“I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope. My whole being waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning…” ~ Psalm 130:5–6
Yesterday, everything came to a stop.
The cross.
The final cry.
The stillness that followed.
And today—silence.
Holy Saturday is the day we rarely know what to do with. There is no action, no movement, no clear next step. Jesus is in the tomb. The disciples are scattered. Grief is fresh, and hope feels uncertain.
All through Lent, we have been asking: Are we there yet?
And again and again, the answer has been no.
But today, the question shifts.
Now it feels like: Was that it?
This is the space in between—between what has happened and what has not yet been revealed. And if we are honest, this space is not unfamiliar.
We know what it is to wait.
To sit with unanswered prayers.
To carry grief that does not lift overnight.
To live in moments where nothing seems to be happening, and yet everything feels different.
Holy Saturday reminds us that faith is not only lived in moments of clarity or breakthrough. Sometimes faith is simply staying.
Staying when there is nothing to fix.
Staying when there is no clear direction.
Staying when God feels quiet.
Because silence is not the same as absence.
There are no recorded words from Jesus on this day. No miracles. No explanations. And yet, the story is not over.
God is still present—even in the silence.
That may be the quiet invitation of this day: not to rush ahead, not to force meaning, but to remain. To trust that even when we cannot see movement, God is still at work in ways we do not yet understand.
We know what comes next. But today is not about arriving there early.
Today is about honoring the in-between.
So if this day feels heavy, or uncertain, or unfinished—that may be exactly where you are meant to be.
There’s a question that shows up in more places than road trips and restless kids: Are we there yet?
It’s the question beneath our timelines, our goals, our expectations. It lives in career plans, relationships, faith journeys, and quiet hopes about how life is supposed to unfold. We keep expecting to arrive—at clarity, at peace, at some version of “everything finally makes sense.”
And yet, again and again, the answer seems to be no.
Not when we reach something we thought would satisfy us. Not when we follow the right path. Not even when we do everything we were told should work.
Over time, that repeated no begins to teach something we may not have wanted to learn: life is less about arriving and more about continuing—walking, staying, trusting, even without resolution.
But there are moments when the question shifts. Moments when “Are we there yet?” feels less like impatience and more like a quiet, uneasy recognition:
This might be it.
When the Road Runs Out
There are seasons in life when movement stops.
No more options to weigh. No more strategies to try. No clear next step forward.
It can come through loss, failure, grief, or simply the slow realization that something will not turn out the way we hoped. A relationship cannot be repaired. An opportunity is gone. A version of the future quietly disappears.
These are the moments when it feels like the road has run out.
And standing there, it can feel like arrival—but not the kind anyone would choose. Arrival at an ending. Arrival at something final.
The Pressure for a Different Ending
When we reach those places, something in us resists. We look for a way out, a last-minute reversal, a breakthrough that will change the story.
We tell ourselves: Surely something will fix this. Surely this isn’t how it ends.
We expect resolution. We expect power. We expect a visible turnaround that makes everything make sense again.
But not every moment meets those expectations.
Some moments don’t resolve on command. Some situations don’t reverse. Some endings remain endings—at least for now.
And that can feel like failure. Or absence. Or silence.
The Strength of Staying
But there is another way to understand those moments—not as failures, but as places where something deeper is revealed.
Not the power to escape. But the strength to remain.
There is a quiet kind of courage in staying present when everything in you wants to run. In not numbing out, not turning away, not pretending the pain isn’t real.
Staying in a hard conversation. Staying with grief instead of rushing past it. Staying in uncertainty without forcing false clarity.
This kind of staying is not passive. It’s not resignation. It’s a form of faithfulness—to the moment, to the truth, to love itself.
Because love, at its core, does not disappear when things get difficult.
When “Not Arriving” Becomes Something Else
For most of us, not arriving feels like disappointment. We want resolution. We want to get somewhere solid.
But what if those unresolved places are not the end of the story?
Not because everything is suddenly okay. Not because the pain disappears. But because presence remains.
Even in the places that feel final, something—or Someone—can still meet us there.
And that changes things.
It doesn’t erase the difficulty. It doesn’t tie everything up neatly. But it means that even at what feels like the end, we are not abandoned to it.
Holding On in the Dark
One of the hardest human experiences is feeling alone in suffering—especially when answers don’t come.
