WLSU: Save Me but Not Like That

So there must have been some level of gratification that Jesus felt on his triumphal entry into Jerusalem towards the end of his ministry. We observed this day last Sunday in church. We call it Palm Sunday. And we ritually retell and re-enact the narrative of that moment, as we mimic our scriptural siblings and cry out “Hosanna!”

You’ve probably heard this term, hosanna in some religious context. If so, it’s likely you never really wondered what it meant. I have been a practicing Christian for 38 of my 44 years and for most of that time I heard or said “Hosanna” in church and not until sometime in the last couple years did I bother to dig deeper. Well, it’s simple – it means, “Save us!” or “Help us!”That’s it. And on that day all those years ago, the people surrounding Jesus cried out Hosanna! Which means they actually knew they needed help, and they had the courage or desperation to ask for it.

Hosanna! Save us!

This is one of the running themes of Jesus’ ministry: Who does he help? Anyone who asks for it. This of course speaks to Jesus’ inclusive attitude and terribly low standards. Apparently, all you have to do is ask for help, and he’ll help you? It also reveals this truth: acknowledging we need help is in fact part of the process of being saved.

Jesus goes to work, and he heals people. He helps people. He saves people. Then he heads to Jerusalem, the political, cultural, religious, social center of his people, and he goes there during Passover, when every one of these oppressed Israelites has Egypt and the Exodus and liberation on the brain. And he symbolizes for so many of them the possibility of deliverance – of salvation – not just from some abstract afterlife Hell, but from the things that are harming them here and now. Hosanna! Help us!

This is a promising moment. It quickly disintegrates. After several days of teaching and fierce verbal confrontations with religious leaders and cultural influencers, Jesus is arrested, put on trial, and publicly executed. Among those who advocated so strongly for his death were the people who had cried Hosanna the loudest. The week between Palm Sunday and Easter is the grotesque illustration of what happens when we don’t like how God wants to help us.

What Jesus does is he reminds each person that they need saving not just from some governing power or corrupt system – they also need saving from themselves, from their own ability to sabotage their lives, their own resistance to God’s love and justice, their own complicity in the things that push them further from God. And he’s not speaking to them from on high, from above the fray, from a place of privilege. Like all good prophets, he’s speaking to them as one of them.

As you may recall, it does not go well.

I have mentioned recently that I am going on sabbatical. And the response I’ve gotten from people at the Church of the Redeemer has been overwhelmingly, uniformly positive. It’s been really beautiful. And this is great because one of the things that will make it easier for me to step away from my community and rest for a little while is knowing that I have their love and support as I do so.

That being said, one thing I’ve noticed – and it happens very rarely, but it does happen – is that someone who knows me and cares about me will say with zero irony, sarcasm, or condescension, “I know you really need this break.”

Wait, what do you mean you know?

“Well, I can tell you’re tired, I can tell you’re still carrying a lot from the pandemic, your patience and energy aren’t quite like they used to be.”

When someone says this, I try to smile and nod and receive that information graciously. But part of me is like the kid who can’t buckle his seatbelt. How dare you! How dare you notice that I need help! And of course, I do need help. I need rest. I need to process some things. I am tired. Sometimes it shows, but how dare anyone notice!

I want the help of the sabbatical, but I don’t want to admit that I need it. I don’t want to admit that my exhaustion has had an effect on me. I don’t want to acknowledge that it’s noticeable. I want to go on a sabbatical and have people say, “Well good for him, but frankly I never noticed a thing.” I want help but I don’t want to acknowledge I need help.

I see Jesus telling the people around him, “You know I can tell you actually do need help. This life you’re living has had an effect on you, and in fact some of the things you’re doing will need to change if you’re serious about being saved. I won’t just save you from them, I’ll save you from you.” And this is where the anger comes in. Help us Jesus, but not like that.

We kill Jesus, and we call it Good Friday. It is not good because of us. It is good because of God. It is good because on that day we find out the lengths to which God will go in order to save us - we who want salvation but don’t know how to let ourselves be saved. God is willing even to die for us.

In some ways Easter is a holy afterthought. By the time Jesus rises from the grave, the work has already been done. Easter is a wonderful exclamation point, a powerful reminder that even when I kill God’s love it can’t stay dead. Even when I violently reject the help I need, God is faithful and patient. God is willing to live for me – for us – even when we don’t know how to accept the love for which we were made. Save us God. Just like that.