The Jews are a hopeful bunch. Egyptian exile, Babylonian and Assyrian captivity, Roman occupation—how a relatively small ethnic group could survive (let alone flourish!) despite such circumstance is clearly a testament to their almost pitifully obstinate expectation of imminent restoration, and some might say conclusive evidence of Divine favor. A mighty king from the tribe of Judah, a descendant of Abraham and David, would surely emerge at any moment to deliver the Jews from their enemies—those wretched and defiled idol worshippers who dishonored the God of Creation—just as YHWH had led them out of Egypt and into the Promised Land.
Alas, the people of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were improbably vindicated by their God. The king arrived just as they said he would, defeating their enemies with ease, and inaugurating the Kingdom of God on earth. The God of the Jews was, after all, the King of the universe, and demonstrably so.
Only the Jews didn’t notice.
I hate when Liverpool play Manchester United. Not because I am overcome with nerves or dread the prospect of defeat at their hands (though that is certainly true as well!), but because the match always starts at the crack of dawn here in the States. The prospect of groggily searching for a grainy and inevitably unreliable stream on some shady website with more pop-ups than a children’s book is almost enough to keep me anchored to the mattress.
But this day was special. I had a dream before I awoke, and fittingly it was a dream about Kenny Dalglish managing Liverpool to victory over Manchester United...