And yet, even in those moments, many people find themselves still reaching out. Still hoping. Still, somehow, holding onto relationship—whether through prayer, reflection, or simply the refusal to shut down completely.
That matters.
Because it suggests that even when meaning is unclear, connection is not entirely gone.
Even when the road ends, something remains.
Not the Final Word
There are moments in life that feel final. Heavy. Unresolved.
Moments where the most honest thing to do is not to explain or fix—but simply to acknowledge: This is hard. This hurts. This doesn’t make sense.
And to stay there, without rushing past it.
But even then, there is a quiet possibility worth holding onto:
What feels like the end may not be the final word.
Not because we can already see what comes next. But because endings, in ways we often only recognize later, are not always where the story stops.
Every year around this time, Christians tell a story that begins with a parade.
Crowds gather. Cloaks are spread across the road. Branches are waved in the air. People shout with joy:
“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Luke 19:38)
It is loud. Hopeful. Electric.
And for a moment, it feels like everything is about to change.
But Palm Sunday—the day this story is remembered—is not just about celebration. It is about what happens when the celebration fades.
The Question Beneath the Celebration
Throughout this season of Lent, we have been reflecting on a simple question: Are we there yet?
It is the question of anyone on a long journey—spiritual or otherwise. It is the question behind our longing for clarity, stability, and relief.
The Bible, in its honesty, rarely answers that question with a simple “yes.”
After escaping Egypt, the people of Israel discovered that freedom was only the beginning of a longer journey (Exodus 15).
Paul writes about faith not as arrival, but as pressing on toward what lies ahead (Philippians 3:12–14).
The prophets remind us not to place ultimate hope in human leaders (Psalm 146:3).
And again and again, scripture points toward a God who is always doing a “new thing” (Isaiah 43:19).
Palm Sunday seems, at first, like the moment the answer might finally be yes.
But it is not.
It is something more complex—and more meaningful.
The Beauty (and Limits) of Big Moments
Most people know what it is like to look forward to a big moment.
A wedding. A graduation. A long-planned trip. A milestone achievement.
There is anticipation. Preparation. Imagination.
And then it arrives—full of joy, laughter, and significance.
But the next day always comes.
The dishes are still in the sink. The routine resumes. Life continues.
Even the most beautiful moments do not last forever.
Palm Sunday captures that exact human experience. It is a moment of real joy. And Jesus does not dismiss it. In fact, when some suggest quieting the crowd, Jesus responds:
“If these were silent, the stones would shout out.” (Luke 19:40)
Joy matters. Celebration matters. Faith is not meant to be joyless.
But joy, by itself, is not the destination.
Expectations in the Crowd
The people lining the streets that day were not just celebrating.
They were hoping.
They had seen Jesus heal, teach, and challenge authority. They were longing for change—for relief, for justice, for a future made right.
So when Jesus entered Jerusalem, it looked like the moment had finally come.
But what looked like arrival was actually a threshold.
Because the road ahead would lead not to immediate triumph, but to conflict, suffering, and the cross.
A Different Kind of King
One of the earliest Christian hymns describes the way Jesus moved through this moment:
“Christ Jesus… emptied himself, taking the form of a servant… and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.” (Philippians 2:5–8)
The crowd welcomed a king.
Jesus came as a servant.
The crowd expected a victory parade.
Jesus chose a path of humility and costly love.
This is the tension at the heart of Palm Sunday: celebration on the surface, surrender at the core.
The Kind of Faith That Lasts
It is easy to show up for a parade.
It is harder to stay when the excitement fades.
Palm Sunday invites a deeper question than “Can you celebrate?” It asks, Can you remain?
Because real hope is not built only in moments of excitement. It is formed in daily faithfulness—in showing up again and again:
in joy and in disappointment
in clarity and in uncertainty
in public celebration and in quiet, unseen acts of care
There is a quiet holiness in the ordinary moments—the unseen work, the steady presence, the willingness to keep going.
That is where faith takes root.
Living Between Joy and Sorrow
Palm Sunday holds two realities together.
Joy and sorrow. Celebration and suffering. Hope and heartbreak.
The same voices that shout “Hosanna!” will, days later, fall silent or turn away.
And still, Jesus continues forward.
This reveals something essential about faith: it is not about avoiding difficulty or clinging to constant emotional highs. It is about learning to live honestly in both joy and sorrow.
Jesus does not rush past the celebration.
And does not run from the pain.
There is presence in both.
