We can say all the right things about Jesus and still expect the wrong things from him. In Luke 19, the crowd welcomes its King with praise, peace, and glory—but what happens when the Savior we celebrate does not pursue the earthly victory, security, or power we wanted?
When you prepare a small dinner and twenty guests arrive unannounced, you wish you217;d known what was coming—yet knowing what to prepare isn217;t the only kind of readiness that matters. Luke 1 tells of a righteous priest who knew exactly what God expected of him, yet when God himself appeared with news he217;d prayed decades to hear, he found himself unprepared to simply listen.
Jim Wolfe traces God217;s redemptive plan through four Old Testament 220;roadside attractions221; that foreshadow Christ 212; skins, boxes, baskets, and snakes. Along that scenic route, we arrive at the true meaning of Christmas, an attraction we actually need.
Thanksgiving takes planning, or you217;ll fill the plate and miss the pie you were waiting for. Advent works the same way. The Gospel of Mark skips the manger and the angels and jumps right to the one the Gospels proclaim: Jesus. Do we get caught up in the details or get to Him in our own preparations?
We217;re drawn to people who seem useful, impressive, ready to contribute—and in Luke 18, the disciples felt the same way when they turned away parents bringing infants to Jesus. But Jesus stopped them: 220;Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.221;
We love remembering that Jesus overturned tables in the temple—especially when we imagine them belonging to someone else. But in Luke 19:45–48 when Jesus drives out those who sold, and declares, 220;My house shall be a house of prayer,221; His challenge isn217;t just to those people who annoy us. What might He overturn when our own convenience, usefulness, and preferences begin to define worship?
Most of us know our own dirt isn217;t the curated kind—and suspect it may be too much to clean up. In Matthew 9, Jesus walks past everyone with the polished-for-consumption sob story and stops at a tax collector217;s booth, a man whose sin was public knowledge, and says simply, 220;Follow me.221;
We217;ve all felt the pull to add one more pious act—fast a little longer, pray a little harder—convinced the right combination will finally make us right before God. In Matthew 9, John217;s disciples bring that same assumption directly to Jesus, and his answer reframes not just the practice of fasting but the question of what season we217;re actually living in.
We keep wanting peace now—the right circumstances, the right outcome, the right person in charge—and that hunger is not wrong, just misdirected. In Luke 19:41–44, Jesus weeps over a city shouting for peace while blind to the only kind that lasts, and his tears raise an uncomfortable question about what we217;re actually seeking when we seek it.
Plans go awry all the time, and in the moment it feels terrible whether the fault is human weakness or God himself saying no to what we wanted. That217;s exactly where Mary finds herself in Luke 1 when Gabriel217;s greeting turns her ordinary day—and her entire future—upside down.