Editorial: I fear I would have been in the ‘crucify him’ crowd

We sat in an unfamiliar church, in the last row. I could see the stony backs of our young adult children a few rows forward and as I watched them, I knew that this wouldn’t be the day things would change. I hadn’t expected a miracle breakthrough but thought there was a chance this church would connect in a way ours didn’t seem to. You try things, and you hope.

I shrugged internally and turned from watching them to tune in to the service. The minister was describing the procession of Roman soldiers and dignitaries into Jerusalem on what we know as Palm Sunday. He contrasted it to Jesus’ entrance on the same day: Roman pomp, grandeur and strength on one hand—Jesus’ gentleness and humility on the other.

Photo by Bruno van der Kraan on Unsplash

Unexpectedly, I understood something I’d wondered about. “How could a crowd that loudly proclaimed Jesus on this day turn into a throng that wanted to crucify him in less than a week?” I suddenly realized—feared—that I’d have been one of them.

What I had missed till now was the hope wrapped up in Jesus’ entry that day. Here was the teacher/prophet who could heal the sick, cast out demons, and feed five thousand people with a lunch intended for one—riding into Jerusalem as the Messiah would be expected to.

This was the one—surely! And this was the time! Jesus would be king, and Israel would be free; they would prosper, the hungry would have food, the kingdom would be just, and it would last forever. What an incredible, exhilarating moment in history!

And then Jesus got off the donkey and went to his lodging and went to sleep—and nothing changed. And the next day, nothing changed.

How do you describe what happens to desperate hope, when fulfillment is finally just within reach—and then is shown to be a mirage? The way hope turns dark—to bitterness or rage?

So, you yell “crucify him!” five days later because you want him to suffer for his betrayal. You yell “crucify him!” with tears stinging your eyes hoping that instead of letting himself be crucified, he will rise even now to reign. You yell “crucify him” because you don’t understand what’s going on—why is this Messiah letting himself be killed? It shouldn’t even be possible to kill this man who can raise people from the dead. But he does die—as we demand.  

Some people in the crowd repented later, Luke records in the second chapter of Acts. I hope I would have repented then too—that I would have begun to understand how different this kingdom was. How little it had to do with victorious rule here, now, and how much it had to do with giving yourself up—trusting Jesus with how his kingdom worked. I hope I would have recognized Jesus as the King he is—the Lion of Judah who appears as a lamb that was slain—and that this would have brought me to my knees.

We left the service quietly. There would be no breakthrough today, but there was a kind of peace: part resignation, a recognition of our limitations; part confidence in Jesus our King; and part commitment to continue as we had been, to love, to pray, to wait.