The Role of Memory in Faith
One of the ways people sustain faith through changing seasons is by remembering.
Not alone—but together.
Remembering moments of joy. Times of unexpected grace. Seasons when strength was given just when it was needed.
Scripture itself is a record of shared memory—stories told and retold so that people would not forget who God has been.
Because memory strengthens endurance.
When joy fades or life becomes heavy, those memories remind us: the story is not over.
So… Are We There Yet?
Palm Sunday answers that question gently:
Not yet.
The parade is not the destination.
The celebration is not the conclusion.
It is the beginning of a deeper journey.
The Hope That Stays
There is, however, good news at the center of this story.
Even when the crowd wavers, Jesus does not.
Even when faith feels strong—or fragile—Christ remains steady.
The story of Holy Week reveals a kind of love that does not depend on applause. A love that continues through suffering. A love that stays.
And that is where hope is ultimately found.
Not in the parade.
But in the One at the center of it.
Palm Sunday invites celebration.
It also invites endurance.
It calls people not only to wave branches, but to keep walking—even when the road becomes difficult.
Because while the journey is not finished, no one walks it alone.
Over time, many people—whether deeply religious or simply spiritually curious—find themselves asking a version of the same question: Are we there yet?
Are we finally settled? Have we arrived at clarity, stability, or peace?
Scripture returns to this question again and again, often answering in unexpected ways.
The story of Israel in the wilderness reminds us that freedom is not the same as arrival. Being led out of Egypt was only the beginning; staying free required continued trust in God (Exodus 16–17). The journey itself mattered.
Paul echoes this same truth centuries later: “Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on…” (Philippians 3:12). Faith, in this sense, is not something we possess once and for all—it is something we live into.
Other voices in Scripture challenge where we place our trust. The psalmist warns, “Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help” (Psalm 146:3). Even the strongest leadership cannot carry the weight of ultimate hope.
And when people long for a return to a “better past,” the prophets gently but firmly redirect that instinct. “Do not remember the former things… I am about to do a new thing” (Isaiah 43:18–19). Faithfulness is not found in recreating what was, but in recognizing what God is doing now.
Across these stories, a pattern emerges. Again and again, Scripture exposes the same illusions:
that freedom should feel easy,
that faith should feel settled,
that leaders should make us secure,
that the past can be recovered if we just hold on tightly enough.
And then comes another layer of insight—one that may be the most uncomfortable of all.
When Faith Becomes Familiar
The prophet Micah offers a clear and disarming summary of what God desires: “What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” (Micah 6:8).
It is simple. Direct. Hard to avoid.
Because it suggests something unsettling: it is entirely possible to be religious—to participate in rituals, attend services, say prayers—and still miss the heart of faith.
This tension comes into sharp focus in a well-known scene from the Gospel of John.
Jesus enters the temple in Jerusalem, the center of religious life, and finds it filled with merchants and money changers. At first glance, this activity had a practical purpose. Travelers needed a way to participate in temple worship; systems were created to make that possible.
But over time, something shifted.
What began as a helpful accommodation became an entrenched system—one that could burden and exclude, especially the poor. Worship was still happening. The temple was still busy. But the heart of it had drifted.
Jesus responds dramatically: “Making a whip of cords, he drove all of them out of the temple… He overturned the tables…” (John 2:15).
This is not a moment of mild correction. It is disruption.
Because sometimes the greatest obstacles to genuine faith are not obviously wrong things—but good things that have slowly lost their purpose.
The Danger of “Doing Everything Right”
It is easy to assume that we would recognize such a problem from the outside. But the people in the temple likely believed they were doing exactly what they were supposed to do.
That is what makes this story so relevant.
The real danger is not always rebellion. Often, it is unexamined faith—practices that become routine, then unquestioned, and eventually indispensable simply because they are familiar.
This pattern is not limited to ancient religion. It shows up anywhere people seek meaning:
in traditions that continue long after their purpose is forgotten,
in systems that once helped but now constrain,
in habits that feel safe but no longer bring life.
From the inside, everything can still look right. But familiarity is not the same as faithfulness.
A Shift at the Center
After clearing the temple, Jesus is challenged to explain his authority. His response is cryptic:
“Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (John 2:19).
Listeners assume he is speaking about the building. But the Gospel clarifies: “He was speaking of the temple of his body” (John 2:21).
This reframes everything.
For generations, the temple had been the place where heaven and earth met—where people encountered God. But now Jesus points to himself as that meeting place.
