Thinking about Palm Sunday and the Power It Confronts

Christians worldwide entered Holy Week by celebrating Palm Sunday, the day Jesus entered Jerusalem for the final time before his death and resurrection. To mark the day, many congregations reenact his entry by processing with palm branches, often beginning outside and moving toward the church in joyful anticipation.

 

But behind this familiar celebration lies a deeper, more unsettling truth. Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem was not merely a triumphal gesture or a moment of religious pageantry. It was a deliberate act of confrontation—both theological and political. His procession was not a celebration of power but a challenge to it.[1]

 

In the Jerusalem of that time, there were two processions. One came from the west: the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, entering the city on a warhorse, accompanied by armed soldiers. Each year during Passover—a feast remembering Israel’s liberation from Egyptian bondage—Rome made a calculated display of strength, reminding the people of who held authority.[2]

 

Pilate’s entrance was a demonstration of imperial power and its accompanying theology. The emperor, honored as a divine figure, was hailed as “Son of a God.” His rule promised peace, but it was a peace enforced through control and coercion.[3]

 

From the opposite direction came Jesus. He entered not on a warhorse, but on a donkey. His companions were not soldiers, but ordinary people—peasants, fishermen, women and children—without status or means. They waved palm branches, long associated with resistance, and shouted, “Hosanna!”—a plea for salvation.[4]

 

Jesus’ procession was a deliberate contrast to Rome’s. It parodied imperial spectacle. It enacted the arrival of a different kind of kingdom—one built not on violence and domination, but on compassion, justice, and mercy.[5]

 

The next day, Jesus entered the Temple—the center of both religious devotion and economic activity—and overturned the tables of those selling goods. He declared the space had become a “den of robbers.” This act was not only symbolic; it directly disrupted the collaboration between religious leadership and imperial systems. It challenged the ways faith had been compromised by profit and power. It was this public challenge that set in motion the events leading to his death.

 

Jesus was not crucified for healing the sick or teaching in parables. He was crucified because his actions and message threatened the existing order. Crucifixion was the Roman penalty reserved for those considered insurrectionists—those who dared to question the authority of empire. The inscription above his cross, “King of the Jews,” was not a theological claim but a political accusation.[6]

 

Yet Jesus’ death was not the end of his witness. Christians believe that the Resurrection did not erase the crucifixion but confirmed its truth. It was not a reversal—it was a vindication. It declared that love is stronger than death, that justice cannot be buried forever, and that even when empire strikes down the righteous, God raises them up.

 

Palm Sunday is not simply a commemoration of the past; it is an invitation to consider the kind of kingdom we are drawn toward. It calls us to examine whom we follow, and why.

 

Jesus did not seek to replace one system of domination with another. He came to overturn the very logic of domination itself. His kingdom is not built on fear, but on love; not on conquest, but on mercy. It is a kingdom in which the poor are lifted up, the mournful are comforted, and the meek inherit the earth.[7]

 

To carry palm branches is to remember that we are always choosing—between the way of Jesus and the way of power for its own sake. It is to hear again the call to repentance, to justice, to hope. And it is to proclaim, with those in that first procession, “Hosanna!”—save us—trusting that the one who comes in the name of the Lord still walks among us, still calls us forward, and still makes all things new.[8]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                        

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[1] Marcus J. Borg and John Dominic Crossan, The Last Week: What the Gospels Really Teach About Jesus’s Final Days in Jerusalem (San Francisco: HarperOne, 2006), 1–30.

In the opening chapters, Borg and Crossan argue that Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem during Passover intentionally contrasts with Pontius Pilate’s imperial procession. Pilate’s entry from the west represented Roman military authority, imperial theology, and political dominance, whereas Jesus’s entry from the east symbolized humility, nonviolence, and the kingdom of God. The authors interpret Jesus’s actions as deliberate and politically provocative within the historical context of first-century Judea. They highlight Palm Sunday as a prophetic demonstration—a form of public theater designed to critique imperial ideology and proclaim a radically different vision of societal order. Borg and Crossan thus position this event as initiating the confrontational dynamic between Jesus and Jerusalem’s political and religious leadership, framing the entire narrative of Holy Week.

 

[2] Warren Carter, Pontius Pilate: Portraits of a Roman Governor (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2003), 25–45.

In this section, Carter depicts Pontius Pilate not merely as a Roman administrator but as an embodiment of imperial ideology and Caesar’s authority. He argues that Pilate’s entry into Jerusalem during Passover was intentionally intimidating rather than purely ceremonial, reflecting Rome’s imperial theology, which portrayed Caesar as divine and peace (the Pax Romana) as enforced through military strength. Carter emphasizes that imperial spectacles, such as Pilate’s Passover procession, were designed to visually and ritually communicate Roman dominance, reinforcing the message that resistance was pointless since divine favor legitimized Roman rule. Throughout his analysis, Carter consistently contrasts Rome’s assertions of divinity and political authority—exemplified in titles like “Son of God” and symbols such as eagles and military standards—with Jesus’s proclamation of an alternative kingdom of God. He thereby underscores the inherently theological and ideological character of Roman governance.

 

[3] Ibid.; see also N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996), 498–502.

