As Jesus approached the road leading down from the Mount of Olives, the whole throng of his disciples began rejoicing. They praised God with a loud voice because of all the mighty things they had seen. They said, “Blessings on the king who comes in the name of the Lord. Peace in heaven and glory in the highest heavens.”

Some of the Pharisees from the crowd said to Jesus, “Teacher, scold your disciples! Tell them to stop!”

He answered, “I tell you, if they were silent, the stones would shout.”

WORD OF LORD

Why do we celebrate Palm Sunday?

On Palm Sunday, we remember the crowd that shouted "Hosanna!" and laid down palm branches. Yet, less than a week later, that same crowd shouted "Crucify him!” …

Why do they do that? How can they do that?  How does this story shift so dramatically in less than a week?   I can only speculate but I have to imagine that it’s because their expectations weren’t met. 

And I try not to judge them too harshly for it. I try to understand that our vision is 20/20 looking back and I have the privilege to do so when they don’t.  I mean think about the crowds situation here for a second. If we were an oppressed people under Roman occupation, and someone showed up claiming to be the Messiah—the Savior—wouldn’t we expect them to overthrow the Empire? To bring revolution? How would we feel if instead we got a carpenter who talks about loving enemies and turning the other cheek?

And when Jesus doesn’t meet these expectations we have for him—what happens then? We tear him down from his pedestal, we load him up with the weight of everything we’ve felt has gone wrong, and we throw him to the wolves.  Just like the crowd.  

I used to think maybe they were caught up in the moment - that they were a fair weather crowd having a fair weather celebration trying to be on the winning team.  But I think that’s too simplistic of a perspective these days.  I think they felt Jesus failed them.  I think that they placed him so high on the pedestal that when he failed their expectations the fall was devastating. 

This isn’t just something that happened back then—it happens in our own lives all the time. We place people we admire on pedestals, expecting them to be something they’re not. Have you ever done that? Have You ever put someone on a pedestal? Imagining them to be perfect? I’ve done that.

There have been people in my life I admired so much, I expected them to act and speak a certain way. And when they didn’t, when they failed to live up to the expectations I put on them, they came crashing down. And I ended up hurt. But the truth is—they didn’t fail. My expectations failed.

Growing up, I was super close to my dad. He was my hero and there was nothing so close to God on earth as my own father. And I think in some ways he has an overly optimistic and positive view of me too. He’s always challenged me to be better than I thought I could be. 

He seemed to know all the answers and what to do and how to treat people and how to fix every problem I could think of. But Then I developed problems that he couldn’t help me with or he wouldn’t help me with. And I thought he was abandoning me. So, I abandoned him. He fell from his pedestal. 

He couldn’t fix everything. And I was mad that He couldn’t or wouldn’t fix me because I expected that he could and he would.

Now looking back, I can understand that he was at a loss. I can understand that he was teaching me personal responsibility for my actions and that sometimes being bailed out of trouble isn’t actually help. But at the time, my perfect father was a failure to me. Which worries me. Because my kids, especially Isaac, seem to think I know everything and can do anything too and I’m absolutely clueless most of the time. I just make it up as I go along wondering to myself how many years of therapy I’m wracking up for these poor kids.  And I wonder now if my dad wasn’t doing the same thing.

Maybe he didn’t know everything. But, I’ll tell you what, today my dad is one of my best friends and a dear mentor to me. But we’ve developed a realistic relationship. I understand he’s not a perfect person. He definitely knows I’m not. But it took him falling from the pedestal I put him on for us to get there. I had to realize my expectations of what I thought he should be and what I thought he should do weren’t realistic and weren’t always the best things for him to do. 

That experience with my dad? It reshaped the way I relate to God. Because I started to see that I do something similar with Jesus. I don’t just love and follow him—I sometimes expect him to behave the way I think he should. To show up when I want,  and how I want, fixing the things I think need fixing. And when that doesn’t happen… I get frustrated.  I get disappointed.

But maybe that’s exactly where grace begins—not in God meeting my expectations, but in God gently undoing them. Because the truth is, God rarely does things my way. And thank God for that.

My way is short-sighted. God’s way is saving the world.

It’s strange to think we have expectations for Christ—but we do. 

And when those expectations aren’t met—what then?

Do we walk away?

We always imagine Palm Sunday as this big, happy parade—Jesus smiling, the disciples cheering like pep rally captains getting the crowd hyped for the big game.

But the Gospels don’t really say that.

Only the crowd celebrates. Not the disciples. Not Jesus. The ones waving branches and singing songs? They’re not the ones who’ve walked alongside Jesus through the hard parts. They weren’t there for the jeers, the stones, the late-night conversations when nothing made sense.

They won’t be there at the Last Supper. They won’t be there in the Garden. They certainly won’t be there as he hangs from the cross. And because they won’t be there then, they won’t be there for the empty tomb either.

Because they miss the point.

They expected Jesus to bring a kingdom without Rome. Instead, he brought a kingdom with God.

But this isn’t just their problem—it’s ours too.

Because, let’s be honest—we miss the point more than we’d like to admit. 

And so I wonder which group we’re in. What kingdom are we expecting?

It’s easy to say “love your enemies” when they’re half a world away. It’s harder when they sit across the dinner table and voted for everything you can’t stand.

It’s easy to say we care for the poor—until their needs are messy and inconvenient and right in front of us.

It’s easy to sing Hosannas when the table is set and the cupboards are full. It’s a lot harder when the cupboards are bare and the bank account is empty.

It’s easy to say "turn the other cheek" when we’re the ones doing the slapping.

It’s easy to come here and worship and praise God once a week at best. It’s harder to carry that worship and praise into the shadows of everyday living.

So the question is: What will sustain us when the fanfare fades? When the lights go out and the world goes quiet… Who will we be then?

Will our faith endure not just the celebration, but the sorrow? Not just the palms, but the passion?

Because here’s the thing: Jesus knew the crowd would turn. He knew his disciples would scatter. He knew that the road ahead led to betrayal, to suffering, and to death. And yet, knowing all of that, knowing exactly who we are—still, he kept going.

And still—he kept going.

He didn’t walk away. He didn’t give up. He rode into Jerusalem not for the cheers, but for the cross. Not for the momentary praise, but for the eternal promise.

He rode in for us.

And that’s what sustains us.

Not the strength of our faith, but the depth of his love. Not our perfect understanding, but his unwavering grace. Not the branches we wave, but the cross he bore.

And maybe that’s the point of Palm Sunday—not the celebration we planned, but the surrender we need. Because the Savior we meet rarely looks like the one we imagined. He comes not to fulfill our demands, but to free us from them.

So this week, what if we laid down more than just palm branches? What if we laid down our expectations—of how God should act, when grace should arrive, what redemption should look like? What if we loosened our grip on the kind of Messiah we think we need, and instead opened our hearts to the one who is already here?

The God who enters not with fanfare, but with faithfulness. Not in glory, but in grace. The God who doesn’t promise easy answers, but a love deep enough to carry us—through the silence, through the shadows, all the way to resurrection.

So here is your invitation this morning —your holy challenge for a Holy Week: lay it down. Lay down your need to be right. Lay down your picture of how life should go. Lay down your expectations of how God must show up. And instead—watch. Listen. Wait.

Because the God we didn’t expect is already moving, already speaking, already bringing life where we least imagined it. And maybe—just maybe—what God has in store is far better than what we thought we needed.

Thanks be to God. Amen.