The center of faith shifts from a structure to a person.
This does not diminish the value of sacred spaces or practices. But it does redefine their role. They are not the destination. They are meant to point beyond themselves.
Because the foundation of faith is not a building, a system, or even a tradition.
It is Christ.
What Needs Overturning?
This raises a question that is both personal and universal:
What, in one’s own life, has become so familiar that it is no longer examined?
What began as helpful—but may now be hollow?
The answer is not always obvious. Often, these are good things:
routines that once grounded us,
roles that once gave purpose,
communities or structures that once nurtured growth.
But over time, even good things can take on too much weight. They can become substitutes for the deeper relationship they were meant to support.
In the temple, Jesus overturns tables not to destroy faith, but to restore it.
The same pattern continues. Disruption, in this sense, is not the opposite of faith—it can be part of how faith is renewed.
Still On the Way
So the question remains: Are we there yet?
Scripture’s consistent answer is no.
Not because the journey is aimless, but because faith is not about arriving at a perfectly stable place. It is about remaining connected to the One who is constant.
Even when familiar structures shift. Even when long-held assumptions are challenged. Even when the tables are overturned.
The same voice that disrupts also promises renewal: “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” (John 2:19)
That is the hope at the center of the story.
Not that everything will stay the same—but that even when something ends, new life is possible.
So perhaps the better question is not whether we have arrived.
It is whether, in the midst of change and uncertainty, we can recognize the presence of Christ—still leading, still renewing, still calling us forward.
And wherever Christ is, the true center of faith is already there.
Almost every life eventually produces the same quiet sentence:
“If we could just go back…”
Back before the diagnosis. Back before the conflict. Back before everything changed.
Memory has a way of polishing the past. Seasons that once felt ordinary begin to look golden in hindsight. Gratitude slowly turns into longing, and longing into the hope that somehow we might return to the way things were.
The Bible knows that impulse well.
In Isaiah 43, God speaks to people whose world had been turned upside down. Stability was gone. The future was uncertain. The past felt safer than the road ahead.
Into that moment God says:
“Thus says the Lord, who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters… Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” — Isaiah 43:16, 18–19
Those words land with both comfort and disruption.
Comfort, because God reminds the people who God is — the One who once made a path through the sea (Exodus 14). The One who has been faithful before.
Disruption, because God also says: Do not cling to the past. I am doing something new.
Not because the past did not matter. But because remembering can quietly become clinging.
And sometimes what we call faith is really just a wish to rewind.
That phrase — “a new thing” — lands differently depending on where one stands.
For some, it sounds like hope. A way forward. A future not trapped by what has been.
For others, it sounds like loss. Because the “former things” were not just history — they were home. The season when life made sense. When the church felt fuller. When the family table was intact. When grief had not yet entered the room.
Faith communities know this tension well. But so do families, organizations, and individuals. The longing is familiar:
If we could just go back…
Back before the diagnosis. Back before the conflict. Back before the disruption that changed everything.
That longing grows out of love and gratitude for seasons that mattered. But Scripture gently reminds us of a difficult truth:
The present will never be the past.
Even when something is rebuilt, it is not the same. Even when something returns, it returns changed. Even when a temple is rebuilt, the people rebuilding it are not who they once were.
And that is exactly where the book of Ezra meets us.
When the Past and Future Collide
Ezra 3:10–13
To understand the moment in Ezra 3, it helps to remember the long road behind it.
Israel had once demanded a king (1 Samuel 8). Kings rose and kings fell. Some were faithful; many were not. Power shifted. Idolatry crept in. Prophetic warnings were ignored.
Eventually the unthinkable happened.
Jerusalem was destroyed. The temple was torn down. The people were carried into exile in Babylon (2 Kings 25).
For decades they lived in a foreign land, learning to pray without a temple and hope without a king (Psalm 137).
Then, slowly, a return.
A remnant came back to Jerusalem (Ezra 1–2). Not a triumphal parade — a remnant. They came home to rubble. Broken walls. Overgrown streets.
And they began again.
In Ezra 3, they lay the foundation of a new temple. Not the finished building — just the foundation.
The priests stand with trumpets. The Levites hold cymbals. The people sing:
“For he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever toward Israel.” — Ezra 3:11
The people shout in praise.
But then Ezra tells us something remarkable.
Many of the older priests and elders — those who had seen Solomon’s temple before it was destroyed — weep loudly (Ezra 3:12).