In this passage, Wright argues that the palm branches waved during Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem carried political and nationalistic significance, not merely festive intent. They symbolically evoked memories of previous Jewish rebellions, notably the Maccabean revolt, and were prominently displayed in periods marked by messianic expectations. Wright further explains that the cry “Hosanna” (from the Hebrew hoshi‘a na, meaning “Save us, please”) was a politically potent prayer, derived from the Psalms and regularly used in Jewish worship. In the context of the Gospels, it functions as a plea for concrete, divine deliverance from oppression rather than generalized salvation. 

 

[4] N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996), 498–502.

Wright argues that Jesus intentionally entered Jerusalem in a manner designed to invoke prophetic symbolism, notably fulfilling Zechariah 9:9, which portrays a king arriving humbly on a donkey. The crowd’s actions—waving palm branches and proclaiming “Hosanna”—demonstrate their recognition of this prophetic imagery. Wright emphasizes that Palm Sunday is not an isolated incident but integral to Jesus’s broader message: a declaration that the kingdom of God was confronting and supplanting Caesar’s empire.

 

[5] Richard A. Horsley, Jesus and the Powers: Conflict, Covenant, and the Hope of the Poor (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2011), 89–94.

Horsley argues that the Jerusalem Temple, despite its religious façade, was closely aligned with Roman imperial power. He demonstrates that the high priesthood was politically appointed, commercial activities within the Temple were carefully regulated, and economic benefits primarily accrued to the elite. Horsley interprets Jesus’s cleansing of the Temple not merely as a critique of dishonest individual practices or general corruption, but rather as a prophetic denunciation of an exploitative system that marginalized the poor while appearing religiously legitimate. He emphasizes that Jesus’s reference to a “den of robbers” (Jeremiah 7:11) is less about individual dishonesty and more about condemning the use of sacred spaces to conceal systemic injustice. Horsley situates this critique within his broader thesis that Jesus’s ministry systematically opposed interconnected structures of empire, economic exploitation, and compromised religious institutions.

 

[6] Paula Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews (New York: Vintage, 1999), 193–200.

Fredriksen explains that crucifixion was not a generic punishment but specifically reserved by Rome for rebels, slaves, and political dissidents. She argues that Jesus’s execution should not be understood merely as a religious conflict or misunderstanding, but rather as a deliberate Roman reaction to what they perceived as a political threat. Fredriksen highlights that the title placed above Jesus—“King of the Jews”—explicitly stated the charge against him: claiming royal authority without Roman approval, thus challenging Caesar’s sovereignty. She emphasizes the necessity of recognizing the political realities underlying Jesus’s death, cautioning against interpretations that portray the crucifixion solely as symbolic or theological. According to Fredriksen, Jesus’s provocative actions in Jerusalem, particularly the incident in the Temple, placed him in direct opposition to Roman authorities. They interpreted his growing following, symbolic actions, and rising popularity as a significant risk to public stability, especially during the politically charged environment of Passover.

 

[7] Jürgen Moltmann, The Crucified God (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), 201–207.

Moltmann argues that the resurrection should not be interpreted as God negating or erasing the cross, but rather as God’s affirmation and exaltation of the crucified Jesus. He emphasizes that the cross exposes the profound depth of human suffering and demonstrates God’s solidarity with the oppressed. For Moltmann, the resurrection signifies God’s definitive “yes” to the one rejected by empire, affirming that suffering love, though appearing defeated, is ultimately victorious. He insists that divine power is expressed not through domination but through compassionate solidarity with human suffering. Moltmann cautions against interpretations of the resurrection that diminish or overlook the scandal of the cross, maintaining instead that Easter transforms suffering without trivializing it. The resurrection, therefore, does not remove suffering; it transfigures it into the cornerstone of Christian hope.

 

[8] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew, Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2006), 227–231; Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2003), 52–60.

In his theological commentary on Matthew’s passion narrative, Hauerwas argues that Jesus’s trial, crucifixion, and resurrection directly subvert imperial and worldly understandings of power. Jesus’s purpose was not to gain political power, but to redefine it entirely. Hauerwas critiques tendencies among Christians who attempt to portray Jesus as a “Christian Caesar,” aiming to sanctify political dominance rather than renounce it. He maintains that the church must embody an alternative, countercultural vision of power, exemplified through practices such as forgiveness, hospitality, and nonviolence, thereby visibly witnessing to the kingdom proclaimed by Jesus.

Bonhoeffer, in his work Discipleship, particularly in the chapter “The Call to Discipleship,” emphasizes that the call to follow Jesus demands concrete action rather than abstract belief. It requires a decisive separation from dominant systems of worldly authority and a willingness to suffer alongside Christ instead of reigning alongside Caesar. Bonhoeffer famously distinguishes between “cheap grace,” which passively blesses existing power structures, and “costly grace,” which radically reorients one’s life toward Christ. Writing amid the context of the Church’s complicity with state power, Bonhoeffer insists authentic discipleship involves rejecting efforts to justify unjust systems, even at personal risk. His vision presents discipleship as inherently placing Christians in opposition to worldly powers, yet always anchored in hope and transformative love.