“A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” (Matthew 21:8-9)
Two Saturdays ago, I drove into Sydney city to join the protest against the war on Iran at the town hall. I parked on the far side of the city, which meant I had to walk through Hyde Park to reach the rally, and as I crossed it I saw Iranian flags waving!
I thought, “Perhaps the protest has moved here?” Great! I don’t have to walk so far,” but at the same time I was thinking, “Damn, look how small the turnout is!” Then I noticed that a lot of the banners bore the unmistakable image of Reza Pahlavi, the son of the former Shah! This wasn’t the anti‑war rally at all. This was a pro‑war rally!
I put my head down and kept walking until I reached the gathering I was looking for a few blocks away, and, thankfully, it was much better attended.
That moment of confusion, though — two groups, two messages, two visions of the future — stayed with me, and it came back to me as I prepared for Palm Sunday because this year I learnt something I had never known before – that Palm Sunday may well have involved not one but two triumphal entries!
According to scholars like Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan, every Passover the Roman governor – in Jesus’ time, Pontius Pilate – would ride into Jerusalem from the west with a display of overwhelming military force. Jesus, approaching from the Mount of Olives, entered from the east. Seen this way, Palm Sunday becomes the moment when two great processions — two armies — converge on the holy city.
Pilate’s procession would have been unmistakable: war horses, cavalry, infantry, banners, golden eagles, drums and trumpets, armour glittering in the sun. Such processions were rituals of occupation – sermons in steel, and the message was clear: “Caesar is lord. Rome is your saviour. Rome brings peace (on Rome’s terms).” This was the ‘Pax Romana’ – peace through domination.
Meanwhile, entering from the east, Jesus rides a donkey rather than a war horse. His followers wave palm branches rather than swords. Children and peasants surround him. It looks peaceful — almost quaint — but we need to be careful here. Jesus’ procession may not have been as peaceful as it looked. After all, he was deliberately choreographing his entry to align with the prophecy of Zechariah:
“Behold, thy King cometh unto thee:
He is just and having salvation.
lowly, and riding upon an ass,
and upon a colt, the foal of an ass.” (Zechariah 9:9)
This is the arrival of a humble king, but still a king, and in Zechariah’s vision, still a warrior. If you read the rest of Zechariah 9, you’ll find a king who makes war on the enemies of God’s people — including (chillingly) the peoples of Damascus and Gaza — and establishes peace on the far side of victory. It is peace, yes, but peace formed through violence. In that sense, it is not so different from the Pax Romana.
And the crowds knew exactly what they were invoking when they cried, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” (Matthew 21:9). They were proclaiming Jesus as the heir to their great warrior‑king. So, if Jesus was presenting himself as Zechariah’s conquering Messiah, was He trying to start an uprising?
If we didn’t know the story, we might expect Jesus to march on to Pilate’s palace, rallying every able-bodied man in Jerusalem as He went, so as to drive out the occupier. But that is not what happened. Jesus went to the Temple, and what happened there could be described as a “violent takeover”, but after that, there was no march on the palace, no call to arms and no battle. Instead, there was prayer, teaching, and intimacy with His disciples, and then betrayal, arrest, torture, and death. The two armies did meet, but only one of them fought.
Two armies: one is polished, disciplined, and capable of extreme violence. The other made up of peasants and children — people who barely understood what they were a part of, yet recognised in Jesus someone whom God had sent. When the clash came, Jesus’ followers scattered, and Jesus stood alone. Instead of striking back with divine force, He submitted, suffered, and died, and then — impossibly — won!
Palm Sunday is the collision of two different visions of peace:
The first is the Pax Romana, which looks for a peace that comes on the far side of war – a peace through domination and the subjugation of your enemies. In contrast, we have the Pax Christi (the peace of Christ), which is peace through suffering love.
Jesus takes Zechariah’s script and rewrites it. He rides the donkey and claims the kingship, but He refuses the war. He does not impose peace as He doesn’t conquer His enemies in any obvious way but instead allows Himself to be destroyed by them!
Two armies enter Jerusalem, but only one survives the week. Rome’s army remains intact — but its peace is temporary. Jesus’ army scatters – but His peace is something we still live with!
It’s all very mysterious, but this is because the real battle being played out in the New Testament is not ultimately between Israel and Rome, nor between Jesus and Pontius Pilate, but between Jesus and the powers behind the empire – between humanity and the forces of darkness – and on the cross, Jesus wins a cosmic victory against the principalities and powers that no legion can ever achieve!
So Palm Sunday asks us a question — not just an ancient question, but a painfully contemporary one:
- Whose peace do we trust?
- Which king will we follow?
- Which procession are we in?
For these armies are still marching, their banners still waving, and our world still believes in peace through domination. But our King is still on His donkey, and His way — the way of suffering love — is still the only way that truly leads to life.
First published in Father Dave’s Weekly newsletter – March 28, 2026