The sound of weeping and shouting rises together so loudly that no one can tell which is which (Ezra 3:13).
Is it rejoicing?
Or grief?
Both.
The older generation remembers the glory of the first temple. The new foundation seems smaller, simpler, less impressive.
For some: joy. For others: loss.
Scripture does not silence either response. Both emotions are present in the same worship service. Both are held inside the same refrain:
“For he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever.”
That refrain is the theological center of the passage. Not the building. Not nostalgia. Not disappointment.
God’s steadfast love.
The Temptation to Go Back
There are moments in every life when a quiet thought slips into prayer:
If we could just go back…
Back to when life felt simpler. Back to when the future seemed clearer. Back to when certainty felt stronger.
That instinct is deeply human. But Ezra shows something important:
There is no going back.
But there is something worth rebuilding.
The returning exiles cannot recover pre-exile innocence. But they can rebuild worship. They can restore covenant life. They can begin again.
And that tension still shapes communities today.
Some people carry long memory — stories of how things once were. Those memories matter. They testify to seasons of faithfulness.
Others enter the story later. They bring fresh eyes, new imagination, and energy not shaped by comparison to the past.
Healthy communities hold both.
Some carry memory. Some carry imagination. Some carry both.
Sometimes conversations in communities sound like Ezra 3 — rejoicing and weeping rising at the same time.
And perhaps that is not dysfunction.
Perhaps it is simply what faithfulness sounds like.
Isaiah’s Necessary Word
Into that swirl of memory and emotion, Isaiah speaks again:
“Do not remember the former things… I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” — Isaiah 43:18–19
Isaiah is not commanding amnesia. Throughout Scripture, Israel is told to remember God’s faithfulness (Deuteronomy 8:2).
But Isaiah warns against idolizing the past.
There is a difference between remembering what God has done and demanding that God repeat it in exactly the same way.
The Red Sea will not be reenacted. The wilderness will not be reversed. The temple will not be replicated.
God is doing a new thing.
The question is not whether God is active.
The question is whether we perceive it.
What Matters Most
In Ezra 3, people respond differently because perspective is relative.
To the younger generation, the new foundation is hope.
To the older generation, it is a reminder of loss.
Both are understandable. Both are real.
But verse 11 recenters everyone:
“For he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever.”
That love held Israel before the exile, during the exile, and after the exile.
And it holds communities — and individuals — through every season of change.
The Question Beneath the Change
Every community eventually faces its own version of “rebuilding the temple.”
A beloved ministry ends. Leadership changes. A building is renovated or repurposed. A season closes that no one expected to lose.
And someone quietly thinks:
If we could just go back…
But Scripture invites a different question.
Not How do we go back?
But Where is God now?
Where is God in the transition? Where is God in the grief? Where is God in the unexpected possibility?
If God’s steadfast love truly endures forever, then there is no moment from which God is absent.
Holding the Emotions of Faith
The story in Ezra also gives permission for something many people need to hear:
Faith does not eliminate complicated emotions.
Joy and grief can exist together.
Hope and nostalgia can sit in the same sanctuary.
Confidence and uncertainty can share the same prayer.
The people in Ezra worship while both weeping and rejoicing.
And over both emotions they sing the same truth:
“For he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever.”
That refrain becomes a kind of spiritual anchor.
When nostalgia overwhelms: God is good.
When uncertainty unsettles: God’s steadfast love endures forever.
When hope feels fragile: God’s steadfast love endures forever.
Still on the Way
Scripture consistently reminds us that faith is rarely about arrival.
The wilderness generation learned that freedom required staying close to God day by day (Exodus 16–17).
Paul later described faith as pressing forward rather than possessing the finish line (Philippians 3:12–14).
The psalms remind us not to anchor hope in human power but in God’s enduring reign (Psalm 146:3–5).
And Isaiah adds another layer of truth:
God is already ahead of us, doing a new thing.
There is no going back — not because the past was meaningless, but because God’s work is not finished.
We may not be where we hoped to be.
But we are not abandoned.
Not in exile. Not in rebuilding. Not in transition.
The same God who parted the sea (Exodus 14), met Moses on the mountain (Exodus 19), outlasted every king (Psalm 146), and brought the exiles home (Ezra 1) is still at work.
And because God is good, and God’s steadfast love endures forever, we can grieve.
Pieces of the Puzzle 