As a child, I loved Palm Sunday because we got to march around the church, singing “All Glory, Laud and Honor” while waving palm branches. I thought this was a simple hymn of praise.
The theologian Marcus Borg reminds us that Holy Week is not simply a spiritual drama. It is a political confrontation. The story of the first Palm Sunday begins not with one procession into Jerusalem, but two.
From the west gate, Pontius Pilate enters the city on a war horse, surrounded by imperial cavalry and armed soldiers. This is the parade of empire. Rome’s annual show of force during Passover is a reminder of who holds power. It is intimidation dressed up as order.
But from the east gate comes a different procession. Jesus rides not a war horse but a borrowed donkey. No armor, no weapons, just peasants, cloaks and branches. This is not a random detail. It is street theater, a deliberate counter-parade. Jesus is mocking empire, exposing it and offering an alternative vision of power rooted in humility and justice.
This is why Jesus was killed.
He was not executed for vague religious reasons. He was executed because he was dangerous. His actions in Jerusalem, his entry, his disruption of the Temple, calling out oppression and speaking truth to power, threatened the status quo.
His teachings about God’s kingdom were subversive. They challenged both imperial authority and the local systems that cooperated with it. Rome crucified people who threatened order. Jesus was one of them.
“Holy Week is not simply a spiritual drama — it is a political confrontation.”
Even the cry of the crowd, “Hosanna,” is often misunderstood. It does not mean simple praise. It means “save us.” It is a plea, a protest, a cry from people living under occupation and longing for liberation.
Holy Week, then, is not passive. It is charged with political urgency. It asks: Who is your king? What kind of power do you follow?
That question echoes loudly in Minneapolis this year.
On March 28, the “No Kings” protests, part of a nationwide movement opposing expanding executive power and immigration enforcement, took place across the country, with a flagship action in the Twin Cities.
On Palm Sunday, March 29, 2026, many Christians across the country stood up to the rise of authoritarianism and white Christian nationalism. We will stand against the politics of greed, cruelty and oppression by continuing to show the country that our central commandments, to love God and love our neighbors, are our way forward.
These protests have grown in response to aggressive ICE activity and recent deadly encounters involving federal agents, which have sparked widespread outrage and sustained resistance in Minnesota.
Minneapolis has already seen thousands take to the streets, including clergy, workers and neighbors calling for justice and the removal of ICE from their communities. What is emerging is not just protest, but a deeply rooted moral movement, one grounded in community, faith and solidarity.
Seen through the lens of Holy Week, these actions are not separate from the gospel story. They are a continuation of it. On the last night that Jesus was alive, he met with his disciples and took on a servant role, washing heir feet. Before he left them, he gave one final command: to love others.
If Pilate’s procession represents the machinery of state power, militarized enforcement, surveillance and fear, then the gatherings of ordinary people, marching, praying and demanding justice look a lot like Jesus’ procession. Not powerful in the conventional sense, but powerful in truth.
To say that these peaceful Palm Sunday actions are “holy” is not to romanticize them. It is to recognize their alignment with the original story: people crying out for salvation, confronting systems that harm and embodying a different kind of kingdom.
Holy Week has always been about choosing sides:
Between empire and mercy.
Between domination and dignity.
Between the war horse and the donkey
And the question remains as urgent now as it was then:
When the two processions enter the city, which one will we join?
Kyle Hanson is a Lutheran pastor and the executive director of Agate Housing and Services. He lives in Lowry Hill.
