January 20th was a day undeniably drenched in power.  And I was, admittedly, a bit in awe.  There was the peaceful exchange of power—noteworthy in its relative global rarity.  There was the power of the crowd, literally warming and sweeping itself along, erupting with ardent cheers in response to powerful prayers and poems, songs and speeches.  There were powerful past presidents, security forces and steel plated, tank-like limos.  There was the powerful reaffirmation of the supremacy of this nation.  And, regardless of political position, most people I’ve talked to sensed that the public acknowledgment of deep racial wounds, and the president’s embodiment of wound-transcending achievement, released a powerful surge of healing and hope for many.
    Frankly, I admit that I thrill at experiencing a day drenched in power.  I say “admit” as if it were a sin, but it’s not. Something in us as human beings was made for abandon to that which is greater, to be swept up in worship of that which is stronger, smarter, holier, and more powerful than ourselves.  For better or for worse, days like the 20th can be tastes of that.
    How strangely odd it was for me, then, that night, head still spinning, to encounter Matthew 27 in my devotional reading: Jesus before Pilate.  The contrast took my breath away. 

    “Are you the king of the Jews?” the governor asks.
    “Yes, it is as you say,” Jesus replies, as if quietly swearing on the Lincoln Bible.
    Then Jesus goes silent. In the face of further accusations, he “made no reply, not even to a single charge...” The governor is amazed, for what kind of display of power is this?  I might‘ve agreed—“Jesus, this is your moment!  Why don’t you say something?  Defend yourself.  We long to crown you as king—do something kingly!” And the once cheering crowd now jeers with vehemence.
    You know the story’s outcome.  Flogging, spitting, mocking, crucifying.  It is not until he utters, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” that we hear anything else from this quietly dying, king of the Jews.
    How jarring, then, this contrast between the day drenched in power and the evening’s reading of a seemingly impotent king.  It raises tricky questions:  how do I as a follower of Jesus relate to my nation’s power-drenched day?  What really is power, and what power should I ascribe to, expect from, and withhold from my nation’s leaders?  And, personally, how am I to use well whatever power I might possess?
    Better brains than mine have pondered these things over the centuries, so obviously the past 24 hours hasn’t brought answers.  However, when I finally turned out the light that night, I remembered this:  at the end of the day—of time—powerful words will erupt, supremacy will be declared, healing and hope will flood all those present, and great crowds will be cheering…all centered on that once obscure, now powerfully resurrected and reigning, king of the Jews.  This fact I count on.
    So between here and there, as I learn to navigate tensions between citizenship in this nation and in God’s kingdom, I want always to go with Jesus.  I don’t know where the path will lead, and it’s a good bet that obscurity and jeers, not just power and cheers, will be part of the package.   But January 20th reminded me that in the end, I really do long to join with the diverse throngs in unleashed abandon and worship of the king who, an amazing man who transcended real wounds, is also the living and eternal God.